Footsteps in the Dark

by Josh Lanyon

  Tom said, “Not law enforcement or military.” They’d all been taught shot placement: two to the chest, one to the head.

  Greg agreed. “No. Maybe someone with a hair-trigger gun, who panicked and emptied the clip.”

  They recorded measurements of every angle and distance they could think of, then headed back to the body. The ME and his forensic team had arrived, as had a gator trapper, who would remove the beast once all evidence was collected. Greg, Mindy, and Tom turned over their blood and soil samples to the forensic techs, then watched as a couple of them removed the body from the gator’s jaws. The techs began swabbing and lifting evidence from the victim’s clothing and the gator’s teeth, while the ME bent over the body. “Multiple shots to the chest and one to the shoulder.”

  Mindy said, “Yes, sir. We found five casings.”

  A Skyose employee ID on a lanyard was stuffed into the victim’s right shirt pocket. The ME allowed Zach to bag and tag it, and listened to the agents’ recitation of the events of the morning. Another half hour passed. Greg was trying to decide whether or not to pass out from hunger when the ME said, “All right, we’re done here. Autopsy will be first thing tomorrow morning. Col. Vernon, we’ll be in touch.”

  Vernon said, “Appreciate it.”

  ***

  Greg and the others drove back to Patrick and logged their evidence into its designated secure locker; then Vernon gathered them in his office. He plucked a rook from the chessboard he kept on his desk and rolled it between his hands as he spoke. “I’ve instructed everyone that we are maintaining absolute silence on this. We will not notify Skyose or Ideodax. The killer might have been one of the victim’s colleagues. If asked, we’re investigating the employee’s disappearance. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

  “All right. What’s the plan going forward?”

  Greg said, “The victim’s phone needs to dry out. I’ll request records in case it turns out to be unsalvageable. And I found a local phone number in the guy’s wallet. I’ll call it and see who it belongs to.”

  “All right. Zach, Mindy, dig into our victim’s background, see what you find. Tom, I want an org chart on Skyose, all this fella’s responsibilities, other jobs he’s held within the company, all that. All of you, I want a list of suspects by the end of the day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vernon nodded to them. “Get to work.”

  The agents scattered to their desks. Mindy, Tom, and Zach jumped to their computers and began the quest to uncover the intricacies of Roy Shaw’s life. Greg shoveled a handful of peanuts into his mouth while he booted up his computer, then realized there wasn’t much he could do. He didn’t know what company the victim used for cell service, and probably wouldn’t until Monday.

  But he did have a phone number.

  He’d made a note in his own phone of the number from the scrap of paper in the victim’s wallet. He ate another fistful of peanuts, lifted the receiver on his desk phone, and dialed.

  Chapter Five

  Justin didn’t linger at the Preacher. On the way home, he called Roy Shaw again. He didn’t answer.

  Justin was at home, stripping off his sweaty T-shirt, when his phone rang. He snatched it up, hoping someone had news. But when he checked the screen, he nearly dropped the phone. The middle three digits of the number displayed indicated that the call came from Patrick Air Force Base.

  Who the hell would be calling him from Patrick?

  He answered tentatively, “Hello?”

  The voice was deep and…melodious almost, the accent markedly Southern. “This is Special Agent Greg Marcotte, AFOSI Patrick. Who am I speaking to?”

  AFOSI? Not for the first time that day Justin thought, Oh, shit. “This is Justin Harris.”

  “Mr. Harris, I need to ask you some questions in connection with the failed Skyose launch today. Where do you live?”

  “Er… Cocoa Beach. But—”

  “Address?”

  “732 Java Road. But—”

  “Outstanding. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” The agent hung up.

  Justin found himself saying again, “But…” into dead air. He lowered his phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. Could this day get any weirder?

  Best not to ask that, maybe.

  He changed into a clean T-shirt and tossed the dirty shirt into the laundry basket, where it landed on top of Elton. Justin considered corralling the cats in the bathroom, then decided against it. Maybe Special Agent What’s-his-face would turn out to be allergic and wouldn’t stay long.

  In the TV room, Justin cleared some clutter from the coffee table and straightened a couple of pillows, wondering while doing so why the hell he was bothering. Special Agent—what was his name? Greg something—wouldn’t give a shit what his house looked like.

  He took a bottle of water from the fridge and waited.

  Chapter Six

  Greg parked in the driveway of the Harris house, behind a dusty Ford Focus with a Challenger/Columbia tag and a peeling “My other car is a TARDIS” sticker on the bumper. The house was typical for the area—a one-story concrete block with a St. Augustine grass lawn and a one-car garage.

  Greg had Googled Justin Harris before he left the office, and discovered an active Twitter account and a sizable collection of newspaper articles on space-related topics, dating back about twelve years. Harris had sounded young on the phone, but his work history indicated he might not be that young.

  Greg peered into the car windows. The press credential for today’s launch was still lying on the dashboard. The back seat was a mess, with notebooks and papers slumped in a pile and empty fast-food wrappers and bottles of water scattered on the floor.

  So Justin was probably single. Greg smirked, then chastised himself. After all, he was single too.

  He rang the doorbell, noting the well-tended pots of geraniums on either side. When the door opened, Greg automatically offered his badge and ID, having temporarily lost the power of speech.

  Justin Harris had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

  Greg pulled himself together. Maybe this wasn’t Justin. “Mr. Harris?”

  “Yes. Special Agent…” Justin squinted at Greg’s ID. “Marcotte. Come in.”

  “Thanks.” Greg followed Justin into the house, observing the dated furnishings in the formal living room—such a waste of space—and the Formica countertops in the minuscule kitchen. Beyond the kitchen was the room where Greg supposed Justin spent most of his time. Newer leather sofa and matching recliner, flat-screen TV, and a coffee table sculpted from what looked like an oversize chunk of driftwood. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture. Greg said, “I like the coffee table.”

  “Thank you. My dad made it. Would you like a bottle of water or something?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.” Greg removed a pen and notepad from his pocket, and pretending not to, surveyed Justin more closely. He had a slightly crooked nose, which looked as if it had been broken at some point. His hair was dark blond and fine, too long to flatter his face, with a prominent widow’s peak on the right side of his forehead. He had freckles, plenty of them, scattered over his nose and cheeks. And those eyes…long-lashed, the color of Scotch whisky.

  Justin was a tad pudgy, probably a result of all those fast foods, but he was tall enough to carry it off. And he was tanned, not a pale-faced doughboy.

  And he’s 95% likely to be straight. So knock it off. He clicked his pen open. “Who do you work for, Mr. Harris?”

  “Hughes-Simmons Newspapers. They own the Orlando and Tampa papers, among others.”

  “How long have you been with them?”

  “Since 2009.”

  “Where did you work before that?”

  Justin named a website Greg had never heard of. “And I freelanced too. That’s how I got my current job.”

  It occurred to Greg that he could ask Justin almost anything and get away with it. “You live here by yourself?”

  �
�Yeah.” Justin flushed, like he was embarrassed. “I grew up in this house.”

  “Local boy.”

  “Yes.” Justin tipped his head, studying Greg. “You’re not.”

  “No. I’m not.” Implying, I’m here to ask questions, not answer them.

  Justin looked down at his hands. “Sorry.”

  Come on, Marcotte, don’t be a dick. He could tell Justin was nervous.

  But he was trying to be helpful. Greg could use that.

  He decided to cut to the chase. He could run background and a credit check on Justin tomorrow. “How do you know Roy Shaw?”

  Chapter Seven

  Justin mentally added another Oh, shit to his growing stack. “Oh my God. Did something happen to him?”

  Agent Marcotte raised an eyebrow. It was the only shift in expression Justin had seen in his face. So far, the guy was a walking stereotype of military law enforcement. Classically handsome, cropped blond hair, keen blue eyes, square jaw, broad shoulders, all business. Oozing confidence. He said, “So you do know him.”

  That voice… Justin had a fleeting notion of asking Marcotte to read yesterday’s classified ads to him, just so he could listen to that voice. Pay attention, Justin. “No. I mean, I never met him. But I was supposed to.” He related the conversation he’d had with Shaw in the wee hours.

  Marcotte was taking notes. “He told you to meet him at five.”

  “Yes.”

  “And didn’t give you any hints as to why.”

  Justin almost said, I just TOLD you, but held his tongue. “He said he had a scoop. He didn’t offer any indication as to what it was about.”

  “And he said, ‘We can’t be seen’?”

  “Right.”

  “You’d never met Shaw anywhere before?”

  “No. I saw him from a distance at the pre-launch press conference yesterday, but I’ve never met him. I only recognized his name because I write about Skyose. I know who all their top executives are.”

  “What did you think, when he didn’t show?”

  “I was aggravated. Asking me to drive all the way to Vero, then ditching me… I called him to complain, but it went straight to voice mail.”

  That piqued Marcotte’s interest. Justin could almost see his ears perk up. “What time did you call?”

  “Um…it was about a quarter to six, I think.” He picked up his phone from the coffee table and opened his call log. “Yeah, it was 5:46. Here.” He handed the phone to Marcotte.

  Marcotte made a note. “And here’s his call to you at 3:12.”

  “Yeah. And I called him twice after the explosion, but he didn’t answer.”

  Marcotte jotted down a few more details, then handed Justin’s phone back. “If Shaw had a scoop of some sort, why would he call you? Why not another reporter?”

  Justin shrugged. “I suppose he wanted his story in the major newspapers.”

  “Do you and the other reporters share information?”

  “It depends on the information. If I have an exclusive, I’m not gonna tell anyone else about it until the story is filed.”

  “Did you tell anyone about your conversation with Shaw?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I…don’t know, really. I just had a feeling it might be important later.”

  Marcotte looked skeptical. Justin didn’t blame him. Marcotte asked, “What time did you get home from Vero Beach?”

  “About 7:15.”

  “What time did you check in to Canaveral?”

  “At noon.”

  “And you went directly to the ITL Causeway?”

  You must know this already, Justin thought. He was tired and getting cranky, and allowed it to seep into his voice. “Yes. We’re not allowed to go anywhere else. So what the hell happened to Roy Shaw?”

  Marcotte paused before he answered. “Pretend we’re at the Preacher. You must not write about this. If I see this reported anywhere, I will toss your ass in jail faster than you can blink.”

  “I won’t.” Justin held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  Special Agent Marcotte was not amused. “Shaw is missing, and an unidentified man was found dead inside the debris field after the explosion.”

  Justin’s jaw dropped. “Dead? Do you think it’s Shaw?”

  “Unknown. We won’t have positive identification until the autopsy is done.”

  “But whoever he is, he couldn’t have been killed in the explosion; he wouldn’t have been able to get close enough—”

  “He wasn’t killed in the explosion.” Marcotte stood. “Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Harris.”

  “Wait.” Justin scrambled to his feet. “Is there anything you can tell me about what happened?”

  “No, sorry.” Marcotte didn’t sound sorry. “I may have follow-up questions tomorrow.”

  Please, PLEASE, have follow-up questions tomorrow. “No problem. I’ll be home all day.”

  Marcotte offered his hand to shake. Justin gripped it and felt a jolt of…not electricity, but something… “I’m glad to meet you, Agent Marcotte.”

  Marcotte was studying him, holding the handshake a second longer than expected. Mentally fitting me for an orange jumpsuit, most likely.

  “Good to meet you too, Mr. Harris. Thanks again.”

  He walked Marcotte to the front stoop. The agent climbed into a pickup truck and drove away. Justin sagged against the front door. The guy had to be straight, right? Pickup truck, that steely gaze…those shoulders…that voice…

  He said out loud, “I’m a fucking idiot.”

  He went inside, locked the door behind him, and stumbled over Bernie, who’d decided to make an appearance. “Bernie, your dad’s a fucking idiot.”

  Bernie didn’t disagree.

  Chapter Eight

  When he reached A1A, Greg hesitated for a moment, deciding whether to turn right or left. Mindy and Zach might be at the Preacher by now. But Ryan wouldn’t wait all night. And he was tired. And, though he hated to admit it, he was completely rattled by Justin Harris. That handshake… What the hell had that been?

  He mentally kicked himself for trusting Justin. He should not have told him that Shaw might be dead. But he’d meant what he said. If he saw it in the news or on social media, he’d throw Harris and his beautiful eyes in the brig.

  God, he was exhausted. And ravenous. Maybe his reaction to Harris was due to low blood sugar. He texted Ryan. On my way. Throw a couple of steaks on the grill?

  You bet. C U in a few.

  He turned right and headed home.

  Greg lived in Satellite Beach, the next town south of Patrick. It would have been handier to live on base. Tom and Zach both did. But when the workday was done, Greg wanted to put it behind him. So he’d bought the house, a five-minute walk from the beach, and had never regretted it.

  When he pulled into the driveway, the aroma of grilling meat almost made his knees weak. He parked in the garage and entered the house through the kitchen door. The sliding glass door between the kitchen/great room and the back porch was open. He stepped through and found Ryan at the grill. “Hey, how long till medium rare?”

  “About five minutes.” Ryan looked him over. “You been wrestling gators or something?”

  “No, but I had to shoot one. I’m gonna wash up.”

  “What?” Ryan’s query followed him down the hallway.

  When he returned, Ryan was forking the steaks onto a plate. Greg pulled utensils from a drawer while Ryan unwrapped the foil from two baked potatoes and sliced a tomato. Having the food groups covered, they sat on the back porch to eat.

  As he stuffed food into his face, Greg related the highlights of his day, leaving out Roy Shaw’s name. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to discuss it with anyone, but he knew Ryan would maintain silence. When he got to the gator part, Ryan laughed. “Oh my God. You might be the first person ever to kill a gator with a sniper rifle.”

  “Yeah, it’ll make a great anecdote for my memoirs.” G
reg scraped the last of the baked potato from inside the skin. “You’re quite the chef, Utley.”

  “Nah. Just single-guy food. Speaking of…”

  Greg glanced up from his plate. Ryan was studiously cutting a bite of steak, not looking at him.

  “What?”

  “Well… I’ve been texting with Connie today.”

  Greg raised an eyebrow. Connie was a dispatcher in Lake County, who’d had her eye on Ryan for months. “And?”

  “And…we’re going out Monday night. It’s her night off.”

  Greg sighed and set his plate aside. “You’re really gonna do this, Ryan?”

  “Oh, you’re serious. You called me by my name.”

  “Hell, yes, I’m serious. You’re gonna fuck up your life like this? Connie’s life? You’re no more bi than I am.”

  “I’m thinking that Connie might be cool with it, actually. She’s a quirky gal.” Ryan scraped at his potato skin. “I’m not like you, Greg. I can’t be satisfied with weekend jaunts to Orlando to find some action. I can’t come out to the sheriff’s department. And I want kids.” He held up his hand as Greg began to speak. “I know. I can have ’em either way. But not in Clermont.” He spread his hands in supplication. “You understand, don’t you?”

  Greg sighed heavily. “Yeah. I do. So after tonight, this is it?”

  “Of course not.” Ryan grinned. “I’m not gonna give up fishing, am I?”

  “I reckon not.”

  But he knew better. This exact scenario had played out in his life once before. Ryan and Connie would settle down, they’d buy a house and have a kid or two, and Ryan would never be able to get away on the weekends. He’d do his fishing with his kids, closer to home, in the lakes of their eponymous county.

  Ryan’s face told Greg that he knew too, but he maintained the facade of bravado. “So. You ready for my goin’-away present?”

  Greg shook his head, but he couldn’t help smiling. “Did you wrap it for me?”

  Ryan crossed the porch and pulled Greg to his feet and into the house, closing the door behind them. “Nope. But I’ll unwrap it for you, right now.”