by Jette Harris
Remington snorted, a blush spreading over his cheeks.
A car horn honked, announcing their taxi had arrived. A grim silence settled over them. The levity in Johnny’s face faded. He beckoned for Remington and gave him a hug.
“Take care of him.”
“I heard that!” Steyer entered the living room with his own—much lighter—garment bag slung over his shoulder and a briefcase.
“He’ll be the one taking care of me.” Remington grabbed Steyer’s bag and stepped onto the porch to gather his own luggage.
Johnny frowned as they watched him head toward the waiting taxi. He turned to Steyer. He swallowed hard, but tears threatened to fall from his eyes.
“Come back to me, Ritchie.”
“I always do.” Dropping the briefcase, Steyer held him tightly and fought hard against the sense of dread rising in his chest.
6
2002
Washington, DC
Samantha Wickes happened to be looking up from her email when Special Agent Steyer walked into the office. She could tell by his posture that he was seething underneath his cool exterior. With one hand in his pocket and the other grasping a file, he made a beeline for her desk. He pointed at her with the folder, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he stopped himself. He held up a finger, shuffled his feet for a moment, then turned back.
“I apologize.” His cool demeanor had returned. He dropped the file in front of her.
“Case closed?” She flipped the file open and found photos of a wiry young man, as well as the prostitutes he had been strangling.
“Yes,” Steyer replied. “He appreciated the attention.”
“So…” Wickes closed the folder and pushing it to the side. “Why are you delivering this in person? Or should I be asking, why did you feel the need for a time-out?”
Steyer made an angry flourish with his hand, then stuffed it back into his pocket. “I would like to request,” he said slowly, evenly, “never to be placed on assignment with Agent West again.”
Wickes raised her eyebrows. “And why is this?”
“We are… ethically incompatible.” He hoped she could not tell that he had been rehearsing that phrase for several days.
“Meaning…?”
Steyer cleared his throat. “He called me a sodomite. Well… not me personally, but you see where this is going.”
Wickes nodded, pursing her lips, and glanced at the email open on her monitor. “That’s… unfortunate.”
Steyer followed her gaze. “Why is that?”
“You remember how you told me to look out for certain patterns in missing persons reports?” She turned her monitor so he could see her screen. “Two men and two women, ages twenty to thirty-two, reported missing in San Francisco. The women were blatant abductions, leaving one officer dead. The other two simply disappeared. Witnesses report them being in the company of a tall, dark-haired man shortly beforehand.” She tocked her head before adding, “They’re all pretty good-looking.”
Staring at the email, Steyer’s jaw went slack. His heart quickened. Fumbling with the mouse, he clicked through the attached photos of the missing persons. He ran a hand over his face.
“The Phoenix Killer is back.”
“If you want this case, you have eight hours to find a new partner.”
Leaning on the desk, Steyer lowered his head into his hand to rack his brain. “What about Wilkinson?”
“He’s on assignment.”
“Levey?”
“On assignment.”
Steyer craned his neck and searched the ceiling for more names. “Young.”
“On vacation.”
“The young Young.”
“Dead.”
“Really?” He narrowed his eyes.
Wickes shook her head in exasperation. “No, she’s on assignment.”
“Do you have any recommendations?”
Wickes tilted her head and pursed her lips. She did that whenever she was reluctant to say what was on her mind.
“Just say it.”
“Remington.” She gave an assertive nod.
Steyer drummed his fingers on her desk. “Remington with Organized Crime?”
“Yes. He’s desperate to get out of there. He’s requested a transfer, but it’s still pending. I’m sure a request from you could push it along.”
Remington was known for being hot-headed, but brilliant at problem solving. Steyer had seen Wickes chatting with him in the co-op, all warmth and smiles. When he turned to her with narrowed eyes, she would not meet his gaze.
“He needs to be strong and fast.”
“Oh, he is.” Color rose in her cheeks.
Steyer pushed his hands back into his pockets and considered the possibility. “If this happens,” he said, “we’re going to be the butt of a lot of jokes.”
A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t you mean the trigger?”
7
May, 2006
Dulles Airport
Sighing, Remington settled into the middle seat. As usual, Steyer had gotten the window. The aisle seat remained empty, which promised to make the flight less awkward as they reviewed the case files.
As the last passengers were clearing the aisle, Remington’s phone vibrated. He fumbled to pull it out. When he saw who was calling, his heart began to race.
“Remington.”
“Hey!” Wickes sounded surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you to answer; I thought you were in the air already.”
Recognizing the voice, Steyer eyed him, but remained mum.
“Nope, not yet.” Remington shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I was going to leave a voicemail.”
Remington breathed deeply through his nose. “Do you want me to hang up so you can call back?”
“No, that would be… silly.” It was her turn to take a deep breath. “Just, take care. Be safe. You know… I mean… You know.”
“I know,” he sighed. “I will.” He rubbed his forehead. His throat was tight with things he didn’t want to say on the phone and couldn’t say in public. “Hey, Sam… if I’m not back in… in four weeks, go ahead and… um—”
“If you don’t come back, I’ll be able to make a decision on my own.”
“Of course. I’ll… talk to you later.”
With a click, the line went dead. Remington continued to hold the phone to his ear until Steyer spoke:
“Any words of wisdom from our fearless leader?”
Remington tapped the phone against his palm. Shaking his head, he turned the phone off. “Yeah, don’t die.”
“If things are like they were last time, dying is the last thing you should be concerned about.” Steyer pulled his phone out and turned it off as well.
Dying might be easier, Remington thought.
****
They spent a silent hour in the air, pouring through manila folders dating back to 1994. They reread incident reports and witness statements they could have recited in their sleep, and scrutinized photos that had been burned into their brains, scavenging for any small detail they may have missed, trying to make new connections.
Remington rubbed his eyes and popped his jaw, which he had been grinding unconsciously for at least half an hour. Resting his head back, he glanced at Steyer. The senior agent’s eyes were fixed on the page before him, rereading the same sentence.
The plane banked and the iconic Atlanta skyline appeared outside of Steyer’s window. Remington stared at the seatback before him, his light brown eyes hard. His jaw bulged as he started to grind his teeth again. He had been hinting and hedging, trying to draw something out of Steyer since their unceremonious departure from the banquet hall. Steyer was not about to bring it up of his own accord.
“First case?”
Steyer sighed. That wasn’t what Remington really wanted to know.
“An alleged kidnapping. An eleven-year-old boy disappeared. His bedroom was trashed. There was blood all over the carpet. This was—�
� He counted up from ’73 “—1975. No DNA testing back then. God, I’m old… His father had a history of violence. It appeared to be an open-and-shut case: No ransom note. No body. No boy. We arrested the father and charged him with homicide.” Steyer took a deep breath. His lips pulled back from his coffee-stained teeth in what could be a grimace or an embarrassed grin.
“What?”
“Twenty-three years later—1998—this thirty-four-year-old man walks into my office.” He snaps his fingers. “I recognize him instantly. He had run away and was living in Ontario.”
Remington scoffed and chuckled. He worked his fingers over the contours of his right knee. Steyer had noticed it pained him on occasion, but Remington never admit it.
“Were you with Feingold back then?” Remington finally touched upon what he had been aching to ask. Their smiles faded.
“Yep.” Steyer didn’t elaborate. He dropped his eyes to the report before him and began to tap his pen. His throat worked as if it were difficult to swallow.
Remington didn’t probe any further. His smile was replaced by a thousand-mile stare. “He was fast…” He wasn’t talking about Feingold anymore. His hand drifted to the mottled scar on his forehead, the only flaw to his otherwise handsome face. “He was real fast.”
“He was.” Steyer nodded.
The pilot announced their arrival to Hartsfield-Jackson, requesting they place their trays in the upright position. Remington and Steyer gathered their papers and photos into the folders marked PHOENIX, SFO—2002, PHOENIX, DTW—1997, and PHOENIX, PHX—1994.
“Twenty-seven days on the clock,” Remington sighed, checking his watch. They lurched as the airplane touched down. “Starting… now.”
8
1997
Detroit (“Jay Faliro”)
Elie Feingold and Richard Steyer stood on the front porch, trying not to look dejected. As much as Feingold wanted to cooperate with Detroit PD rather than command them, this was unacceptable. The lead detective had reported that the house was burned down, but in truth, it had been reduced to little more than ashes and a charred pile of sticks. The concrete porch was all that was left. In addition to that, it had rained for the past two days, and all the local authorities had done to protect the crime scene was throw a couple of tarps over it. The agents’ hopes of finding any viable evidence in the wreckage dwindled.
With a sigh, Steyer kicked over what appeared to be a piece of front door. “When will they get here?”
“Eh…” Feingold looked up at the overcast sky. “They said eight… probably more like nine-thirty or ten.”
It was almost eight already. Steyer turned his face up, looking for whatever enabled the older man to make these divinations. As Steyer searched the sky, Feingold searched the ground. He took a few steps into the yard.
“Do you have a bag?” He squatted to get a closer look at something in the toasted grass. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and picked up what appeared to be a twig. “Eh…” He turned it in the light. “Cigarette butt.”
“Local PD?”
He shot Steyer a wry smile. “Would you really want to make that assumption?”
“I’ll get a bag,” Steyer replied. As he went to the trunk of the car, Feingold followed, still inspecting his find.
“Eh… American Spirit.”
“That’s strong stuff.” Steyer ducked into the truck. “Johnny used to smoke American Spirits.” He sifted through the assorted sizes of evidence bags and muttered as he pulled one out, “Small.”
As he closed the trunk, he heard the shuffle of running feet. A man in a black hooded sweatshirt and jeans was running down the sidewalk, away from them.
“Hey—” Steyer stepped back onto the sidewalk. The sight of Feingold on the ground gagged him. “Gold!”
Feingold slumped against the car, struggling to breathe. As Steyer pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1, Feingold raised a shaking hand to point after the running man, then held up his empty palms. The man was already too far for pursuit: He was two blocks down and turned a corner. The speed with which he had made his move was dizzying.
So quick! Too quick!
“FBI Agent Richard Steyer,” he said the moment the dispatcher spoke, “I have an agent down.” He knelt at Feingold’s side as he gave them the address. Feingold opened his mouth to speak, but only his rattling breath and flecks of blood escaped.
“He’s gone,” Steyer told him. “But I’m here… help is on the way.”
He eased Feingold forward to inspect his back. Blood saturated his blazer. There was a hole in the fabric. The blade had been small, but effective. Lifting the blazer, Steyer found an incision just to the right of the spine, slipped up under the ribcage. By the sounds Feingold was making, it had gone straight through the diaphragm and into his right lung.
“It’s OK,” Steyer lied. Even if an ambulance had already been on its way, Feingold was unlikely to survive the distance between the scene and the hospital. He slapped the evidence bag over the wound to preventing it from sucking air. “It’s nothing at all… just a scratch. Just breathe. Just stay calm.”
The man’s shoulders began to shake. He was pale. Blood had filled his mouth, but he gave Steyer a bloody grin. He was laughing at his feeble lie. Despite the tightness in his throat and the tears forcing their way into his eyes, Steyer could not resist chuckling back.
Still grinning, Feingold huffed a couple of times, then slumped back against the car. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Steyer sat heavily on the ground. He covered his face and fought the urge to despair.
9
May, 2006
Atlanta
Byron’s stomach lurched as if he had consumed too much caffeine. He leaned against the edge of his desk, stared at Chief Collins’s office door, and wrung his hands until they were ashy. Kondorf must have noticed, because he broke out the bottle of Huskers usually reserved for biting winter nights. Byron accepted the lotion, rubbed it in, and continued wringing his hands until they were dry again.
Kondorf chuckled. Unlike Byron, the lieutenant managed to look unruffled as he leaned on the desk across from him. “Don’t be so nervous. I used to work with feds all the time in Macon. They’re here for a few days, maybe a couple of weeks. They’ll holler orders, interrogate people, keep mostly to themselves, then disappear.”
Byron nodded absently. “People call ’em ‘spooks,’ right?”
Kondorf buried his face in his coffee. “No, not down in Macon. Not feds.”
Byron barked a laugh—the first in two days—then pulled his face back under control as the chief’s door opened. The day-shift detective, Sergeant Young, stepped out. She tugged at her ponytail and tossed it back over her shoulder with uncharacteristic girliness. Byron craned his neck to peer around her as she approached. He caught a glimpse of a man with blond, almost white hair, sitting in front of Collins’s desk. Another man stood behind his chair, handsome, with dark hair. He glanced out as he closed the door on his way to claim the now-empty second chair.
Byron’s heart pounded faster. No wonder Young had pulled the hair flip.
“What’s the word?” Kondorf asked.
“Bird is the word, Tommy.” Young leaned against the wall in the mouth of the hallway. She sucked her teeth before shrugging. “The bird is a Phoenix, but the connections they’re making are pretty hinky.”
Kondorf raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. “Hinky how?”
Young mock-glared at them. “As y’all discussed with Boss-man—behind my back, I might add—the Phoenix, like most serial killers, follows a pattern: Four hostages, two male, two female; Abductions within a short window of time; and taunting of authorities.”
“Taunting?” Byron furrowed his brow.
“The 9-1-1 call,” Kondorf explained. “In San Francisco, the Phoenix Killer called 9-1-1 while he was abducting one of the female vics.”
“While?” Byron’s mouth went dry. He had done some internet research on the Phoenix Killer, but reliable
sources were scarce, and the results did more to stir the panic rising in his chest than provide any useful information.
“Yes, while.” Young’s gaze turned serious. “And it’s worse: He also killed two officers in San Francisco, and a fed in Detroit.” She looked Byron in the eye. “You’re one-hundred-percent sure it wasn’t Chuck’s voice on the 9-1-1 call?”
“Positive. His… his parents verified.”
“What about the Vlasov kid?”
“Jersey boy,” Kondorf said. “Had a real strong accent. You’ve ordered coffee from him; You’ve heard it. Does the FBI have a physical description of the guy?”
Young scoffed. “Yeah: Between 5’10 and 6-foot, 160 to 180 pounds, dark hair, brown eyes; Tall, dark, and handsome.”
Kondorf raised his chin and eyed Byron, sizing him up. Byron narrowed his eyes up at Kondorf.
“Caucasian.”
“Ha!” Byron pointed at Kondorf, then frowned. “That describes about five people in this office, including the guy sitting in there.” He pointed to the office, indicating the dark-haired agent.
Young rubbed her forehead and sighed. “I’m not convinced. But I guess I’d rather be right with them here than wrong without them. They seem nice enough.”
Byron lowered his voice. “I’m just excited to be working with the FBI. I loved watching X-Files as a kid.”
The detectives exchanged a glance and burst out laughing. Byron snapped his mouth shut, face burning.
“They’re nothin’ special, Jamal!” Young clapped a hand on his shoulder. “They just got longer arms.”
The door to the chief’s office opened.
“And nicer suits,” Byron added.
Their white-maned chief stepped out, followed closely by the agents. Byron’s heart raced again, but it had nothing to do with X-Files.
Collins did not resemble a rooster in appearance, but he had the air of chanticleer pride whenever he said anything. He could announce swapping instant coffee brands, sweep his hand, stick his face out, and smile as if it were a Herculean task he had accomplished for them all. He wasn’t being petty; That was just his way. He assumed this posture to present the well-dressed strangers.