by Jette Harris
“Nope. He says his ‘people’ are all tailors.”
“Huh…” He turned toward the front, where Collins was giving a brief report of the disappearances. “That’s one way to keep the black dog at bay.”
“He said as much.”
Thrace nodded thoughtfully and fell still. Remington stepped forward, his mouth still a resigned slash across his face.
“He look nervous to you?”
“I think he might be camera-shy. He was fussin’ all over his hair and suit inside.”
“Huh,” Thrace grunted again.
Remington looked down at his feet and swallowed before raising his head and taking a deep breath. “Good evening. I’m Special Agent Remington with the FBI’s Violent Crimes division. Chief Collins and Lieutenant Kondorf contacted us upon observing some similarities between the disappearances of the four students and a previous unsolved case of ours, namely the Phoenix murders.”
Collins’s face fell slack. He blinked a few times, then recovered his impassive expression. Thrace recoiled as if taken aback by the agent’s words. Steyer nodded slowly. Remington seemed to take this as assurance he was on the right path.
“As of right now, any connection between these disappearances and the Phoenix murders is tenuous and could be incidental.”
Thrace snorted. Even Byron’s jaw dropped a fraction.
“We are simply looking into it as a possibility. If we get more evidence, we will pursue this investigation to the fullest. If not, the case will be reassigned to a kidnapping specialist. We will…” He took a deep breath. “We will pack up. Go home.”
“Oh…” Byron breathed. They’re setting the bait. Then, Remington is the bait. Of course.
Steyer leaned forward and whispered a word into Remington’s ear. Remington’s face fell, but the slash quickly returned.
“Whether it means leading the investigation or handing it over to another—more specialized—team, we will do everything in our power to return these four children, Chuck, Z, Monica, and Heather, to their families safely.” After a pause, he gave a tight smile. At first it looked forced and painful, but it slowly grew sincerer, lighting up his face. Thrace let out a long, slow breath, almost a low whistle.
“I know, man,” Byron breathed, half-hoping the deputy would not hear.
But Thrace heard. He nodded slowly.
“Do you have a description of the Phoenix Killer?” someone shouted.
Remington’s mouth twitched. Byron scoffed.
“What’s so funny?” Thrace asked.
“Just listen.”
“Our current description is dark brown hair, brown eyes, medium complexion, between 5’10 and six-foot, 160 to 180 pounds, athletic build.”
Thrace and Byron exchanged a glance, Thrace’s eyebrow arching up over his sunglasses.
“White?” someone else asked.
“We believe so.”
Thrace’s face broke into a grin, revealing coffee-stained, uneven teeth. He fit the description as perfectly as Remington and Kondorf.
“Obviously…” Remington gestured to himself and a few of the officers around him who also fit the description. “We don’t want anyone to cause a panic so everyone who fits that description gets reported, but use common sense around strangers.”
“What a novel concept…” Thrace murmured.
Remington opened the floor for more questions. Thrace winked at Byron before strolling across the parking lot and climbing into a CCSD cruiser.
34
Remington popped his jaw and sighed. He tapped his computer screen with a knuckle. “According to Social Security, there are fourteen people in the United States named Avery Rhodes. Four are female. Two were under sixteen in ’94—”
“What the hell are you thinking?”
Remington jerked his head up toward the muffled shout. Sean Shatterthwaith stood on the opposite side of the glass. His angry expression made Remington want to keep it that way. Despite his livid expression, his pink face and spikey blonde hair made Sean look like a cartoon character rather than a concerned father. He spread his arms, as if the agents could divine from that gesture what he was referring to.
“You got this, sport?” Steyer asked in a low voice.
“You know, I think as the junior agent, I should let you handle this one,” Remington replied. “The press conference was your brilliant idea anyway…”
Steyer stood and straightened his tie before crossing the room and opening the door. Sean stormed in.
“My wife is crying,” He squared up to Steyer, but finding himself looking too far upward, he stepped back again. “She spent the last two days believing our daughter was being t-tortured in the… in the clutches of a serial killer, but now there’s doubt? How-how dare you?”
Steyer held up a hand. “Mr. Shatterthwaith, please allow me to explain.”
“Is my daughter dead or not?” Sean yelled, choking on the thought.
Struck with remorse, Remington shot up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shatterthwaith, this is my fault.”
Sean turned to him, wilting.
“I did not intend to cast any doubt for your and the other families; We should have warned you. We should have had you there. Our intention was to attempt to draw the Phoenix out, to discredit him, so he would come forth and claim responsibility.”
Sean looked at Remington as if he were crazy. He turned to Steyer, now the beacon of sanity.
“First and foremost, I want to assure you, we have no reason to believe your daughter is dead.” Steyer paused to allow this to sink in. “As for the press conference: The Phoenix has…” His eyes flickered to Remington. “… contacted us before. We acted with the hope he will do so again, not only to verify his involvement, but to expose himself, perhaps give us some kind of clue.”
Sean turned back to Remington. “Did you have to sound so… so… sure?”
“No.” Remington shook his head. “I apologize. I got… caught up. The idea of communicating with the Phoenix… agitates me.”
Steyer placed a hand on Sean’s back and guided him to a chair.
“Do you think it’ll work?” Sean’s voice was dreamy, as if emerging from a daze.
“I don’t know,” Steyer said as Remington answered, “Absolutely.”
Sean stared between the two of them. “As long as we’re on the same page.” The red in his face had faded, and he looked sickly pale. “Is… is there anything I can do?”
Steyer and Remington exchanged a glance. They knew he was thinking the exact thing Tech had been thinking: an exchange, a human sacrifice. Remington’s throat was tight from the possibility—or lack thereof. Steyer shook his head and patted Sean’s shoulder.
“Just stay near your phone,” he said. “Keep a watchful eye out.”
“And keep the rest of your family close,” Remington said. Steyer raised a brow at this uncharacteristic sentimentality.
Sean shook his head and covered his eyes. His shoulders began to shudder. Remington, feeling guilty, leaned forward and patted his back.
“We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything,” he promised softly.
35
The morning after his press conference, Remington jerked his leg the entire way to the Board of Education building. He could not imagine the Phoenix, who had been so careful to conceal his face before, being reckless enough to have his photograph taken and archived, but stranger things had happened. When the agents arrived, they were referred to the Human Resources department. They ended up in an uncomfortably small office, crowded with filing cabinets sizes and boxes of green folders.
“What was the last name again?” Deborah Schaefer, the HR clerk, asked.
Steyer double-checked the sign-in sheet. “Avery Rhodes,” he read. “R-H-O—”
“Oh, I remember him!” Schaefer laughed as she pecked at her keyboard. “He was a cutie. Very charming.”
“He could be a murder suspect.”
“Shame…”
Steyer’s cool expressi
on fell flat. “I’m sure.”
She clicked several times, then played with her mouse. “It says here we don’t have any entries by that name. I may have spelled it wrong…” She tapped away in silence, shaking her head. “It goes straight from Reed, Stephen to Roddenberry, Nicole. No Rhodes.”
Steyer lowered his head. It was San Francisco all over again.
“What about hard copies?” Remington asked. “Paper applications, interview notes, I-9’s, things of that nature?”
Schaefer sniffed. Dismissing the computer with a wave of her hand, she rolled over to a filing cabinet behind her. She shuffled through several folders. The furrow in her brow slowly deepened.
“I know it’s in here,” she said. “I made his ID myself. I can tell you all about it.”
“That would be most helpful.”
She slammed the drawer and opened another, then another.
“Let me guess…” Steyer said.
“No, it’s here,” she insisted. Rolling back, she sifted through the mess of papers and folders, then turned to the table behind her desk.
While she searched, Steyer leaned back in his chair and pulled the door toward him. There were not any scratches or scrapes near the latch. In San Francisco, their office door had scratches and furrows, obvious signs of being jimmied. Remington glanced up at the tiled ceiling and down at the floor around him. There was a dusting of white grit on the next to the table, and more sprinkled onto the floor as Schaefer searched through her piles of documents.
Beckoning to Steyer, they stared up at the ceiling. When Schaefer noticed, she craned her neck up. One of the tiles above the table had small grooves along one side, and the edge was rounded, as if it had been pried up with a wide, flat surface.
“What do you say?” Steyer rubbed his chin.
“Knife blade?” Remington suggested.
Steyer shook his head. “The grooves are too broad. It would have been a… a cleaver almost.”
“A putty knife?”
The agents looked down at Schaefer, surprised. She blinked, pale under her layers of make-up. “They just… They just started remodeling Training Room 2 after it flooded.”
“Putty knife,” Steyer repeated. “A six-inch putty knife… Perfect.” He patted her shoulder. “Thank you, Ms. Schaefer.”
****
The smell of mildew clung to the air, although the carpeting had been torn up. A new roll sagged in the corner. Half of the concrete floor was water-stained. In the back of the room, several of the tiles of the drop-ceiling were stained brown and sagging. A few were missing, and a few more threatened to buckle and fall.
Steyer and Remington were not interested in the damage at the back of the room. They were interested in the single tile resting against the wall a few feet in front of the door and the gaping hole above it. Remington tilted the tile forward, hoping this would be as easy as finding the putty knife hiding behind it. It wasn’t.
A table stood in the middle of the room, occupied by a five-gallon bucket and a toolbox. Steyer studied the contents.
“Six-inch putty knife?” Remington asked.
“Nope.” Steyer took a glove and used it to pull out a one-inch and a three-inch putty knife, but not a six-inch. He glanced into the bucket, which had been used as an impromptu waste basket. It contained an assortment of debris. Steyer tilted his head and pulled out a dust mask.
“Cross your fingers,” he said, holding it up.
“Trust me, I am.” But Remington wasn’t looking at Steyer; he was looking up into the ceiling.
Steyer followed his gaze. “Can you make that?”
“Sure, no problem.” That’s not what Remington wanted to say as he looked into the darkness. He wanted to say: Please don’t make me go up there… Or, Let’s tear all of the tiles down and make sure he’s not still up there… Or, I’d rather dive into shark-infested water; It would be about the same. But he couldn’t.
Crouching, he jumped and grabbed the cross-rail. Unsure if it would support his weight, he hung and slowly pulled himself up. Grabbing the strut above his head, he pulled himself on top of it. It was a tight fit, with only a few inches between his back and the roof. He pulled off his suit jacket.
“You there?”
“Right here.” Steyer’s face appeared, looking up at him. “You know there are ladders, right?”
“Yeah, well, I missed my workout yesterday.” He pulled gloves from the inside pocket and tossed his jacket down. Steyer caught it and brushed it off. Remington took a deep breath and coughed, kicking up more dust. Pulling the gloves on, he took a flashlight from his pocket and peered around. “Someone’s definitely been up here,” he said, observing streaks in the dust in front of him. Only a broom closet separated this room from Schaefer’s office.
Ducts and bundles of wiring cast uncanny shadows, making the space between the ceiling and the roof feel crowded. He turned and flinched at a kink in the duct work that looked like a crouching man. He sighed, but his muscles refused to loosen. “If I shout,” he called, shining the flashlight at the looming shadows, “light it up.”
“Will do,” Steyer replied.
The assurance did not alleviate Remington’s pounding heart. Despite the closeness of the ceiling above, it still felt too open for safety. He imagined a weight clambering over him, pressing against his back. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths.
“Remington?” Steyer’s voice came clear this time. “You OK?” He had set up a ladder and poked his head into the ceiling.
Remington had to swallow before he could reply. “Yeah,” he lied. “Just very close. Dusty.”
“I’m here,” Steyer said. “I have eyes on you.” Steyer always knew exactly what to say. “Just look for the putty knife. Everything else can be left to PD.”
Sliding forward, Remington’s light glinted off silver metal about a four feet in front of him. “I think I found it.” He pushed with his feet and pulled with his hands until he was over the putty knife. Chunks from the tile below had been torn away and littered the dust. “Yeah, here it is.”
He leaned down to grab it. When he pulled himself back up, the flashlight glinted off something on the strut. Grasping the handle of the putty knife tightly, he swallowed hard and brought the beam closer.
Just in front of his face, drawn into the dust, was a smiley face. Written above it: I missed you.
36
When Byron arrived at the precinct, it was more crowded with tan uniforms and suits than usual. Sheriff Bill Hutson himself was even there, a round man with white hair combed over a shining pate. Chief Collins stood near him with his hands on his hips.
Byron maneuvered through them to the CHPD side of the office, which was as empty as usual. Kondorf leaned against his desk, watching the crowd. Byron leaned next to him.
“They havin’ a potluck no one told us about?”
Kondorf looked down at the floor and shook his head solemnly. Byron’s heart sank.
“Don’t tell me…”
“They’re missin’ a deputy. Beaumont.”
Byron’s initial instinct was to spit, “That asshole?” but instead said, “Shiiit…”
“He went after a streaker the night before last, and never reported back. Didn’t clock out, didn’t check in. No one’s answering his phone. His apartment is abandoned.”
“He went AWOL after pursuing a streaker…” Byron’s mouth twitched. “Is it OK to laugh?”
Kondorf snorted and hid it by taking a sip of coffee. “I guess until we find out what happened… Sure.” He lowered his voice. “It was in the Krispy Kreme parking lot.”
A barking laugh escaped Byron’s mouth. Several deputies fell silent and turned to glare at him. Clearing his throat, he pulled his face back under control. “Sorry,” he murmured.
When Steyer and Remington entered the precinct to find the crowd, their faces fell as if they had seen this kind of thing before. Byron sipped his coffee and watched from his desk as Steyer leaned close to say somethi
ng to Remington. The younger agent made a beeline for their temporary office while the senior agent gravitated to Collins and Sheriff Hutson. They exchanged a few words with bent heads. Steyer straightened with a heavy sigh and nodded.
“OK, listen up, boys!” Hutson bellowed. “And lady,” he added apologetically with a nod to the single female deputy in attendance.
Everyone turned to the three men. Steyer smoothed his tie and raised his chin. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “until we can confirm otherwise, we will be regarding these cases as linked.”
Remington emerged from their office with his cell phone to his ear and an open notepad in his other hand. Steyer glanced at him, then returned his attention to the audience.
“In addition to our investigation, we will also be arranging a safety meeting for all law enforcement officials involved, directly or indirectly, or interested, regarding the risks unique to investigating the Phoenix Killer.”
Remington’s face darkened. Kondorf noted the gesture as he sipped his coffee.
“Something tells me Special Agent Remington doesn’t like safety meetings,” he whispered.
“Maybe it’s more about the risks unique to the Phoenix.” Byron hid his mouth behind his own coffee cup. “Didn’t you read the report from San Francisco?”
“Skimmed most of it. What happened?”
“Let’s just say someone got caught with their pants down.” Byron lowered his face as it flushed slightly at the thought of Remington in his underwear.
“Oh my.”
37
Dispatcher Kay Maas had a friendly, pleasant face and held her hair back with a headband topped with cat ears. Nevertheless, she donned a serious expression and spoke in a business-like tone as soon as the introductions were made.
“It’s not unusual for Deputy Beaumont to get a wild hare and drive off-pattern. We’ve had our eye on him for a while, but we haven’t been able to pin him with any kind of moral turpitude.”
“Moral turpitude,” Steyer repeated with an appreciative nod.