Past Deeds

by Carolyn Arnold

  She watched people walk past and assessed each one, sizing them up as if they were targets and she was in the field. She glanced down at the bag she’d tugged close to her side. It held the handgun, but she had to do what she had to do. Her next step would also be off-mission, but maybe it was time to start thinking of herself. She bounced her legs and chewed on a fingernail.

  People started looking at her—or at least it felt that way. Their eyes full of condemnation and judgment, ready to turn on her, turn her in, like they knew what she had done. All the people she had killed.

  A lone tear spilled down her cheek, and she swiped it away. Her whiskey-induced headache had eased up and given way to her conscience. If only she could get more drugs, but she couldn’t risk refilling her prescription.

  The FBI could already be onto her, and she needed to avoid arrest for at least two more days to see her entire operation all the way through and reap the full reward. That being the ultimate feeling of approval, acceptance, and praise—all of which sang to her soul, filling her with bliss. The thought of being locked in a cage before she received closure sent tremors tearing through her. Even if a cage was where she belonged.

  A toddler walked by, holding his mother’s hand, mere feet in front of the sniper, but instead of facing ahead, he was staring at her. His innocent eyes probed hers. His widened a fraction as if he’d discovered her secret and saw the horrors living inside her soul. It took a mere child to see what most adults could not. But adults were too tainted by life’s experiences; their perceptions affected and out of focus. And she knew that she, too, was susceptible—and hated that weakness of being human.

  She reached for the bag; her hand finally calm. She also became aware of the bag she had strapped to her back that held her sniper rifle. The backpack was just big enough to hold the disassembled gun, helping her move about less conspicuously. It was most unlikely a cop would stop her and ask for her permit to carry.

  She might have had her moments of weakness, times when she left clues, consciously or not. A cry for help? Or stupidity? Even she didn’t know. But she wasn’t stupid enough to draw undue attention. She’d heard the stories of infamous serial killers taken down by happenstance and idiocy, not even related to the murders and atrocities they had committed. The Southern California Strangler, Randy Kraft, came to mind. He was pulled over for drinking and driving with a dead man in his passenger seat, putting an end to his killing spree. She’d heard of others who were brought down because of a broken taillight, an unpaid parking ticket, driving a stolen car, and other such stupid moves. And maybe for her, it wasn’t so much getting caught but being stopped. Then what would she do? Mission terminated, what would come next for her? That thought was actually more terrifying than prison. She’d either been told what to do or planned out her own life for the past fifteen years, maybe even before the Marines.

  The station was emptying out, people having boarded their trains or departing. The path to the lockers was unobscured. The shiny marble floor mocked her, daring her to take a step across it. Challenge accepted.

  She stood and grabbed her shoulder bag. The lockers were about thirty feet away. She’d do what she’d came to do and leave.

  A loud, ear-piercing smack rang out across the lobby. She dove to the ground and slipped her hand into her bag, but yanked it out quickly as if she’d been bitten by a snake. She’d almost had her fingers wrapped around the handgun. That was close, but what the hell was that noise?

  She studied her surroundings and spotted a janitor down the hallway righting a metal-handled mop. It must have hit the floor; the marble had amplified the thwack like a loudspeaker.

  She got back on her feet. She was safe, but her heart was pounding.

  Again, she glanced at the lockers. The thirty-some-foot span felt more menacing than before. She returned to the bench, her entire body trembling. She’d almost messed up like other stupid serial killers and drawn her handgun. At least last night she’d been careful; she’d gloved up.

  Thoughts started to pour in on her—not fears over leaving trace at last night’s murder scene, but the kills themselves.

  She pulled out the empty drug bottle from her inside jacket pocket and shook it. Ridiculous, really. Pills couldn’t magically manifest overnight. But, God, they’d take the edge off, afford her some peace of mind, let her breathe. If only. But she had none, no prescribed Band-Aid to seal her insanity. She jammed the bottle back into her pocket, her mind retreating to the past, to Afghanistan, to her nightmarish memories no one should have.

  -

  Forty-Two

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Friday, October 25th, 3:45 PM Mountain Standard Time

  Michelle Evans didn’t sound like a name that would belong to a killer, but rather someone Paige would be friends with. But the fact that killers functioned like chameleons in society was why they’d always exist. People would often say of even the most heinous murderers before arrests were made that “they were so quiet” or “they wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Paige and Brandon were set up in a meeting room at the local FBI field office with their laptop at the ready for a video conference with Jack and Kelly. The system rang, and Brandon moved his chair closer to her, bumping her shoulder with his. She rolled away to put some distance between them.

  Paige clicked the button to answer. “Hey, guys.”

  “Hi,” Kelly replied, and Jack just dipped his head. They were still waiting on Nadia to join them.

  “Have you gotten anywhere further with the identity of Wise’s mistress?” Jack asked.

  “Her name’s Josefina Alvarez,” Paige said. “No one’s seen her at the pub since Wise’s murder. She’s probably staying away because of the bad memories, but we’ll pay her a visit.” Paige didn’t want to think Josefina was dead.

  “Do that.”

  “She was next on our list,” she said. They would probably be at Josefina’s door now if Jack hadn’t called the meeting.

  There was another ring, and Nadia joined the conference. She looked ragged; her hair that was normally smooth and straight was a little frizzy. She was also wearing red-framed glasses instead of contact lenses. She held a file folder in both hands and smacked its edge against her desk, then opened it.

  “Oh, it’s not looking good for Michelle Evans,” Nadia said, playing up the drama.

  “Just tell us what you have,” Jack said coolly.

  “Michelle Evans is the daughter of Estella Evans.”

  Kelly was grinning. “I knew it.”

  “You knew the sniper’s mother was named Estella?” Brandon tossed out.

  “No.” Kelly angled her head. “Just that the name had personal meaning to her. Doesn’t get much more personal than the woman who brought you into the world.” As she spoke, Kelly’s voice darkened. Paige didn’t know her past but imagined there were complications between her and her mother.

  “Even so, what made her provide her mother’s name to the waitress at the Lucky Pub?” Paige said, thinking. “Her mother must have been on her mind.”

  “There’d be good reason for that,” Nadia replied. “Estella died eight months ago. Doctors diagnosed Michelle with PTSD about three months before that and sent her home.”

  “How did the mother die?” Jack inquired.

  Nadia looked straight at the camera and said somberly, “She had early-onset Alzheimer’s.”

  Jack’s mother had lost the battle with the mind-altering disease last year, and it was probably why Nadia had put Estella’s illness so delicately.

  Nadia went on. “Estella had suffered for about a year after being diagnosed and was in a home where she was cared for. It just so happened around the time Michelle was discharged, her mother’s mind had taken a swift turn for the worse, too.”

  Paige ran through the timeline of the murders in her head and came to a conclusion. “Her mother’
s death could have been Michelle’s trigger. Wise was killed only two months after.”

  “Still, why those particular men?” Brandon asked.

  Paige looked at him. “There must have also been a connection with the mother.”

  “Possible abuse, as we’ve theorized before?” Kelly suggested. “What about Michelle’s father, Nadia? Who is he, and was he in the picture when she was growing up?”

  “I’m going to guess no. Frank Evans enlisted in the Marines twenty-nine years ago.”

  “Michelle would have been six,” Kelly said, sorrow tinging her voice. “Tender age.”

  “Is he still alive? Serving?” Brandon asked.

  “He’s alive, but he left the Marines five years ago with an honorable discharge. He’s currently fifty-six and working as an engineer with a company in Baltimore, Maryland, where he lives now.”

  Fifty-six, Paige considered that. Was it a coincidence that all the men who were shot were ages fifty-five and fifty-six—her father’s age range? Paige was also curious if Frank Evans had reentered his daughter’s life, possibly at the funeral service. Maybe his appearance had been the trigger more than the mother’s death. “Is there any indication that Frank Evans was a part of Estella’s life in more recent years? Did he pay for his wife’s care?”

  “Nope,” Nadia said. “There’s no indication Frank even kept in touch with his wife and child. No money was sent for them, and when I called the home where Estella was up until her death, they told me she paid for her own care. She had quite a nest egg that was left to her by her wealthy parents when they died. That was when Estella was twenty-one.”

  “They were wealthy?” Paige asked. “What did they do?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t have time to dig into that.”

  “Regardless, end of day, Frank Evans went off to serve his country and truly abandoned his family.” Paige was disgusted.

  “It happens,” Jack snapped, and Paige could have smacked herself. Jack might see himself guilty of that same thing. She’d apologize, but that would only antagonize him.

  Paige took a deep breath and exhaled through her mouth. “Michelle was raised by her mother, had a father who didn’t have anything to do with her, the mother gets sick, and still no sign of the father. Or so it would seem,” Paige summarized. “How does all this tie into the four victims? We know that Michelle was acquainted with Wise and Reid in the past. But how?” Paige didn’t even know where she was going with her comments, but speaking thoughts out loud often helped. In the past… If only they could find out what Michelle had said to Wise when he’d joined her. “Nadia, did you get the video I sent over from the Lucky Pub?”

  “I did and forwarded it along to a colleague who is an expert at lip-reading. We’re at the mercy of his schedule.”

  “Tell him it’s part of a murder investigation,” Jack said.

  “I have, Jack, and I’ll let you know once I hear from him.” Nadia paused, and a smile played on the edges of her mouth. “I can also connect Michelle with the Sunset Diner.”

  “She did work there,” Paige blurted out.

  “She did,” Nadia affirmed.

  Paige nudged Brandon in the arm.

  “I called the diner and spoke with the owner. Michelle waitressed there about eight months ago for about a month. She told the owner she needed to pay off her mother’s health bill and for the funeral.”

  “You said that Estella had money, so…what am I missing?” Paige asked.

  “Nothing. Something’s not adding up. And when Estella died, she left a sizable amount to Michelle.”

  “A sizeable amount being…?” Jack prompted.

  “A few hundred thousand.”

  No one said anything for a few beats; Jack was the first to speak.

  “I think we need to get on the ground…” Jack kept talking, but Paige didn’t want to hear him. She had a bad feeling. “Go to Bridgeport, California.” He was looking at the camera, and she swore right at her. “Paige?”

  “Yes?” Her chest tightened.

  “Did you hear me? I want you and Brandon to get on a flight to California.”

  Coolness blanketed her. The last time Paige was there, she was arrested for murder. It was only because Jack, Brandon, and Zach literally flew to her rescue and cleared her name that she was released. “I hear you,” she forced out.

  Paige could feel Brandon staring at her profile and wished he’d stop. Focus on the case, she told herself. “Nadia, you said Michelle was a waitress for only a month. Why did she leave?”

  “Why, I don’t know, but apparently she just didn’t show up for her shift.”

  “Huh.” Paige was running through all that Nadia had just told them. “So she took a job under false pretenses, ran off about a month before the first murder. It seems conclusive now that she stole the Mavises’ credit card information, but what drew Michelle to the Sunset Diner in the first place? And had she planned to steal from the Mavises, or was it just a matter of convenience?”

  “She’s leaving breadcrumbs,” Kelly said, “between the credit card, the Sunset Diner, and giving the name Estella to the Lucky Pub, she wants us to look at Bridgeport. I’d say her trigger happened there. Her reason for wanting the four men dead happened there. Like Jack and I were discussing, she’s adhering to a mission, even if it’s one that she’s given herself, and I think she’s being intentional about what she leaves behind.”

  Jack looked from Kelly to the screen. “Do you have an address on Michelle Evans?”

  “I do. Last known is a one-bedroom apartment in Bridgeport, California. I contacted the building manager, and he said the place is paid up until the end of the year, but he hasn’t seen Michelle in months. She has a Toyota Corolla, and it’s in the apartment’s lot. I’ve tried tracking her phone, but no luck. I also looked her up online, but her social media hasn’t been active since not long after she was enlisted.”

  “Which was when?” Paige asked. She didn’t remember Nadia saying.

  “Fifteen years ago. She was twenty. I have her bank accounts and credit cards being monitored. She touches her money, and we’ll know about it.”

  “What about any registered weapons?” Brandon asked, and Paige tilted her head. He shrugged. “Hey, you never know.”

  “None,” Nadia said.

  “Not the easiest to get a sniper rifle off the street, but not impossible,” Paige concluded. “A handgun’s easier.”

  “Both are easy enough if you have greenbacks to throw around.” Brandon smirked.

  “We need to find out all we can on this Michelle Evans, what triggered her,” Jack stated with authority. “If it did involve her mother’s death, what about it? How does that make targets of the four men she killed? Paige, you and Brandon need to visit the diner, talk to the owner, and go to Michelle’s last known address and get inside. Nadia, get local uniforms there to watch the place for any sign of Michelle, and we’ll need the father’s address in Baltimore. Kelly and I will pay him a visit.”

  “I’ll send it to you right away, Jack,” Nadia said.

  “And Michelle’s last known to Paige and Brandon.”

  “Of course.”

  “Paige, before you board a plane for California, visit Wise’s mistress and see if she can offer anything to the investigation.”

  Paige nodded, and with that, they all had their marching orders. Nadia was the first to sign off, followed by Jack and Kelly, then Paige and Brandon.

  Paige turned the laptop off but held her finger over the power button. Why California, of all the places in the world?

  “Not looking forward to a trip back to the Golden State?” On the surface, Brandon’s words could have been taken as jest, but his face was somber.

  She slowly shook her head. She could easily conjure up the feeling of being held in that jail cell, treated like a murderer. She wrapped her ar
ms around herself.

  “Guess I can’t say I blame you.” Brandon reached in front of her and shut the lid on the computer. “Come on, we’ve got to get another flight booked and fit in a visit to Wise’s mistress.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, at least you have me to travel with.” He flashed her a cheesy grin, and she rolled her eyes.

  -

  Forty-Three

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Friday, October 25th, 4:40 PM Mountain Standard Time

  Instead of just one thing causing tension, there were two. My guilt and Paige trying to suppress bad memories from her last visit to California. Hopefully, the fact it was a large state, and she’d had her problems in Valencia, a few hundred miles south of Bridgeport, would help her release the past. I was out of luck with that until I decided to forgive myself—apparently easier said than done. But regardless of feelings and personal drama, Paige and I would be boarding a flight at ten minutes after seven, in just over three hours, so we had to make our visit to Josefina Alverez a quick one.

  Paige rapped her knuckles against Alvarez’s apartment door a second time. “Ms. Alvarez, it’s the FBI. Please open the door.”

  “One minute,” a woman said, followed shortly by the sound of bare feet padding across the floorboards toward them. The door swung open, and a thirtysomething Alverez stood there, tying the strap on a thigh-length silk robe. What little modesty she showed still didn’t cover up her long, tanned legs and ample cleavage.

  Not that I noticed. I was always the professional. I cleared my throat and held up my badge. “We’re Agents Fisher and Dawson with the FBI. You’re Josefina Alvarez?” Not so much a question, as I recognized her from the compromising photos.

  “I am.” She was soft-spoken, but the devil danced in her eyes.

  “I hope now’s a good time, but we have a few questions for you about Robert Wise. Can we come in?” I adhered to the more-bees-with-honey approach, unlike Jack, who would have presented such a question as a request. Alvarez wasn’t moving, though, so maybe a little more force was necessary. “It’s important that we talk with you,” I stressed, hoping to sound closed to negotiation.