A Ballad of Wayward Spectres: Day 2, Page 4
William B Hill
Marcus?” she asked. She gulped down her anxiousness. “Who killed him?”
Marcus released a loud sigh. Marina could hear his chair squeaking in the background as he leaned back. “That’s a difficult situation to discuss over the phone. Maybe you could come back to Houston, and we’ll discuss it in person.” His voice sounded distant.
“Fuck you,” she said.
“Now, Marina, you don’t have to say things like that. I know that this has been hard on…”
“What the fuck do you know? It’s not your wife on the news. She didn’t get stabbed repeatedly. Now, if you’re not going to tell me what the hell happened, I’ll find out from the police when I get back.”
“So you are coming back.”
“Maybe I am. But I won’t be coming by your offices,” Marina said. Her voice was stern, licked by flames and discontent.
“Is there any way I can change your mind?”
Marina ended the call, and drained another coffee. She had at least another twelve hours of driving ahead of her. Damn the road, and damn the coming storm.
“Come in, Michel.”
Michel Rojas stepped into Vance’s office, and sat down in front of the desk in a comfortable black leather seat with a round oak frame. “You asked to see me, sir.”
“Yes. I need you to change speeds on the Dekare case. I’m going to send in another police liaison,” he said. Vance’s voice was as thick as honey, emanating from a wrinkled face that stretched into his thin white. His lips were permanently twisted into disappointment. Michel had long assumed that it was the result of ten years of internal security service. His suit was faded and frayed. A light gray mark ran around the neck of his shirt, one collar tip to the other, from sweat and dirt. His tie was torn at the gut, but still looked new on the design.
Michel hoped that he wouldn’t be so jaded and weathered after such a period of time. Internal investigations were difficult, and required a degree of paranoia he’d walked in with. He didn’t believe that Vance was so practiced in mistrust.
“Was it something that I did?”
“No. It’s nothing like that. The situation might be worse than we thought,” Vance said. He passed an envelope to Michel, and relaxed in his chair. “We’ve successfully tied the incident to a few other people in the company. These are the guys I need you to interview. Keep your investigation to the Dekare murder, and keep this out of it, hear me? We can’t let out what’s happening. It’ll ruin the whole damned company.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good. Now, tell me what got out of the police.”
Michel recounted the brief moments he spent inside the police station listening to the briefing, and his trip to the airport with Martin, closing with their argument in the car.
“Why do you think that the detective was so callous?”
“Personally, sir? I think he’s lazy,” Michel responded. “The chief of detectives didn’t seem too invested in his team’s involvement in the investigation either. Did Quinn learn anything at Central 1?”
Vance shook his head, his lip turned in a crooked frown. “They’re seeking out Tomas’ wife, though. They nearly caught her running out of a five star hotel downtown last night.”
“Nearly? As in armed officers almost caught a middle age woman?” Michel asked, astonished. Vance was surprised to hear him break his unrelenting somber tone.
“According to Quinn’s report, there was a hell of a chase involved. I was as surprised as you are.” Vance tapped a tapped a pen on the edge of his desk. “He’s going to stick with their team, and continue his investigation. Do you have any questions about your assignment?”
“No sir. I believe that I have everything I need to continue my investigation.”
“Then get to it, and keep it quiet. I’m sure the media is already trying to dig something up on what happened at the hotel. We don’t need to let on that this is tied to an internal fraud investigation.”
Martin tapped on the dashboard, staring into the sky while teetering on the edge of sleep. The car was silent, resting in a parking space.
After breakfast, he’d spent hours driving to every convenience store within a three mile radius of the Broadway Walk, showing pictures to the staff, and asking if anyone had bought the near-disposable mobiles from the narrow end cap displays across from potato chips and bagged candies; nothing there. Two hours had been spent just talking to some of the other business, asking if he could see their security camera footage from the night before. A few people complied, but others wanted a warrant.
He didn’t blame them. He would be reticent to waste his time sitting in an office watching cameras if it wasn’t related to theft in his own business. Still, he appreciated the few courtesies he’d been offered, including a bottle of iced coffee from the drug store coolers given to him by the manager.
His mobile trembled in his pocket.
“What?” he said, forcing a cough.
“It’s me,” Rich answered. “The results from the photo scan are back.”
“And?” Martin asked.
“Nothing; not a single record. There were two that were close, but one of them is dead.”
“Does that put us at fucked, or are you going to do anything else?” Martin said.
“Depends; what do you have in mind?”
“Thought about trying the Missing Persons reports?”
“That’s not a bad idea. Anything else?” Rich asked.
“I want to look at the murder scene. And not in a damned simulation either. I want you to get me a fucking key, and go down to the house with me.”
Martin could hear Rich’s breathing, pronounced and heavy. “Don’t count on that, Marty.”
“Damn it, Rich…” Martin trailed off. “There’s something missing. Is Central 1 actually doing their job, or are they still chasing the Dekare woman?”
“You know it,” Rich sighed. “They’re not willing to ruffle any feathers with the Four Nations guy.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Nope,” Martin replied.
“Well, ain’t that something,” Martin trailed off. “Do you know how to use a lock pick?”
“Sure,” Rich replied. “Don’t you?”
“No. Sure don’t. Never had to use one,” he replied. “How about I pick you up when you get off, and you teach me how.”
Rich chuckled. “Okay, where?”
“I think we can figure something out.”
“Fine,” Rich said. “You know where to meet me.”
IV
She walked beside him, inside and up two flights of stairs. She trembled at the thought of the pointy instrument he’d slipped up his sleeve. He greeted two of his neighbors, spraying them with a cheerful laugh and kind gestures. His voice was higher than she’d expected, fitting somewhere in between smart ass and jovial; his diction fake, but genuine enough for his neighbors.
She didn’t dare break away. Maybe she’d even get a chance to retaliate if she was patient enough. She felt the release for her multi-tool at her wrist.
When Alyson was following her captor from Pages to the apartment building, no part of his demeanor suggested violence, or even danger. He looked like the average college students who were destined for entry level jobs at IT firms, or trying program video games for mobiles. She knew that it wasn’t to her credit to stereotype the slicked hair and narrow framed glasses, or the short stubble and two acne scars on his cheeks. But in the back of her mind, despite the gentle touch of the knife on her side in the alley, she couldn’t stop thinking I can take his skinny ass if I have to. A subtle pain in her hip reminded her of her handicap should they come to blows, and she buried the thought for a moment.
He retrieved keys from his pocket, and opened the door with his knife hand, tugging Alyson close with a thin smile. The door opened, and he gave her a light push inside. He closed the door, and exposed the knife again.
Alyson palmed her multi-tool, and thumbed the blade out. The rest of her body was froz
en in place. She stared at the ornate, silvery blade extending from the hanging arm of the Pages customer.
“So, want to tell me why you followed me home?” he asked. He leaned against the door, casually waving the knife as he spoke. Alyson thought him more frightening than the SWAT team that wanted to arrest her, or blast her with an assault rifle; more threatening than the trucker beating his hooker at the Southern Pines. The cops wouldn’t actually shoot her. The trucker didn’t know she existed. His words were as curious as they were pointed; not cold enough for the murderer he probably wanted her to think that he was, but not so warm that his threat was empty. “Seriously, what could I have that’s so fucking great?”
“I…I needed to use your computer,” Alyson responded, every word punctuated by the quiet quiver of her lips.
“They have computers at the library for that kind of thing. You know that right?” he asked, unwavering in his pose. “How did you know I even had a computer?”
“Well,” she stammered, brushing her wrist against the release on her wrist band. He wasn’t close enough yet. “I figured if you’re buying mobiles as expensive as the ones you dropped cash on today, then you had to be serious about your tech.” She moved sideways towards a black couch, leaning against it to give her bruised hip some relief.
He shifted away from the door, towards her, not keeping the knife trained on her. Alyson scanned it with her eyes, and her nerves eased. The blade was decorative, trimmed with a thin blue line running through a trench three inches up the hilt. It was the kind of thing she
Marcus released a loud sigh. Marina could hear his chair squeaking in the background as he leaned back. “That’s a difficult situation to discuss over the phone. Maybe you could come back to Houston, and we’ll discuss it in person.” His voice sounded distant.
“Fuck you,” she said.
“Now, Marina, you don’t have to say things like that. I know that this has been hard on…”
“What the fuck do you know? It’s not your wife on the news. She didn’t get stabbed repeatedly. Now, if you’re not going to tell me what the hell happened, I’ll find out from the police when I get back.”
“So you are coming back.”
“Maybe I am. But I won’t be coming by your offices,” Marina said. Her voice was stern, licked by flames and discontent.
“Is there any way I can change your mind?”
Marina ended the call, and drained another coffee. She had at least another twelve hours of driving ahead of her. Damn the road, and damn the coming storm.
“Come in, Michel.”
Michel Rojas stepped into Vance’s office, and sat down in front of the desk in a comfortable black leather seat with a round oak frame. “You asked to see me, sir.”
“Yes. I need you to change speeds on the Dekare case. I’m going to send in another police liaison,” he said. Vance’s voice was as thick as honey, emanating from a wrinkled face that stretched into his thin white. His lips were permanently twisted into disappointment. Michel had long assumed that it was the result of ten years of internal security service. His suit was faded and frayed. A light gray mark ran around the neck of his shirt, one collar tip to the other, from sweat and dirt. His tie was torn at the gut, but still looked new on the design.
Michel hoped that he wouldn’t be so jaded and weathered after such a period of time. Internal investigations were difficult, and required a degree of paranoia he’d walked in with. He didn’t believe that Vance was so practiced in mistrust.
“Was it something that I did?”
“No. It’s nothing like that. The situation might be worse than we thought,” Vance said. He passed an envelope to Michel, and relaxed in his chair. “We’ve successfully tied the incident to a few other people in the company. These are the guys I need you to interview. Keep your investigation to the Dekare murder, and keep this out of it, hear me? We can’t let out what’s happening. It’ll ruin the whole damned company.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good. Now, tell me what got out of the police.”
Michel recounted the brief moments he spent inside the police station listening to the briefing, and his trip to the airport with Martin, closing with their argument in the car.
“Why do you think that the detective was so callous?”
“Personally, sir? I think he’s lazy,” Michel responded. “The chief of detectives didn’t seem too invested in his team’s involvement in the investigation either. Did Quinn learn anything at Central 1?”
Vance shook his head, his lip turned in a crooked frown. “They’re seeking out Tomas’ wife, though. They nearly caught her running out of a five star hotel downtown last night.”
“Nearly? As in armed officers almost caught a middle age woman?” Michel asked, astonished. Vance was surprised to hear him break his unrelenting somber tone.
“According to Quinn’s report, there was a hell of a chase involved. I was as surprised as you are.” Vance tapped a tapped a pen on the edge of his desk. “He’s going to stick with their team, and continue his investigation. Do you have any questions about your assignment?”
“No sir. I believe that I have everything I need to continue my investigation.”
“Then get to it, and keep it quiet. I’m sure the media is already trying to dig something up on what happened at the hotel. We don’t need to let on that this is tied to an internal fraud investigation.”
Martin tapped on the dashboard, staring into the sky while teetering on the edge of sleep. The car was silent, resting in a parking space.
After breakfast, he’d spent hours driving to every convenience store within a three mile radius of the Broadway Walk, showing pictures to the staff, and asking if anyone had bought the near-disposable mobiles from the narrow end cap displays across from potato chips and bagged candies; nothing there. Two hours had been spent just talking to some of the other business, asking if he could see their security camera footage from the night before. A few people complied, but others wanted a warrant.
He didn’t blame them. He would be reticent to waste his time sitting in an office watching cameras if it wasn’t related to theft in his own business. Still, he appreciated the few courtesies he’d been offered, including a bottle of iced coffee from the drug store coolers given to him by the manager.
His mobile trembled in his pocket.
“What?” he said, forcing a cough.
“It’s me,” Rich answered. “The results from the photo scan are back.”
“And?” Martin asked.
“Nothing; not a single record. There were two that were close, but one of them is dead.”
“Does that put us at fucked, or are you going to do anything else?” Martin said.
“Depends; what do you have in mind?”
“Thought about trying the Missing Persons reports?”
“That’s not a bad idea. Anything else?” Rich asked.
“I want to look at the murder scene. And not in a damned simulation either. I want you to get me a fucking key, and go down to the house with me.”
Martin could hear Rich’s breathing, pronounced and heavy. “Don’t count on that, Marty.”
“Damn it, Rich…” Martin trailed off. “There’s something missing. Is Central 1 actually doing their job, or are they still chasing the Dekare woman?”
“You know it,” Rich sighed. “They’re not willing to ruffle any feathers with the Four Nations guy.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Nope,” Martin replied.
“Well, ain’t that something,” Martin trailed off. “Do you know how to use a lock pick?”
“Sure,” Rich replied. “Don’t you?”
“No. Sure don’t. Never had to use one,” he replied. “How about I pick you up when you get off, and you teach me how.”
Rich chuckled. “Okay, where?”
“I think we can figure something out.”
“Fine,” Rich said. “You know where to meet me.”
IV
She walked beside him, inside and up two flights of stairs. She trembled at the thought of the pointy instrument he’d slipped up his sleeve. He greeted two of his neighbors, spraying them with a cheerful laugh and kind gestures. His voice was higher than she’d expected, fitting somewhere in between smart ass and jovial; his diction fake, but genuine enough for his neighbors.
She didn’t dare break away. Maybe she’d even get a chance to retaliate if she was patient enough. She felt the release for her multi-tool at her wrist.
When Alyson was following her captor from Pages to the apartment building, no part of his demeanor suggested violence, or even danger. He looked like the average college students who were destined for entry level jobs at IT firms, or trying program video games for mobiles. She knew that it wasn’t to her credit to stereotype the slicked hair and narrow framed glasses, or the short stubble and two acne scars on his cheeks. But in the back of her mind, despite the gentle touch of the knife on her side in the alley, she couldn’t stop thinking I can take his skinny ass if I have to. A subtle pain in her hip reminded her of her handicap should they come to blows, and she buried the thought for a moment.
He retrieved keys from his pocket, and opened the door with his knife hand, tugging Alyson close with a thin smile. The door opened, and he gave her a light push inside. He closed the door, and exposed the knife again.
Alyson palmed her multi-tool, and thumbed the blade out. The rest of her body was froz
en in place. She stared at the ornate, silvery blade extending from the hanging arm of the Pages customer.
“So, want to tell me why you followed me home?” he asked. He leaned against the door, casually waving the knife as he spoke. Alyson thought him more frightening than the SWAT team that wanted to arrest her, or blast her with an assault rifle; more threatening than the trucker beating his hooker at the Southern Pines. The cops wouldn’t actually shoot her. The trucker didn’t know she existed. His words were as curious as they were pointed; not cold enough for the murderer he probably wanted her to think that he was, but not so warm that his threat was empty. “Seriously, what could I have that’s so fucking great?”
“I…I needed to use your computer,” Alyson responded, every word punctuated by the quiet quiver of her lips.
“They have computers at the library for that kind of thing. You know that right?” he asked, unwavering in his pose. “How did you know I even had a computer?”
“Well,” she stammered, brushing her wrist against the release on her wrist band. He wasn’t close enough yet. “I figured if you’re buying mobiles as expensive as the ones you dropped cash on today, then you had to be serious about your tech.” She moved sideways towards a black couch, leaning against it to give her bruised hip some relief.
He shifted away from the door, towards her, not keeping the knife trained on her. Alyson scanned it with her eyes, and her nerves eased. The blade was decorative, trimmed with a thin blue line running through a trench three inches up the hilt. It was the kind of thing she
