Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  Charlie had rented a Camry in Florida. He glanced at his pants on the floor, where he kept his wallet. “A van?”

  “Yes. Rented with the credit card you say doesn’t exist. You know, the credit card that bought your gun. We found your wallet, too. In the van with your prints all over it,” Benton said.

  Shit. More manufactured evidence. Someone wasn’t taking any chances. “I’m coming in,” Charlie said. “It’s time we talked.” A glance at Cynthia had him studying the dark circles under her eyes, and making the decision he didn’t have the heart to wake her for such bad news. “Don’t call Cynthia again, though. She’s had a…rough night.”

  “Oh, right. How was Florida?” Definite snark. Yup. Benton was pissed, despite his calm tone.

  “We got in late. Listen.” He glanced at the bedside clock. “It’s six AM. I’ll meet you—”

  “It’s gone beyond that,” Benton said. “We’re outside.”

  We. Charlie didn’t know why he was surprised. “Ten minutes?”

  Benton cleared his throat. “Modena is at the back door, and I’m at the front. In eleven minutes, you’ll be forcing us to break in.”

  “Understood.” Charlie hung up, pressing a kiss to Cynthia’s forehead.

  When she woke, her protective streak would kick in. He might be dumb as a stump when it came to people, but he knew what Cynthia would do. She’d allow nothing to stand between her and Charlie. Not the task force, not Internal Affairs, not even her self-interest. She’d sacrifice her career, even her freedom, if she thought that was the price to protect him. Knowing that gave him the strength he needed to disengage from her embrace and leave the bed.

  Leave her.

  He told himself that if he’d been a good friend he never would have given in to his desire and made love to her. Hell, their marriage was supposed to protect her, not put her at greater risk. Now, to divert attention from her being at the crime scene and destroying evidence at the safe house, he was in the unenviable position of allowing himself to be framed for murder. Benton’s discovered van and fake credit card sealed his fate, and when Cynthia woke, she’d lash out. Any negotiations between him and the task force would need to happen before then…before Cynthia did something rash.

  Ten minutes later, changed, Socks fed, he quietly left, still wet from his shower. As promised, Benton greeted him out front. The team leader surprised Charlie by extending a Dunkin Donuts coffee in a paper cup. Benton seemed watchful, not derisive, and made Charlie think he was reserving judgment. It was more than he’d expected.

  Special Agent Modena closed Charlie’s backyard gate, stepping onto the sidewalk. He sipped from a Dunkin Donuts coffee cup as his eyes narrowed, contemplating Charlie. Benton signaled his cherry red Dodge Charger with a tilt of his head, and they all walked toward it, casual, controlled, all by the book.

  Charlie couldn’t help but wonder if that would change once he’d confessed.

  * * * *

  Two hours later, the interrogation room door flew open, and in stormed a Cynthia that Charlie hadn’t seen before. Wearing yesterday’s rumpled suit, her usually coiffed hair fell in tangles around her face. Her makeup, usually impeccable, was smeared around her eyes. That is, the makeup that hadn’t rubbed off on his sheets last night. Her pink pocketbook swung on her arm like a weapon as she scanned the room, and with laser focus, she glared at her supervisor.

  “Benton!” she said.

  “Now, Deming—” Modena left his seat at the interrogation table, palms up, and approached Cynthia.

  “Sit down, Modena,” she snapped, not bothering to even look at the special agent. “Benton, this is crazy, and you know it. Charlie couldn’t kill a fly, never mind execute six hardened criminals!”

  “Stop.” Charlie could see where this was going, and knew it was a waste of time. Hands cuffed, linked to the metal loop at the table’s center, Charlie had already been processed, searched, fingerprinted, and suited up in a bright orange jumpsuit. “I’ve told them everything.”

  “Everything?” She shook her head, exchanging looks with Benton and Modena, as if Charlie wasn’t making any sense. A uniformed officer poked his head in the room, eyeballing Benton, who waved him off. After an annoyed glance at Cynthia, the grizzled officer left, closing the door behind him.

  “Sit, Deming. Just—” Benton pointed to the chair next to him. “Sit.” Modena stepped to the corner of the room, his eyes leveled on Charlie, as if he was attempting to read his mind.

  When Cynthia reluctantly sat, Charlie sighed, knowing that her sitting next to him wasn’t a good thing. The optics sucked, making her look culpable on an equal level, and hello. He was in an orange jumpsuit. This interview, from now on, had to be about separating Cynthia from his actions. Real or not.

  “I gave them access to my bank account,” Charlie said.

  Other than a widening of her eyes, she gave no other indication that she’d heard him. That was a good thing, because they both knew his habit of keeping his computer on sleep mode and his login information on autofill meant anyone who had access to his computer could have arranged that deposit. Benton would know that, too, and being the phenomenal investigator that he was, he’d throw a wide net for suspects. Cynthia had access to Charlie’s laptop. She’d be in that suspect pool.

  “We found the million dollars and, as expected, it traced back to that Coppola syndicate shell company’s account,” Modena said. “Stone Industries. It establishes Charlie’s motive.” Charlie saw it a bit differently. Whoever had access to the million in his account had motive. If it was easy enough to manipulate deposits, how difficult would it be for the culprit to withdraw? Once again, how big the suspect pool was remained unknowable, but Cynthia was in it.

  “I told them about the evidence I found in my trunk,” Charlie said. Once again, Cynthia thankfully remained quiet. Talking about a mysterious blond presence in his driveway that night would only shift questions toward Cynthia.

  “They’re a match,” Benton said, “to the hoods, duct tape, and zip ties found on the victims.”

  “The victims.” Cynthia narrowed her eyes at Benton. “You mean the contract killers. Let’s not pretend these men were victims.”

  “The tests I ordered came through,” Charlie said, needing to interrupt Cynthia before she got on a roll. He knew from experience that once she began defending him, things could get out of control. “My hair was found on the victims’ clothing,” he continued. “And…” Now was the test. If Cynthia had lost her mind and decided to torch her life, she’d do it now. She’d speak up. He narrowed his eyes, doing his best to signal he needed her to stay silent. “I have no alibi for the murders.” Cynthia opened her mouth as if to speak, and he saw her eyes turn wild. He shook his head, helpless to control her.

  “We found a van,” Benton said. Cynthia closed her mouth with a snap, glaring at the task force team leader. “Inside, we found the victims’ prints, along with Charlie’s. There’s plenty of DNA samples there, but the prints are enough. It puts Charlie in the van with the six vics. Evidence points to him transporting them to the crime scene.”

  Cynthia was breathing heavy, looking only barely tethered to calm. “This is stupid.” She turned to Charlie. “You coming here. Saying what you’ve said. This van—” She caught Benton’s gaze. “You’re saying Charlie went on a scavenger hunt? Picking up the victims, gathering them together, lining them up neatly in a row after putting hoods on their heads and binding them? There are a million what-the-fucks in that supposition alone.”

  Charlie knew he had no proof to support his innocence, but sharing his thoughts on the case would point fingers at Cynthia. A lot of planning had gone into these murders and framing Charlie, so he had to be smart to counteract the killer’s ambitions. Otherwise, the life he’d meticulously built, and Cynthia’s life, would be ruined.

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened?” Modena said,
his eyes narrowed, focused on her face.

  “Charlie didn’t do it,” Cynthia said.

  “You keep saying that, Deming.” Modena took off his suit jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves, then he rubbed his sniper tattoo on his forearm as if it irritated him. Brows lifted, he seemed merely curious, but his green eyes revealed an intensity his expression otherwise belied. “Why isn’t Charlie saying that?”

  Cynthia’s jaw dropped. “He did last time you brought him in!” Her head snapped toward Charlie. “Right? Tell them again! Tell them!” He couldn’t. The moment the team stopped looking at Charlie as the unsub, they’d discover she was the most likely prime suspect.

  And Cynthia knew that. He saw her frustration, her lips compressing, the violent emotions she barely held in check. He wasn’t surprised when she slapped her palm against the table, glaring at him. It had him focusing on her left hand, his grandmother’s emerald and diamond rings. Grammy Foulkes never could have imagined they’d be worn in an interrogation room, but here they were, sparkling under the fluorescent lights.

  He and Cynthia were married. He loved her. With all his heart. He’d loved her since she sucker punched that woman at MIT. Her knuckles had bruised and split that day. Her family paid thousands of dollars in reparations, but she’d earned Charlie’s devotion for life. Love came in fits and spurts, until it was painful to think about, so over the years, he’d learned to pretend it was something else.

  He couldn’t pretend anymore. He loved her.

  “No,” Charlie said. He wouldn’t proclaim his innocence, not now, not when he had no proof. Not when his silence gave her time to find the real culprit, and keep her reputation intact, save her career. “You know what you have to do, Cynthia.”

  “Bullshit.” She glared.

  He shook his head. “Stop. Just…stop.” If she spilled her guts to Benton, this sacrifice would be for nothing. She had to know that.

  “There is more evidence against me than Charlie,” she said.

  Modena folded his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes. Benton grimaced and made a slicing motion to his throat while looking at the security camera. The red light winked out, and taping stopped.

  “You have to feed my cat,” Charlie said. “So don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Your cat?” Cynthia squealed her response, then shifted in her seat, facing Benton. “Remember my head injury?”

  “Something to keep in mind when she explains herself,” Charlie said. It would discredit whatever story she shared.

  Cynthia narrowed her eyes at Charlie before turning back to Benton. “The night of the murders, I left the gym, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed at the Chinatown safe house.”

  “The one near the crime scene?” Benton said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I woke with my gun drawn, recently shot, its magazine missing six rounds.”

  “Making yourself look like an accomplice helps no one, Deming,” Modena said.

  “I blacked out. Lost my memory.” She glanced at Modena. “I don’t remember everything, but between me and Charlie, we’ve pieced most of it together.”

  “Ah,” Modena said, grimacing. “Between you and Charlie, you remembered you were at the safe house. I’m sure you have proof.” Modena’s skepticism annoyed Cynthia, but calmed Charlie’s fears.

  Cynthia shook her head. “No, you’re not hearing me. I called Charlie at ten that night.”

  Benton arched a brow. “Witnesses reported hearing the gunshots at ten.”

  “Yes.” She licked her lips, and Charlie saw that sweat had beaded on her upper lip. From where Charlie sat, she didn’t seem like a credible witness. She acted desperate. “I later found my phone in my car. It was dead. I’m thinking at ten PM I called Charlie for some reason, phone went dead, I heard gunshots, and investigated.”

  “Thinking? But you don’t know for sure?” Benton said.

  “Mostly sure.” She shook her head. “My number must be listed on Charlie’s phone log, under recent calls. Ten PM on the nose, he said.”

  Benton pressed his lips closed, exchanging weighted glances with Modena. Charlie wished he had a large dose of Cynthia’s voodoo so he could read what the investigators were thinking.

  “She blacked out that night,” Charlie said. “We can only guess what really happened.”

  Cynthia shook her head. “The flash drive—”

  “Is gone,” Charlie said. Cynthia glared at him. “So, drop it, Cynthia. It’s gone.”

  He’d hidden it under a floorboard in his living room, thinking he might need it at some point. He didn’t destroy it, because it was evidence, and that would be illegal. Charlie still had hope things could work out, and maybe, if he played it right, he’d get his life back, but that could only happen if he didn’t break the law.

  “What flash drive?” Benton said.

  She shook her head, squirming on her seat. “Forget it.” Charlie could see her frustration and confusion. “But I was at the safe house that night. You could dust it for fingerprints.”

  “You’ve been in and out of that place for the last few months,” Modena said.

  Cynthia bit her lip. “Check the dumpster. I threw up in a waste bin, and the sheets have my blood on them.” She touched her healing injury.

  “And if the dumpster has been emptied in the last few days?” Benton tilted his head to the side.

  “Find area security cameras,” she snapped, turning in her seat to glare at Charlie, as if this was all his fault. He supposed in a way it was. “ATMs on the block.”

  “Why bother?” Modena shook his head. “If you were in the safe house, there’d be proof. It has a twenty-four seven digital security monitor. The surveillance—”

  She shook her head. “The video got deleted. I turned off the machine.”

  Benton groaned. “Dammit, Deming. You’d think by now you’d know enough not to touch technology.”

  Charlie couldn’t help but be surprised that Benton immediately jumped to the right conclusion. Charlie’s relief had him slouching in his chair. Cynthia noticed and scowled at him before turning back to Benton.

  “Charlie saw me in his driveway the night before,” she said.

  “I saw a blonde,” Charlie said. “Ask her if she remembers being there.”

  “I don’t,” she amended reluctantly, nibbling on her thumbnail, “but there’s a chance I went into his house, took his gun from his gun safe—”

  “What?” Modena said, looking confused.

  “I know, right?” Charlie shook his head. “She was at the gym, and they log in members’ comings and goings. She’s confused. Knock to the head, remember?”

  Cynthia slapped Charlie’s arm, not bothering to look at him while she kept her attention on Benton. “I’m the only other person who has the code for his gun safe. I have a key to his house. I have access to his DNA, his fingerprints,” Cynthia said. “He keeps his online banking login information autofilled.” She did send Charlie a particularly virulent glare then, before turning back to the two other agents. “It would give me access to his bank accounts, and, having access to all Coppola syndicate files, I could have found an account number from one of the many Coppola shell companies.” She shrugged. “Done some magic.”

  Modena laughed. “’Cause you’re so good with computers?” Cynthia glowered at her teammate.

  “She hasn’t balanced a checkbook successfully since she opened one in college,” Charlie said.

  “Neither have you,” she said. “We have accountants. Stop trying to make me seem crazy.”

  Benton grimaced. “Deming, you know you’ve been known to fry technology simply by turning it on. How can we believe you’re capable of a sophisticated forensic accounting scheme? Because that’s what happened.”

  “Huh?” She glanced at Modena. “Well, I’m connected to the Coppola syndicate case. Mo
re so than Charlie,” she said. Everyone in the interrogation room was connected to the case. It wasn’t saying much. “I was at the scene during the kills. Didn’t you find my DNA at the scene?”

  “No.” Benton frowned, shaking his head. Charlie tensed, opening his mouth to change the subject, but then Benton scowled at Cynthia. “You’re pushing reasonable doubt. But I am not a jury! I get to decide what is a lead in my cases!”

  “You know her, Benton,” Charlie said. “She’s not a killer.”

  Cynthia’s expression hardened as she sat back in her chair, arms folded over her chest. “I know myself. There’s no way in hell I killed anyone. Not in cold blood. And I know Charlie. He couldn’t do it either.”

  “You’re not helping Charlie.” Modena folded his arms, frowning. “Any prosecutor worth their salt will just build a conspiracy case against you two, and I have to be honest, Deming, you’re making their case for them.”

  “And it has to stop,” Benton said. “We understand that you love Charlie—” Cynthia stood so quickly that her chair screeched against the tile floor. Charlie caught her looking at him, her face flushed, her behavior showing all the earmarks of a wild animal caught in a trap.

  “Deming?” Modena said in a quiet voice, looking as if he were poised at the truth. Charlie feared he’d piece it together. “You love him, right?”

  “Charlie.” Her eyes begged him to help her, to deny all their accusations, to claim the one thing he couldn’t say without allowing her to be put under the spotlight. He couldn’t claim his innocence without implicating her.

  “Deming,” Benton said, “we know people do a lot of strange things for people they love. I suggest you do as Charlie says. Take a step back from this case, and allow us to proceed. He’s complying with the investigation. It will look good to the judge.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “He didn’t do it, Benton. Modena, you have to believe me!” Modena and Benton looked everywhere but at Cynthia. That’s when he knew he’d succeeded in protecting her. They believed him, not her, most likely because they wanted to, because they loved her, too. “Charlie, tell them or I’ll—”