by Rachel Ford
“Nothing. Just, I love you.”
“I love you too, Mr. Favero.”
They got dressed downstairs and decided against making breakfast. Alfred was still feeling the weight of the waffles. “Let’s stop and get coffee though.” The necessities must, after all, be dealt with.
“Should we wake Winthrop? Fill him in on the mission?”
“Nah. I’m sure he’ll still be here when we get home. Probably eating us out of house and home. Anyway, if we say anything to him, he might say or do something that influences our earlier selves.”
She nodded. “It could be an infinite loop of timeline changes: he says something to us to change what we do, we come back and say something that changes what he says, and so on.”
The debriefing, then, would wait. So they headed in to work – stopping for coffee along the way. “You know, I never got a chance to tell you,” Nance said. “But the committee – we voted to accept both you and Justin.”
Alfred groaned. He’d only been interested in joining to thwart Justin in the first place. Now he would be stuck on a committee he didn’t care about with a coworker he loathed. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. After the emails Justin sent everyone, I don’t think they dared vote against him.”
“Wait, what emails?”
“That’s right,” she said, her eyes widening. “I didn’t get to tell you: he sent the entire committee an email with his pitch for himself, which was a little cringe, but nothing terrible – just average Justin. But then he added a line about how he ‘trusted’ that I would ‘do the right thing’ and recuse myself from voting on a matter in which I had ‘vested interests.’”
Alfred wrinkled his nose. “Recuse yourself? Vested interests? What is he talking about? It’s a party planning committee, not the Supreme Court.”
Nancy laughed. “That’s what I said."
“And they let him on? I would have voted against him just for that.”
“Honestly? I think Caspersen was afraid he’d throw a fit. It’s easier to just let you both on.”
“In the short term, maybe. Now we’re going to be stuck dealing with Justin for the foreseeable future.”
“Don’t worry. Something tells me that as soon as we get to any actual work, he’ll lose interest.”
It was cold comfort, as it still meant dealing with Justin, and he told her as much. But Alfred had more important things to worry about once they got into work: things like a tax case turned murder investigation.
He’d barely got into his office, and wisely shut the door after himself to ward Justin off, when a knock sounded. The taxman groaned, thinking it must be his erstwhile office neighbor come to harass him.
He didn’t get to respond to the knock, though. The door simply opened, and in stepped Agent Dixon. “Ah, Favero: there you are. Whatever you’re doing, I need you to drop it. You’re with me today.”
Alfred glanced at his screen, and the – admittedly, mundane – work waiting for him. “But–”
“No but’s about it. I cleared it with Caspersen. Someone else’ll handle it. You’re on the Donaldson thing.”
“Oh. Right. Well, what are we doing?” The taxman didn’t like being ordered around, but, on the other hand, working on a murder case – even tangentially – would be pretty cool too.
Dixon nodded soberly. “First thing first, I need you to do something. It’s very important, okay?”
Alfred nodded too. “Of course.”
“I need you to drive to Rodriguez’s place, and kick his fucking ass for me.”
Alfred blinked, as much at the language as the threat of violence. “Uh…what?”
“This is the second day in a row that son-of-a-bitch has skipped work on me, and he’s not answering his phone. Head to his place and find out what’s going on. Drag his ass back here if you have to. I don’t care if he’s sick, or having an existential crisis, or whatever bullshit he’s got going on. We’ve got a case. You tell him if I don’t see him here by nine o’clock sharp, I’m going to personally head over there and kick his –”
Alfred hastened to interrupt before the other man loosed further profanity. “Are you saying that’s what you need me for? To – to take Rodriguez a message?”
Dixon shrugged. “What else? He’s not answering his phone. So it’s either carrier pigeons, or smoke signals, or send someone.”
Alfred scowled at him. “I do have deadlines, you know.”
But the special agent brushed the concern away with a shake of his head. “Not anymore. Caspersen reassigned them, remember? Now, you better get a move on it if he’s going to be back here by nine.”
Dixon turned and started to leave. Then, he paused to call over his shoulder, “Oh, and Favero?”
“What?”
He gestured to Alfred’s latte. “I could use one of those, on the way back.”
Alfred got Special Agent Rodriguez’s address from the office administrative secretary. Then, he grabbed his keys and his coffee and turned to go, thinking about what a miracle it was that none of Agent Dixon’s cases had turned into murder investigations before – his own.
Any goodwill he’d harbored for the other man was now good and truly expired. Indeed, Alfred couldn’t believe his boss had stuck him with Dixon. He half-wondered if he’d done something to irritate her. After all, she’d let Justin onto a team he’d be working on and assigned him to the special agent in the same twenty-four-hour period. That seemed almost too much pain to inflict accidentally.
He knew that was just sour grapes, of course. But it rankled, nonetheless. Which made his surprise all the more palpable when, as he headed for his door, Director Caspersen stepped into the office. “Ah, Alfred, there you are. Do you have a minute?”
“Uh, sure. Of course.”
She nodded and shut the door after them. That worried him. He wasn’t an anti-social person, per se, but Alfred also didn’t go out of his way to chitchat with anyone. He didn’t schmooze with the director, or anyone else. So if he had a one-on-one with her, well, either he needed something or he was in trouble. And he hadn’t asked for anything recently.
“I’m glad I caught you. I know Dixon said he had some work for you.”
Alfred repressed the grimace that tried to overtake his features. “That’s right. I’m on my way to rendezvous with Rodriguez.”
Caspersen nodded. “Oh, good. That’s actually one less thing I have to follow up on. It’s not like him to miss work. But, I wanted to talk to you before you left.
“I’m sure Nancy mentioned it already, but the events committee reviewed your application, and we voted to accept you. You, and Mr. Lyon.”
Alfred cringed at the recollection, but mustered a weak, “Great.” At least, he figured, he wasn’t in trouble.
But his boss hadn’t finished. She glanced him over with a sharp look. “And, I have to say, I’m actually really impressed, Alfred. I remember when we could barely get you to even go to the holiday parties. And now you’re going to be working on them. That’s some great personal and professional growth. I’m really proud of you.”
It didn’t sound like much of a compliment. It sounded more like she’d been disappointed in him for his hermit-like ways. But he thanked her anyway, with not much more enthusiasm than her statement merited.
“And I really appreciate you stepping up to work with Dixon.
“Which brings me to the point, I guess. You’ve always had the analytical side down pat. You’re one of the best at that, Favero.
“But it might be time to consider where you go from there, career wise. I don’t know if you know it, but Agent Dixon is retiring at the end of the year. We’re going to need someone to fill his role in the branch. Someone with the brains, and the analytical mind; and you certainly have that. But someone who has shown they can do more than sit behind a monitor. Someone with hands-on field experience – the kind of experience you’ve had on your recent cases. And someone who has shown they’re a team player. You know how
it is sometimes between the analysts and the agents; I’d be looking for someone who would bridge divides, not widen them.
“And, Alfred, I think that’s you.”
“Director…are you saying I should apply for Dixon’s job?”
She nodded. “I know you enjoy the analysis portion of your work. That’s not going anywhere. But I think you have more to offer. I think you’d be at your best in the field.”
“Oh. Wow.” He didn’t even know what to say to that. Alfred Favero, a field monkey? Alfred Favero, Special Agent? He was at once enthused with and repulsed by the idea.
“The reason I wanted to catch you this morning is that the deadline for applications is this weekend, and I didn’t want to waste time. Those applications are pretty intense, so you need to start thinking about it now if you’re going to do it.”
Chapter Ten
Alfred had more or less forgotten his annoyance by time he reached Agent Rodriguez’s house. Certainly, the agent’s truancy was the reason Dixon assigned him this wild goose chase. Then again, with a little resume-speak, he could spin this babysitting gig into on-the-job experience. It would be critical assistance to Special Agent Dixon and coordination with the local PD, or something like that. And if they caught the perp, all the better.
So thinking, Alfred found nothing to fault about Rodriguez’s house. It was a nice place, modest and understated, but big and comfortable too, with a well-maintained lawn, and a bit of no-frills landscaping. There was no haphazard arrangement of trees and shrubs and perennials here. Everything was neat, and orderly, and symmetrical. Exactly, the taxman thought, as it should be.
And there were no flowering or deciduous plants to be seen – another feature Alfred rather appreciated for the simplicity of it. No leaves to fall meant no raking fallen leaves; no flowering plants meant no rotten fruit or dead foliage needing disposal.
No, he had to admit, it was a very neat, orderly and logical kind of place.
He parked behind the house and walked up to the door. He rang the doorbell and, when no one answered, knocked too. Three times, he repeated this; and three times he waited in vain. No one came to the door.
He stood there for a long minute, trying to decide what to do next. He didn’t want to break and enter. He figured, given the circumstances, Rodriguez wouldn’t press charges. But the principal of the matter still applied. Of course, he also didn’t want to return emptyhanded.
Alfred fished through his pocket for his phone, deciding to call Dixon and see what he recommended. Then, though, he stopped and wondered what Special Agent Alfred Favero would do in his circumstance. Would he phone a colleague to get permission or advice? No, of course not.
Special Agent Alfred Favero would be a man who could think on his feet. He’d be a man of bold, decisive action. He’d be a man who never let a problem slow him down.
So, Alfred decided he needed to be that man of action now. It wouldn’t do to have Dixon complaining to Caspersen about holding the taxman’s hand on his first mission.
He drew himself up tall and decided it was time for bold decision making. Which was, for a good thirty seconds, as far as his decision making went: he decided it had to happen.
Finally, he settled on reconnaissance. Looking none too bold or decisive, he crept from window to window, peering into Agent Rodriguez’s house. Still, there was no one here to see him. As far as Caspersen or Dixon would ever know, he’d known from the start what he would do.
But by time he finished his circuit of the house, winding up at the door again, he’d gotten no closer to a decision about his actions. He saw no signs of Rodriguez inside. Most of the windows had been curtained. The few that had allowed a peak inside revealed nothing of interest, and no sign of present inhabitation. There were no lights on, no TV playing – nothing.
Alfred considered his options. He ruled out returning to the office for the same reason he rejected phoning Dixon. He needed to demonstrate gumption and leadership on this case. He certainly couldn’t crawl back empty-handed.
So the taxman tried the door handle. To his surprise, it turned. He hesitated there on the threshold for a long moment. He, Alfred Favero, officer and upholder of the law, was about to break into a man’s house. He licked his lips nervously. He was here on work business, but that didn’t, legally, give him right to enter a coworker’s residence.
Then, his mind wandered to probable cause, and the exemptions it offered his brothers in blue. And that seemed to be exactly the loophole he needed. He was here in an official capacity, after all. And an agent had gone missing. If that didn’t give him the right to a little wiggle room where the Fourth Amendment was concerned, well, he didn’t know what would. So deciding, and determining not to look for weaknesses in his rationale, Alfred stepped inside.
Though the bright November sun shone outside, little of it got through the curtains inside. Alfred gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. Then, he glanced around.
The house seemed as neat and precise inside as out. Rodriguez was a man who loved defined angles, Alfred thought. There were no rounded corners or niches here. Everything had stark angles and sharp corners. Even the furniture seemed to adhere to that rule. Everything from the kitchen table and chairs to the living room sofa looked, somehow, boxy. There were no plush, plump cushions or rounded backs: just sharp, ninety-degree angles. It all had a very austere, modern aesthetic to it.
The taxman couldn’t decide if he loved it or hated it. But the aesthetic notwithstanding, the house had a very put together feel. The only thing he could fault about it was a strange odor in the air – something like meat, just beginning to spoil. It reminded him of Justin’s carnivore diet, in a timeline where the other man had started eating raw and so-called “high” meat. He felt a little ill thinking about it, so he pushed the idea aside.
Still, by time he reached the kitchen, he figured he better announce himself. He realized he probably should have done that from the first, but better late than never. He didn’t want to get shot in some kind of misguided home defense.
“Agent Rodriguez?” he called. “This is Alfred Favero, with the IRS. Are you home?”
He got no answer, so he forged on, repeating himself as he went. He didn’t have much of the house left. He’d covered the living room, dining room and kitchen already. He had what looked like an office and a bathroom left on the bottom floor.
He hadn’t decided if he was going to extend his probable cause loophole to a search of the upstairs too. He’d cross that bridge when he got there.
The door was open, so he poked his head into the bathroom, announcing himself before he did. The light was out, but the room clearly had no occupant. He moved onto the study. He could see bookcases in the dim light, and a home office set up. This, he thought, must be the source of the spoiled food, because the smell had gotten stronger. Rodriguez, he figured, was probably one of those people who ate at his desk and didn’t clean up after himself. A fastidious housekeeper everywhere else, but a slob in his private haven.
He knocked on the partially open door and stepped inside. “Agent Rodriguez? I’m –” Then, though, he cut off. A wave of odors hit him, and none of them were good. He almost gagged. “Fudge muffins.”
Throwing a quick glance around, Alfred searched for a light switch. He saw one just past the door and flipped it. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but he had a terrible feeling about this anyway. This was worse than spoiled food, or uncollected garbage. He knew it on an instinctual level.
Then the light came on, and Alfred found himself staring at a discolored body slumped over the far desk.
A quick, mortified examination of the corpse revealed that the dead man was Special Agent Rodriguez; and he had been the victim of foul play. His throat had been cut while he sat in his office chair. Alfred stumbled out of the room, fighting the urge to vomit.
He made it outside, and then lost that particular battle. Then, with fingers that shook a little, he dialed 9-1-1.
In many ways, the next two hours were not much more than a repeat of the night before. The cops showed up, many of them the same officers he’d spoken to hours earlier. Harris took his statement again and raised his eyebrows at the pile of vomit. “You really should talk to your doctor about that. At least this time you didn’t contaminate a crime scene.”
The chief seemed even less impressed. “You again?” he asked Alfred. They were sitting in an interview room back at the precinct, where the taxman repeated what he’d already told Harris, and tried to make sense of it all. “Two murders in two days, and you show up at both of them? That’s quite the coincidence, Favero.”
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to think that myself.”
“I mean, I think the cases are connected.”
“I’m definitely getting that sense. And so far, you’re the thread that binds them both.”
“Taxes are the thread that binds them.”
Harlow grimaced. “Somehow, it just gets worse.”
“I’m serious. It’s the Donaldson case: someone killed Donaldson, and now they killed Rodriguez. That’s too much of a coincidence.”
“Yes, it is. But they didn’t start with Donaldson. They got your guy first.”
Alfred considered this and tried not to think about the body he’d seen, and the horrible purple and green discoloration, or the dried blood, or the odors. He hadn’t known Rodriguez particularly well. They bumped into each other now and then around the office or via email, and that had been the extent of it. Still, he’d gone from a living, breathing, colleague to – well, a forgotten corpse.
The taxman felt his stomach churn, and anger swell inside him at the same time. Whatever he felt on a day-to-day basis about agents, they were still on his team. They were still fighting the good fight, putting bad guys away. And someone had killed an officer of the law, a true American patriot: an IRS agent. “We need to find them,” he said, a bit more heatedly than he’d intended. “We need to find them and make them pay.”
