The Family Man

by Amy Cross

  "You're the medical examiner," I say suddenly, turning to Mezki as I realize I could try a different approach. "You have access to all the files -"

  "No way!" he replies. "I told you, I'm not letting you onto my account."

  "I promise I won't download any more porn," I reply, trying to reassure him, before realizing that I've probably burned this particular bridge. "Not even so much as one photo of a horse."

  He shakes his head.

  "Fine," I add, taking the USB drive out of the computer and passing it to him. "Copy the files yourself. Everything relating to those girls, and the fire at that building out in the middle of nowhere... and while you're at it, give me the details on whatever cases Dawson's work on these days. I'd like to keep up to date."

  "And what do I get in return?" he asks with a skeptical frown.

  "Do this for me," I reply with a smile, "and I'll tell you how to remove the virus I installed on your computer last time I used it."

  He narrows his eyes.

  "Keylogger," I whisper.

  "You're bluffing."

  "Am I?"

  He pauses, clearly undecided.

  "All I have to do is check the logs. Don't worry, though. If you've been doing anything embarrassing, I won't go to Schumacher about it. I'll just -"

  "Okay!" he says hurriedly, snatching the USB drive from my hand. "But this is the last time, okay? I'm not your goddamn performing monkey. That's Dawson's job."

  "He seems to have resigned," I mutter as Mezki heads over to his desk and plugs the USB drive into his computer. As I turn back to look at Dawson's screen, I find myself trying to work out why the hell he'd get himself reassigned to different cases. He seemed off-color the other night, but although I've always been able to predict his moods, this particular development has taken me by surprise. Something about Michael Dawson has changed, something deep down and far-reaching, and I need to find out what, and why.

  And then I need to solve all his cases for him.

  John

  "So can I have some money?" Claire asks, standing in the doorway and watching as I pour myself some coffee. "It's really important, Dad. This camp could be totally make or break for me."

  "I know the feeling," I mutter, staring at my phone as it sits silently on the table.

  "It's only three hundred dollars," she continues, "and it's not like I'm gonna be spending it on parties or anything like that. Two-fifty's for the camp fees, forty's for travel, and the other ten's just so that I'm not completely socially ridiculed. I mean, I kinda became a recluse while I was having my back surgery, so don't you think it's only fair if I try to catch up with my peers?"

  I turn to her, and suddenly I realize I have no idea what she's talking about. "Camp?" I ask. "What camp?"

  "No-one ever listens to me!" she replies, stamping her foot in frustration.

  "Talk to your mother," I reply, aware that I'm being rather vague but unable to stop thinking about the phone call I'm expecting. "If she -"

  Before I can finish, my phone rings and I grab it. Sure enough, the number calling me is unlisted.

  "I have to take this," I tell Claire as I hurry though to my office.

  "Dad!"

  "Talk to your mother!" I call back to her, before heading through to the next room and walking over to my desk. "It's me," I say as I answer the phone. "You're two minutes late. I was expecting you to be bang on time. You're lucky I didn't burn this number already."

  "I'm sorry," says the voice on the other end of the line, sounding frazzled and stressed. "It's not that easy right now." There's a roaring sound behind him for a moment.

  "Where the hell are you?" I ask.

  "Gas station."

  "Jesus," I mutter. "Okay, so I assume my colleague explained all the details."

  "Sure," he replies, "I've got the money. I just need to know that you've got what I need."

  "There's no need to worry about that," I reply, walking over to the window and looking out at the garden. Barbara's down by the herb garden, pottering about in her usual way; she looks very happy and peaceful, which is always nice to see; I like to provide a good home for my family, even if my methods are somewhat unusual. "I want to be very clear," I continue, "that there are to be no re-negotiations at any stage. If the asking price is not met, even if the shortfall is just a solitary cent, the deal will be off. I offer reliable, bullet-proof solutions to big problems, and I expect to be compensated in return."

  "The money's not a fucking problem," the guy hisses. "What worries me is whether I look anything like the guy!"

  "That's not going to be a problem," I reply with a smile. "We have a unique system set up to ensure that all our customers are matched to an identity that closely resembles their original appearance. I think you'll be very pleasantly surprised when you see what we have to offer." I wait for a reply, but all I can hear is background noise from the gas station. "I understand why you're feeling nervous," I continue, determined to keep him on the hook, "but when you see the facilities we operate, you'll understand the scale of our operation." I glance over at the door, just to make sure that no-one can overhear me. "Words are empty, though," I add. "I need to show you. How soon can you be at the location my colleague told you about?"

  "Tomorrow," he says quickly.

  "Shall we say... midday?"

  "If you try to pull anything on me -"

  "There's no danger of that," I reply calmly.

  "Don't bullshit me!" he continues. "I won't have the money with me, if that's what you're thinking. I'll have a deposit, but the rest'll be delivered once the whole thing is done. I'm not defenseless, okay? If you think you can get a drop on me, I'll fucking make you pay. I didn't get this far by being an easy target."

  "I don't see why we need to draw this out," I continue. "The whole 'thing', as you describe it, can easily be completed tomorrow. You can walk away from our facility with a new life and a new future."

  "I just..." He pauses. "I just need this second chance, yeah?"

  "I understand completely," I reply. "My associates and I specialize in helping people like you. At the same time, I have no need or desire to get into the details of your background. None of that is important or relevant to me in the slightest. In fact, I think it would be better if we refrain from developing any kind of personal relationship. I don't need to know anything about your past life and transgressions, and I certainly have no intention of telling you any details about myself."

  "That's fine by me," he says, clearly in a state of panic. "I'll be there at noon. You'd better show up, though. I don't want to be messed around. I don't fucking have time to be stood up by a bunch of assholes! This is life and death!"

  "Don't worry," I say with a smile. "I'll be there. I want your money, remember? Just think of me as a businessman. I have a product to sell, and you wish to make a purchase. It's as simple as that." I wait for a reply, but suddenly the background noise from the gas station is cut off dead as he puts the phone down. Smiling, I remove the back of my cellphone and take out the card, which I quickly fold in half before dropping it into the trashcan next to my desk.

  "Who was that?" asks Claire.

  Turning, I see that she's standing in the doorway.

  "Just a colleague," I say, taken aback by the fact that she was able to sneak up on me so easily. I'm usually very careful, and it pains me to realize that I let my guard down. "I was discussing a business deal," I add, trying to work out how much I should smile in order to put her at ease. Although she's only fifteen years old, Claire's a very smart and precocious girl, and she's eying me with a look of great suspicion. "You know," I continue, "I was also thinking about your request for money for that... what was it, again? A camp of some sort?"

  "It's a summer sports camp."

  "And your back won't be a problem?"

  "I'm not an invalid," she points out.

  "Right," I say, hurrying to my desk and pulling open the drawer where I keep some of my spare cash. Opening an envelope, I count o
ut three hundred dollars and then, just to give her an extra little boost, another two hundred. "Here's five hundred," I continue, hurrying over to her and pressing the money into her hand. "We don't want you being caught short while you're making new friends, do we? Kids these days are so shallow and fixated on material gain. They'll probably judge you based purely on how much money you've got."

  "I don't need five hundred," she replies darkly. "I just need three hundred."

  "But five hundred would give you some leeway," I point out with a smile. "You know, to have a little extra fun. Maybe buy some new clothes, impress your friends, that sort of thing. I mean, Jesus Christ, it's a dark day when a father has to help his teenage daughter think of ways to spend a few extra bucks." I wait for her to reply. "Am I right?"

  She stares at me.

  "What about a thousand?" I add, although I immediately realize that I've gone too far. Damn it, I'm not good under pressure; I prefer to plan ahead and have some kind of plan worked out in my mind before I deal with difficult situations. When I'm forced to improvise, I usually go way too far.

  "I just need three," she says, counting out three hundred dollars before passing the remaining two hundred back to me. "You keep the rest. You can't go splashing all this cash about. After all, you're only an insurance salesman."

  "Are you sure?" I ask, forcing a smile. "I've been doing very well at work lately, and I don't see why the whole family shouldn't benefit. I mean, money isn't supposed to be hoarded, is it? We should all be able to do the things that interest us, even if..." I pause as I realize that I'm starting to press home the point a little too far. "Well," I add finally, "I'm sure you get the idea."

  "You've sold a lot of insurance, huh?"

  "Lots and lots."

  "But still, it's... just insurance."

  There's a part of me that wants to tell her the truth, to make her understand that I'm not some loser in a dead-end job. It's an outrage that my own daughter has no idea of her father's brilliance, but for now at least, I guess I have to keep pretending that I'm nothing more than a lowly insurance salesman.

  A faint smile crosses her lips. "You must be very good at what you do."

  "Does it surprise you to realize that your father happens to be one of the best insurance salesmen in the whole goddamn country?" I ask, although once again I recognize that I've gone way too far and, besides, the boast sounds pathetic. "If you change your mind," I add, putting the rejected two hundred dollars in my pocket, "just let me know. The offer will remain on the table for the duration, so keep it in mind. Seriously, Claire, money's no object. Two hundred dollars? I could wipe my ass on two hundred dollars!"

  She glances at my desk for a moment. "Nice to know," she replies, before turning and heading away.

  Once she's gone, I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together. I let my guard down just now, and I should never have allowed Claire to overhear my conversation with a potential customer. I guess I've made a few little mistakes lately, and I need to get a lot more discipline back into my operation. As I head over to the window, I spot Claire heading out into the garden, counting the money as she goes. I might have dodged a bullet for today, but I'm worried that she's starting to get suspicious. It was dumb of me to start bragging about money, but I just get so angry when they treat me like some pathetic little nobody. Hopefully, her suspicions aren't deep-rooted.

  I've got plenty of children dotted around the country. If necessary, I can afford to lose one more. However, I'd rather not.

  Katherine Shaw

  "Shaw," I say, flashing my badge at the fire chief without giving him time to notice that it's expired. "What have we got here?"

  "I just finished explaining to your colleague -"

  "So explain to me," I tell him, glancing over at the burned-out husk of what used to be an ordinary suburban family house in an ordinary middle-class neighborhood. "What happened here?"

  "We've recovered four bodies," he replies, leading me past the cordon. "They've been sent for examination, but based on the sizes, I'd say two of them were children. I'm no expert, but judging from their condition, I'd say it's gonna take dental records to identify them. Accelerants were used on the house and its occupants, which means most of the usual identifies are gonna be long gone."

  "Someone really wanted to get rid of them, huh?" I reply, forcing a smile.

  "We got the first reports at around midnight," he continues. "We were here eight minutes later, but as you can imagine, there was nothing we could do. That smell in the air is from all the gasoline that was used. Usually, arsonists use a small amount liberally spread throughout the property to ensure that the fire gets started, but in this case it looks like the whole place was soaked."

  "So you're sure it was deliberate?" I ask, stopping next to a burning pile of twisted black wood.

  "Unless you can think of an innocent reason why someone might douse their entire house in gasoline and then play with matches," he replies. "Someone wanted this place to burn good, and that's exactly what happened."

  Spotting movement nearby, I see Dawson coming around from the rear of the site. He glances over toward me, and there's an instant, and kind of satisfying, look of shock on his face when he sees me, followed by a hint of resignation. I guess he knew I'd show up eventually, even if he probably hoped he could avoid me for a while.

  "If you want my opinion -" the fire chief starts to say.

  "That's okay," I reply with a smile, "I already have enough opinions of my own. Thanks for the offer, though." Heading over to Dawson, I watch as he stares at the ruins of the house. The entire place has been completely destroyed, and it's hard to believe that we can learn much from the remains. I mean, sure, the forensics guys are gonna be crawling all over the site for days, and there's a chance they'll find something useful, but the whole property has basically been turned to ash. Someone wanted to remove all traces of the house's prior state, and it looks like they succeeded.

  "Is this a social call?" Dawson asks eventually, not looking over at me, "or did you just happen to be in the neighborhood?"

  "I just happened to be looking through the files on your computer," I tell him, "and I saw you'd been assigned to this case."

  "Nice try," he replies, "but I know you're bluffing. I changed my password."

  "Damn," I mutter, feigning irritation. "I guess you got me." I wait for him to say something, but he simply turns back to look at the remains of the house. "So you had a big juicy case," I continue after a moment, "with a bunch of random broken-backed girls dragging themselves away from some kind of captive environment, plus a burned-out building in the middle of nowhere, and you chose to drop that case and come investigate some kind of petty arson in the suburbs?" I pause again. "What the hell's that all about?"

  "I let Jordan Carver take the other case," he replies, as if that simple fact settles the debate.

  "Why would you do that?"

  "I could tell he wanted it. He's a big-shot, thinks he's headed to the top. I figured he'd have a better chance of getting somewhere with that case."

  "But he won't have me helping him," I point out, hoping to at least get a smile in return.

  He looks down at his notebook.

  "And we all know how useful I am," I add. "Right?"

  "I don't need your help."

  "You kinda do," I reply. "I mean, you pretty much just admitted it. You know damn well that I'd have come and given you some pushes on that case, and we'd have solved it long before some guy named Jordan Carver has even finished writing his preliminary report. Instead, you shoved it onto this new guy and came to poke around in the ashes of..." I look down at the ruins of the house. "What is this, anyway? An insurance job? Family discord?"

  "Four people died here last night," he replies. "I really don't see this as a minor case."

  "You think it was a murder-suicide?"

  "There were four bodies," he continues. "Two were children, and the other two... It's too early to say for certain, but I think
they were both female. I've got a hunch that the man of the house wasn't home when all of this happened."

  "Or if he was home," I add, "he bolted as soon as he'd lit the match."

  "The occupants were supposed to be a married couple and their two children," he replies. "So far, it's looking as though I'm missing the guy and I've got an extra woman."

  "You think he came home and found his wife in bed with a girlfriend?" I ask. "Maybe this was a crime of passion. Please, Dawson, don't tell me you jumped at this case just because there might be lesbians involved."

  "A crime of passion doesn't explain the children," he continues. "I can't believe that a man would burn his children just because he's mad at his wife."

  "Why not?" I reply. "I can believe it."

  He turns to me.

  "There are people who'd do something like that," I add. "It'd be naive to think otherwise."

  "You're calling me naive?"

  "I'm saying it'd be naive to think that there aren't circumstances in which a man would kill and burn his children." I wait for a reply, and it's clear that he's pretty touchy today. "So I can tell you're pissed off at me," I add after a moment. "It's tempting to think that you switched cases and changed your password as part of some kind of attempt to give me a hint that you wanna be left alone. Did Elaine put you up to this?"

  "Not everything's about you."

  "Still, you're being kinda passive aggressive."

  "So are you." He pauses. "Maybe not so passive."

  "I can still help you," I continue, determined to get things back on track. "Come on, I appreciate this little act of rebellion, but we work better together."

  "You need someone dull and reliable?" he asks, clearly not amused. "Someone for the great Katherine Shaw to bounce ideas against?"

  Hearing a knocking sound nearby, I glance over at the next house and see that someone's banging on the door.