Secrets

by Dana Lyons

  In the garage, there was a white van like the one he drove at work, with a removable decal proclaiming it to be an official city vehicle, as did the license plate.

  He drove carefully to Haley’s, parked a half block away and walked straight to her door, stepping around the modest partition protecting the door from street view. Along the way, he eyed the shrubbery between the alley and her door.

  When he was out of sight behind the partition, he inserted a special digital lock pick gun into the lock, clicked her door open, and entered her apartment.

  Once inside, he rested his back against the front door. The small apartment was permeated with her unique scent. He closed his eyes and inhaled, detecting the coffee, fruit, and burned toast odors from her breakfast, the sour trash still in the can she forgot to take out, the motor on the refrigerator humming as ice dropped into the bin.

  Even though he knew she was gone for the day, he tip-toed. This moment of penetration was so exhilarating, so empowering, so liberating, he almost got what he needed just by being here. But there had to be more; he needed the words. Only then would he have what he desired so deeply. Soon he would discover if Haley was the one to love him.

  In the bedroom, he carefully lay on her bed, his head touching the pillow where her dreams swirled at night. He would visit her in the night, and together they would see if she held a place for him in her dreams.

  He walked into the bathroom and took a moment to sit on her toilet. A health and exercise magazine rested in a nearby basket along with several rolls of paper. He then stood in her shower and picked up each of the bath products, sniffing them individually. She smelled better than his mother did.

  As he walked around he made note of what he could use--a chair from her small vanity table for her to sit on. He didn’t find any duct tape so he would bring his own.

  In the silence, he asked his question, “What do you see?” His words, softly uttered, faded into the empty room. No answer came in response. “I’ll have to come back when she’s here.”

  * * *

  Dreya sat in the real estate agent’s office with Rhys, Quinn, and Simon standing nearby. The agent, one Melissa Thompson, seemed ready to drool onto Dreya’s rental application as she gazed over Rhys, Quinn, and Simon.

  Dreya smiled, understanding Melissa’s discomfort. For this weekend outing, her men were dressed to impress, a measure of how badly they wanted out of her small apartment and into something with more space.

  Because her place didn’t have room for all their clothes, and to give her a break with the bathroom congestion, they’d been using Rhys’s apartment as an alternate for bathing and keeping clothes. This morning the three of them returned smelling sweet and dressed so sharp, even her mouth watered in appreciation.

  Rhys was the country gentleman in a light knit sweater, corduroy jacket, loafers, and pants bearing a crease that would cut bread.

  With his tall frame, he looked like a model. His black hair gleamed in the early morning light, and as with all of them, was needing a trim. One section persisted in falling into his eyes. When he ran his hand through his hair to pull it back, Dreya noticed Miss Thompson’s eyes locked on his movements.

  Quinn was the bad boy, wearing black jeans and shirt with a black leather club jacket. His pretty eyes smoldered with his internal desire to run, creating a to-die-for allure. Melissa seemed to lose her train of thought each time her gaze passed over Quinn.

  Simon was the secret keeper, his hazel eyes shrouded with mystery, the square jaw unforgiving. In contrast, he perpetually had to sweep his long, surfer-boy hair out of his eyes. Claiming the day’s muscleman title, he wore a micro-fiber shirt that clung to his well defined chest. Miss Thompson licked her lips frequently. Dreya held back a grin and managed a pinch of sympathy for the real estate agent.

  “And what did you say you do?” Melissa asked.

  “I’m a special agent with the FBI,” Dreya said.

  Melissa’s eyes drifted to Rhys. “I’m Detective Morgan with Metro PD.”

  “I see,” she said softly. “And?” She turned to Quinn.

  “Interpol agent on loan to the FBI.”

  “Oohh. And you?” she asked Simon. She lifted one eyebrow and leaned forward.

  “Medical consultant with the FBI.”

  Through this brief exchange, Melissa seemed to be sitting on a hot coal, for she crossed and re-crossed her legs several times. Based on the micro-reads Dreya picked up from the woman’s face, she must be going from hot flash to cold sweat and back around. “Is being in law enforcement going to be a problem?”she asked. “We all have high security clearance.”

  Melissa brought her focus back to Dreya as though she just noticed her in the room. “A problem? What would be a problem? Oh, the law enforcement. No, not as long as you aren’t doing lawful things.”

  “Meaning?”

  “How shall I put it—you would just be living in the residence, right? Not performing any suspect interrogation, weapons storage, sting operations, or, you know, lawful things that could result in damage to the property.”

  “No, no lawful things, no damage to the property. We’re responsible adults.”

  Melissa went back to the application. “Well, if you’re looking for acreage, you’ll need several very high paying jobs and a helicopter to take you into DC.” She glanced up through her glasses and smiled.

  Rhys asked, “How high a paying job?”

  At his voice and inquiry, her face brightened. “Well, what you’re looking for rarely rents, so we’re talking purchase price of about $1.2 and up.”

  “Million?” he responded.

  “How far out?” Quinn asked. Dreya shot him a quick glance, wondering if he had the $1.2 stashed somewhere. If he had $1.2 million, then a helicopter probably wasn’t a problem.

  “Too far to drive,” Melissa purred. “It would take you hours to get into town.”

  Dreya feared this dead-end when they initiated the process, but she had show an effort for the boys. The truth was, there was no open land within working distance of DC. “Thank you, Melissa,” she said rising. “If you’ll keep the application on file, and perhaps remember us should the right property come across your desk.”

  Melissa shook Dreya’s hand briefly before taking her time with the boys. “A pleasure,” she murmured as she walked down the line.

  “You’ll remember us?” Rhys asked.

  “Oh, I’ll definitely remember you,” she said, smiling with a show of good teeth.

  The ride back to Arlington was quiet. In spite of all the cologne, and the fancy clothes, their options remained slim. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Something will turn up. In the meantime, let’s find a killer.”

  At home that evening, she opened her laptop. She rarely had time to be on the internet unless it involved a case. She went to the AlleyOop dating site.

  After putting in her gender only, a flurry of faces appeared in a horizontal display. Face after face, men of all ages who were, according to the AlleyOop description ‘looking for love’. She squinted and cocked her head at the long parade.

  After several minutes and dozens of photos, she started to chuckle. One photo elicited a “Ha!”, before more rumbling laughter rose. Face after face was photo-bombed with headpieces and feathers and horns from items on the wall behind the subject.

  Then came a procession of men displaying dead fish. “Oh, good heavens,” she squealed, covering her mouth with her hand. “What are these guys thinking?” She belly-laughed, realizing how out of touch she was with the dating scene.

  “I never knew, I mean, what woman could refuse a man with a dead fish?” She giggled, struggling to contain her laughter, but gave in and shouted out loud over photos where no face appeared. “Ha! Get a date with that? Oh, my God, do these guys look at their photos before they put them up?”

  Other men were proudly occupying their favorite easy chair with a cigarette and a beer can. “Right, all women want one of those,” she laughed. Soon s
he was hee-hawing like a howler monkey. Tears poured from her eyes, and she wiped her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “Oh, my, that was something else.”

  Rhys had collected behind her along with Simon and Quinn. They grinned, attracted by her outbursts.

  “What has you so lit up, princess?” Simon asked.

  Rhys started laughing. Pointing at the screen, he said, “Is that for real?”

  “What?” Simon mumbled as he leaned in for a closer look.

  She moved the slider to advance the photos.

  More horns appeared, along with devilish red eyes, dead fish, skin rashes, hairy backs and saggy guts. Soon, even Quinn started laughing, and as the procession got longer and worse, their howls of humor echoed through the apartment.

  Rhys grabbed his chest and fell against the wall, laughing with tears in his eyes. Simon slapped his leg and backed off into the hallway, sputtering. Quinn brought a box of tissues so everyone could dry their face.

  Dreya closed the laptop. The brief moment of humor was good, as opportunities for such uninhibited laughter in their work was slim to never. But the sobering fact remained.

  “Well, boys, that’s our suspect pool.”

  3

  At home in his basement, Martin hummed with pleasure. He loved the internet, especially the dark side. Between anonymous online advertising and the dark net, if you had the money, nothing was out of reach. His latest purchase online, the highly-advanced lock pick gun he used at Haley’s. And, from a guy in Virginia, he bought a 3D printer.

  The special lock pick gun took a digital picture of the lock once it was opened, creating a digital image for a key. Now all he had to do was insert the memory card from the lock pick gun into the 3D printer, place the medium in the chamber, and the printer produced the key.

  He smiled, pleased with the way things were going with Haley. The more he saw of her and the more he filled his mind with her voice, the more convinced he became she would bring him relief once she said the words.

  The printer beeped and he removed the key. He swiped over it with a brush and wiped it down with a cloth. After a close inspection, he declared it good. The key went into his bag of tools for the date. It held his shoebox with the new shoes, gloves, chloroform and cloth, key, and duct tape. He paused with a finger to his lips.

  You know this is going to end like the others.

  “No,” he said calmly, refusing to be baited. “Haley’s different, she’s the one. She’s looking for love just like I am.”

  Love will never find you. You’re invisible.

  “Shut up,” he shouted. This internal voice irritated him, always condemning everything he did, always pointing out his deficiencies, always sounding like his mother. He stomped up the stairs.

  In the den, he sat at his desk and opened his main computer. In spite of his faith in Haley, having a backup was always a good idea, as these dates took time to arrange. Of the many dating sites where he had a fake profile, he went first to MixNMatch and logged in. “Ah, there I am,” he said. “Edward Lang.”

  He admired the photos showing him with his dog, his manly pick-up truck, and his nice house in Arlington. The man had a handsome, virile face that attracted lots of looks to the profile. But Martin didn’t see an appropriate candidate. His needs were specific. “There are always more,” he sighed. “Until I find the one.”

  On Bow&Quiver, his name was Heath Ericson. This man was blonde and stocky, well built, with a mountain bike, and two cats.

  He was an artist named Ian Zane on AlleyOop. Ian was his favorite and longest running identity going back to 2016. Staking out the real Zane’s apartment had yielded a series of salacious photographs. Ian was a typical artist with a black ponytail, a loft full of original artwork, and a large photo on the wall at home of him kissing a celebrity.

  Over at Fishing4Love, his profile said Eli Taylor, white collar professional, a BMW driver, with short brown hair and brown eyes.

  His second favorite was Adam Barlow on HookUp. Adam was a mystery writer, favoring a fat orange cat, a pipe, and a boat at the marina.

  These assumed identities were his solace in a lonely world where no one ever saw him, no one ever loved him, no one ever cared. Through these men, Adam, Edward, Heath, Ian, and Eli, he became them and not himself. Women saw those men, women looked at their profile, women sent messages to them. As these other men, he could openly look for the next candidate, wherever she might be.

  The carousel of photos spun by, showing him women by the hundreds. It was his dream come true to be able to search from a distance like this. Once he found one with the right look, he could move in closer. “Oh, look here,” he said, stopping the carousel.

  “Uptown Girl.” She was a little young, but held herself with maturity. “She might work,” he murmured, peering closely at her photos. One showed her in front of an apartment building. He recognized the building, having serviced that neighborhood before. “Yes, an older area, no fiber optics, easy to tap into her utilities. Good.”

  In another photo, she had a cat. “Excellent, no dog. I think you might do, Uptown Girl,” he said.

  He opened his profile and sent the message, Are you the one? to Uptown Girl, knowing it would go through a ghost network of computers he’d hacked into, bouncing from Asia to South Africa to Saudi Arabia and more. It could never be traced to his home.

  A separate message went to MixNMatch embedded with hacking code. The code chewed through the MixNMatch firewall and zeroed in on the backside data page for Uptown Girl’s profile. Soon his screen displayed several layered fields of code.

  “Okay, so Uptown Girl is Sally Latham and she lives in those old apartments on Brookings Street, exactly as I thought.”

  He didn’t bother to wait for an answer from Uptown Girl. He already had all he needed. “Putting you in the queue,” he said softly.

  * * *

  Dreya fluffed her hair and smacked her lips, pressing her lipstick into place. She walked out to the front room where Rhys, Quinn, and Simon relaxed, and handed her cell phone to Rhys. “Come outside and take my picture.”

  When he looked her over, one eyebrow jacked straight up. She saw the wheels spinning as he quickly noted her clothes and make-up.

  He jutted his chin. “Because?”

  She expected one of the boys or Nobility would erect a road block. Since Nobility had kept quiet, his reaction didn’t surprise her. “Because I need photos.”

  “Photos for what?” He set the phone down.

  By this time, Quinn and Simon had turned their attention to her. “What’s up?” Simon asked. Quinn came over and sat on the arm of Rhys’ chair. “What is she up to?” he asked.

  Dreya licked her lips.

  Here it comes.

  “I’m putting up a profile on AlleyOop.”

  “When were you going to tell us?” Rhys asked.

  “Well,” she offered, lifting her shoulders, “Probably now. It’s not like I have any secrets from you guys. Being trained in detection and all, I imagined you’d figure it out pretty quick.” She tried to look cocky but Nobility left her feeling sneaky instead.

  Quinn cleared his throat. “The point would be you discussing this with us before you got ready for the photo op.”

  She exhaled, unable to maintain a level of indignation. While their protective urges interfered with work, it still felt good. And while it felt good, it was still interfering with work. “Not the first time I’ve been bait. It seemed like a good idea.”

  “Have you discussed this with Jarvis?” Rhys asked.

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Which means not at all.” He glared, his lips compressed.

  He was just being cautious, and Noble, but there had to be a line between work and Nobility. “We can take the photos since I’m all dressed and everything, and talk to him about it in the morning.”

  “We don’t know anything about this killer,” Rhys offered. “Except all he leaves behind is dead women. Before you put yourself out t
here and into his line of sight, we should know more about what we’re dealing with.”

  “And another woman gets killed while we’re sitting on our thumbs.” She shook her head.

  “Putting yourself at risk isn’t a guarantee you’ll prevent another murder,” Simon argued.

  She squirmed. He gave her the dark penetrating gaze that saw too deeply. In defense, she protested. “I know the killer is responsible for the murders, not me. But it’s my job to take the risk, if needed, to solve and prevent these crimes. So, this is me doing my job—no personal agenda—and no more or less than you’d do.”

  Quinn wrinkled his nose in distaste. “We can monitor from the backside of AlleyOop. There’s no need for you to put your face out there.”

  “All that personal data, the court order will take a week or longer. If I just slip into the herd, we’ll see if this predator tries to single me out.”

  Rhys pursed his lips and swiped at his errant lock of hair. His scowl pronounced him unconvinced. Quinn stared off with crinkled eyes, his mouth pinched on one side.

  Simon shot to his feet as if he was going to bolt, circled with nowhere to go, and stopped just as suddenly. He shook his head with disapproval. “I don’t like it, but I see you’re set on this. You’re immediately on security detail. You’re never alone.”

  “Agreed,” she said. She left it open for more discussion, but with Simon’s pronouncement, the decision was made.

  Rhys picked up the phone. “Okay, let’s go outside and take pictures.”

  After dinner Rhys, Quinn, and Simon pulled out a deck of cards at the dining table and progressed from Go Fish to 500 Rummy to Black Jack. Their teasing banter in the background comforted her. The pain of Mr. Harrison’s loneliness lingered like the bad taste of a night of tequila. She didn’t want to end up like him.