Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

Mrs. Franks’s sobs reverberated off the cold, concrete walls. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am. We’ll have a detective call you as soon as we find anything else out.”

  Mrs. Franks stood. “What about that man who’s on the news? The football coach. Aren’t you going to arrest him? Wasn’t he with her the night she disappeared?”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Shep said and walked out of the room.

  When the door of the courtroom swung open, Sammy was greeted by a horde of reporters as he accompanied the now vindicated Kellan Johannsen down to the waiting luxury SUV. At six foot seven, Johannsen was a majestic skyscraper among lowly office buildings. The basketball star fastened the top button of his fancy suit and smiled enthusiastically, then shot two victorious thumbs into the air.

  It had taken the jury only two hours to deliberate and come back with a not guilty verdict.

  Dallas news anchors and reporters shoved their way toward Johannsen as he took to the makeshift podium set up at the sidewalk below. Sammy followed, positioning himself between Johannsen’s manager and his publicist, who, thanks to him, still had their jobs. They would not have been able to spin much off a convicted rapist.

  Glancing around, Sammy could see a Geo Metro waiting by the side entrance of the courtroom. The prosecuting attorney was escorting the plaintiff to the car, her hand pressed into the young woman’s elbow. At the sound of the crowd, they both looked over. The attorney caught Sammy’s eye, and even at twenty-five yards away, he could see her contempt.

  Sammy offered a wide, belligerent grin, then turned toward the press, whose microphones were spread in front of Kellan Johannsen like a giant bouquet of flowers.

  “I’d like to thank everyone for their support,” Johannsen mumbled, shifting from one foot to the other.

  How Sammy wished someone would teach public-speaking skills to these athletes who always seemed to do so much speaking in public.

  “My family, my lovely wife, my children, and everyone else who believed in my innocence from the beginning . . .”

  Sammy stared forward, noticing, of course, that Johannsen didn’t thank him and his brilliant defense. That was okay. He’d thank him with his wallet.

  “Now, please, respect my privacy and the privacy of my family as we heal from this terrible time in our lives.” Johannsen backed up and walked toward the SUV.

  His defense team followed, including Sammy. As they each crowded into the SUV, Sammy walked around the front to get in on the other side. But he suddenly found himself stopped by a man with dark red hair, and dressed in a blue silk shirt and khakis. “No questions now,” Sammy said, trying to step around him to get into the backseat of the vehicle. Reporters were relentless.

  “This isn’t about the trial,” the man said, flashing an Irving Police Department detective’s badge.

  Sammy looked up at him. “What’s this about? A client?”

  “I just need to ask you a few questions, sir.”

  “About what?” Sammy frowned, glancing into the SUV. Johannsen shot him an anxious look, ready to leave the chaos of cameras and microphones. “Can’t this wait?”

  “It’s about a woman named Taylor Franks.”

  Sammy could not help but swallow. But he steadied his gaze and did not blink. “What about her?”

  “We can either do this in front of everyone here or somewhere else.”

  Sammy swept his bangs off his forehead and turned back to the SUV. “Go on without me. I’ll catch—”

  The SUV sped off as the door was quickly pulled shut.

  The detective was introducing himself as Randy Prescott.

  As Sammy turned to him, he noticed someone across the street standing in the shadow of two large trees. The man was leaning casually against the trunk, hands in his pockets, watching. But Sammy could not see his face.

  “Why don’t we go to my office?” Sammy said, gesturing toward the sidewalk. “It’s about eight blocks away.”

  Aaron had convinced his supervisor to let him take half the day off. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to concentrate or drive around the city with blabbing Jarrod by his side.

  Mick’s stubbornness wasn’t helping matters. His pride was going to be his downfall. Why couldn’t Aaron reach him? Why did Mick always think his brother was out to get him? Didn’t he understand Aaron wasn’t the one coming after him?

  Accompanied by a quiet security guard, Aaron walked toward the Delta employee break room at the airport, behind the front ticket counters. His stride was as swift as the bustling passengers around him. But his mind was as far away as all of their destinations. He was nine years old, with four-year-old Mick trotting behind him along the riverbed, shadowing his every move.

  “Hold my hand, Aaron!”

  He took his brother’s hand, their fingers entwining.

  “Are we going to see some fish today?”

  “I don’t know, buddy. Don’t get in the mud. Mom’ll kill me.”

  The squish next to him indicated Mick’s boot had found a nice muddy hole in which to plant itself. Mick grinned up at him, his eyes sparkling a strong-willed defiance. “Come on. We’ll wash it off in the stream.”

  The security guard turned down a small hallway and pointed to the white door at the end. “That’s it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just check out with me before you go.”

  “Thanks.” Aaron walked toward the break room alone.

  “Aaron, don’t leave me!”

  “I’m not. I’m just going to cross over here, see what’s up the creek.”

  “No! Don’t leave me!”

  “Buddy, I’m not. I’ll be right back. You stay here.”

  “No! I’m going with you. I don’t want to stay alone.”

  “All right. Come on. Don’t get wet, though. Stay on those rocks.”

  Aaron adjusted his belt and badge and walked in. Five or six people were standing around, three of them huddled together near the refrigerator.

  Liz, the woman who’d reported Taylor missing, recognized Aaron. “Officer! Do you have any news?”

  Aaron shook his head. He wanted to say as little as possible. He was breaking protocol by being in uniform and coming in as if he were on duty. But he figured nobody here would even understand that homicide was now in charge of the investigation.

  Immediately Aaron noticed the bouquet of flowers on a nearby counter. Liz and the two men standing by her followed his gaze. The roses were drooping to the side. He figured they would still be here. The evidence warehouse was full already, and they didn’t really need the card since the flowers were delivered.

  “I haven’t watered them,” Liz said. “I didn’t want to touch them.”

  A white-haired man with a young face stepped forward. “I’m Edward Foster, Taylor’s supervisor. And this is Roger, another coworker.”

  Aaron shook their hands.

  “So nothing new? No arrests?”

  “No. Not yet.” Aaron walked to the flowers. He carefully picked up the card and turned it over. But when he tried to open it, it stuck. Had it not been opened? Aaron looked at Liz. “You said these were from her ex-boyfriend?”

  “That’s what Taylor said. Or implied.”

  “Implied?”

  “I said something like, ‘Who are the flowers from?’ And she said, ‘Who do you think?’ ”

  “And you took that to mean?”

  “Sammy. Don’t know his last name.”

  Aaron tore open the envelope and took out the small card. It was typed.

  I’m sorry for everything. I love you.

  Sammy

  “You said he always signed with his initials?”

  Liz nodded.

  Aaron placed the card back in the envelope. He turned to the three, who were practically leaning over his shoulder. “Have any detectives been here to question you?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Okay. Listen, some detectives might come by, ask some ques
tions. Just answer them the best you can. I don’t know if these flowers are significant or not.”

  “She hated him and loved him at the same time,” Liz said. “She was very conflicted. But also very private, so she didn’t say a whole lot about it. I could just tell.”

  “But they think it’s a football coach or somebody like that, don’t they?” Edward said. “Isn’t that what the news said?”

  “They’re still figuring a lot of things out,” Aaron said. “And of course call if you hear from her.”

  They all nodded and Aaron left, his heart galloping inside his chest. He was being stupid, but the more he knew independent of the prosecutor, the better. What bothered him most, though, was that the detectives didn’t seem to be interested in this Sammy.

  They wanted Mick.

  After Shep Crawford barged into Stephen Fiscall’s office unannounced, Fiscall watched him round the chair he thought he was going to sit down in. Instead, the giant, beastly, frowsy man circled it as if it were prey. Fiscall shifted in his chair.

  “So you’re saying you didn’t leak this to the media.”

  “You said you needed time. That’s what you said.” Fiscall sat motionless, resisting the urge to scratch the arms of his chair like a fidgety cat. “I’m always one for building a good case, Crawford. Leaking it to the media wouldn’t help that.”

  “Then why was there a story on the news this morning with Kline’s picture?”

  Fiscall rubbed an eyebrow. “I have no idea. You know what kind of crazy investigative reporters we have around here. Look, you don’t know that Kline isn’t our man, do you? I mean, you’re just investigating other angles. So what does it hurt that Kline knows he’s being watched? See what he does. That can’t hurt.”

  “Your job, as I understand it, is to prosecute the man we find to be the criminal.”

  Crawford’s condescending tone urged Fiscall to fight back. Instead, he folded his hands together in front of him, rocking back and forth casually in his chair.

  “You have ambitions, don’t you, Stephen?” Crawford said, his steely mouth inching into a cheerless smile. “Major ambitions about eighteen months from now when we’ll elect a new district attorney.”

  Fiscall grinned. “I want to get the right man, just like you.”

  “Are you going to be talking to the media any time soon?”

  “Not until an affidavit of probable cause is filed and the judge grants you an arrest warrant.”

  “By the book, right, Fiscall? That’s how you operate. Step by careful step.”

  Fiscall’s jaw jutted forward and he stared hard at Crawford. “Why are you so sure Mick Kline isn’t our man?”

  Crawford traced the vinyl on the edge of the chair with his finger. “I’ve seen a lot of criminals in my life, Fiscall. A lot of low-life scum.”

  “And?”

  “And you can’t tell simply by the way a man lives. What they have displayed for everyone to see. What they have in their refrigerator. What kinds of pencils they use.” Fiscall noticed Crawford glancing at his chewed-up No. 2. “It takes more than that.”

  Fiscall shook his head. The man spoke in ridiculous riddles. “I’m sure your vast experience in profiling could probably catch all your criminals without a single shred of evidence, but in the court of law I’m going to need a little bit more than a personality profile.”

  “Have you prosecuted a case without a body before, Fiscall?”

  Fiscall stopped rocking. No, he hadn’t. “You feel you won’t be able to locate a body?”

  “I’m just wondering.”

  “I can prosecute anybody if I have good evidence. So why are you in here talking to me when you should be out there gathering some additional evidence for me? I can’t walk into the courtroom with my charm alone.”

  Crawford shook his head, snorting through his nostrils. “You jump when I say so. Until then, let me do my job.”

  Crawford walked out, slamming Fiscall’s door.

  Fiscall shoved his chair back from his desk, banging it into the bookcase behind him. He refused to be bullied by a psychotic homicide detective.

  No, indeed, he would not be jumping on command. Smiling, he thought of all the glory that would come along after successfully prosecuting a despised kidnapper and possible murderer.

  And putting the brother of a cop behind bars could look very good on a résumé.

  “No calls,” Sammy instructed JoAnne, whisking the detective into his office before she could ask questions. He shut his door and offered Randy Prescott a seat. Instead of sitting behind his own desk, though, he joined him in the adjacent chair.

  He didn’t want to appear to be hiding anything.

  By the time they’d arrived back at his office, Sammy had learned from Prescott that Taylor had been reported missing, and by the looks of her apartment, the police thought somebody had abducted her. It had apparently been on the news this morning, but Sammy had been in court by eight and hardly ever turned on the TV anyway.

  Prescott, droopy eyed and freckle faced, talked slowly enough that time nearly seemed to stop. “When’s the last time you saw Taylor, Mr. Earle?”

  “Am I a suspect?” Sammy asked confidently, offering a small smile. “It’s a logical question, considering my profession.”

  “Not at this time. I just need some information from you because of your past relationship with Miss Franks.” Prescott talked as if he were reading from a manual. He flipped open his small notepad, obviously eager to write down whatever fell out of Sammy’s mouth. The problem was, nothing ever fell out. Every word that came from his mouth was buffed, waxed, and shined before ever leaving his tongue.

  “Detective Prescott . . . it is detective, right?”

  Prescott smiled. “Yes.”

  Sammy scratched his chin. They sent a midlevel officer. That was a good sign. He tried to remember who the supervisor at the Irving Homicide Division was. He couldn’t recall ever being in a trial that used an Irving police officer. He relaxed, settling his shoulders into the wingback, crossing his legs, and giving Prescott his full attention. “So Taylor was abducted?”

  “That’s the angle we’re working. When was the last time you saw Miss Franks?”

  Sammy shrugged. “I don’t know. Saw her a year ago or so. Have talked to her once or twice on the phone since then, but the relationship was pretty much over.”

  “You dated how long?”

  “Twelve, fourteen, maybe sixteen months.”

  “So it was serious?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you two break up?”

  Sammy gazed out the window. This was not going to be an easy question. “You know, Detective, things get complicated.”

  “Complicated how?”

  “People see things differently. I mean, Taylor was young. She wanted a life that I couldn’t give her.”

  “So it just didn’t work out between you two?”

  Sammy had spent six months studying body language in a jury-selection class, so he knew how crucial it was in the law-enforcement universe. Forcing himself not to swallow, he answered, “I can’t say it was one thing or another. We fought a lot. In the end, I realized it wasn’t going to work.”

  “So you broke it off?”

  “We both did.” The tip of his nose begged to be scratched.

  “And you say you’ve spoken a couple of times since then?”

  “Yes.”

  “About?”

  “You know, you always second-guess the decision.”

  “Right.”

  He watched Prescott scribble down notes. He clutched his fingers together until his knuckles were white. Right. Said with a bit of skepticism.

  “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Taylor,” Sammy said, causing Prescott to look up from his notes. “She’s as nice as can be.”

  “So you’re on good terms with her?”

  “No, not really. I mean, it wasn’t a nice breakup. But still, she’s a sweet woman.”

&nb
sp; Prescott frowned, sizing him up.

  Sammy looked out the window.

  “And you were at home last night?”

  Sammy nodded.

  Prescott stood, walking to the door.

  Sammy rose, offered a firm handshake, and opened the door for him. “Whatever I can do to help.”

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  Sammy resisted the urge to ask about suspects. Instead, he smiled gently as the detective left, then glanced at JoAnne, who was watching with interest.

  Sammy turned, wanting to slam the door shut, but knowing the detective was still within earshot. He leaned on his desk, his shaking hands hardly able to steady his trembling body. Closing his eyes, he tried to get a grip. But he couldn’t. There was nothing stable about this situation. He flipped through his Rolodex, trying to find Harlow Bruer’s number.

  “Congratulations!”

  Sammy whirled around.

  JoAnne smiled at him. “I heard the news.”

  Sammy gripped the edge of his desk as he stared at her.

  She frowned. “Are you okay?”

  His stomach was thick with uneasiness.

  JoAnne said, “I thought you’d be out celebrating with Kellan and the gang.”

  That case. Sammy said, “Too much work. I need you to get Harlow Bruer on the line.”

  Her eyes pinched, obviously annoyed that he had not regarded her kind comments. “Who?”

  “Harlow Bruer,” Sammy said, firing off an intense glare.

  “Who is that?”

  Sammy tried to muster any ounce of patience that was left in his body. “The publicist, JoAnne. Hollywood’s greatest spin doctor.” He threw up his arms, punctuating her incompetence. “Get him on the line.”

  “I thought of all days, today you would be in a good mood.” She shut the door firmly.

  Sammy made his way around his desk, falling into his office chair and lunging forward, resting his head on his desk, entranced by the expensive carpet underneath his feet, the only thing he hadn’t picked out in his office decor.

  A nightmare lurked. And this was going to be one long and dark night.

  Mick strolled the cement path that led to the Water Gardens, one of his favorite places in Fort Worth. Everything around him smelled aquatic, the air dense with humidity from the leaping fountains. The wind whipped the water out of its place, and it splashed his face and body, cooling him. With damp skin, he turned toward the west, where the fiery sun melted toward the horizon, shooting out fantastical sprays of purple and red light across towering thunderheads. A storm was gathering, drawing energy from every place it could, creating a vortex that would remain hidden in the depths of the clouds until it was ordained to be released.