Studying Scarlett the Grey

by Kelle Z Riley

  Bree felt a rush of déjà vu as they pulled into the now empty lot of Trader Jack’s Emporium. Matthew must have felt it too. His easy mood from the past hours evaporated and a wary tension took its place.

  Retracing their steps of earlier that night, they entered and worked their way to the garage. The bay where Billy’s body had been found was cordoned off with yellow crime tape.

  “Let’s check the other section.” Bree led him down the hall to an adjacent unit and they entered. Two sets of pneumatic risers dominated the floor, with assorted tools littering the remaining space. To one side, several rental cars, including the Crown Victoria, were parked in a cluster.

  Matthew headed to the Crown Vic, pulled gloves and a lock pick set from his pocket. He handed Bree a second pair of gloves then worked to release the locking mechanism on the driver’s door. Meanwhile, Bree searched behind the counter for the keys. She found them just as Matthew succeeded in opening the car.

  Leaving the keys on their hook, she crossed the garage to the vehicle. Once Matthew released the trunk latch, she reached to open it then stopped. A prickle of unease slithered down her spine and her breath came in rapid, painful huffs. Her heart pounded in her ears, getting louder and louder. Her knees weakened and her stomach turned sour.

  “Easy.” Matthew rested his hand on her shoulder and stepped close, his body millimeters from hers. His fingers flexed, tightening as his thumb moved in a slow, soothing sweep across her rigid muscles. Warmth seeped into her chilled skin as she focused on his hand, his comforting nearness, and his words. “What’s wrong?”

  “The last trunk I opened held a dead man. My imagination…” Stupid as it was, she couldn’t shake the image of another body huddled in the space beneath her fingers.

  “It’s okay,” Matthew said, his voice calm and measured, his breath whispering past her ear. “It’s a form of PTSD. I’ve had it before, too. Take deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Relax.”

  She worked on the breathing techniques he’d taught her to ease panic. In for the count of four. Hold for four. Out for the count of four. A few breaths later, calm replaced her earlier panic. As if he could sense her shift in moods, Matthew removed his hand and stepped back, taking his warmth and comfort with him.

  Bree took one last, slow breath and, as she exhaled, lifted the trunk lid. Empty blackness filled the space. Over her shoulder, Matthew flicked on a flashlight. Nothing.

  “I joked this trunk was large enough for a set of luggage and a couple of bodies. I’m not so sure, now that I’ve seen—” She broke off and leaned into the space, fingers searching for the loose edge of the carpet.

  It pulled up easily, lifting with a single smooth tug. Clean, grit free space greeted her. In the middle of the trunk floor, an embedded ring indicated a metal plate that could be lifted.

  “Probably a place to store a tire jack and some tools,” Matthew said from behind her.

  Bree reached for the ring and lifted, revealing a shallow well, about eighteen inches square and three inches deep. “Not tools,” she said, pointing to the thick stacks of currency, each wrapped in clear plastic wrap filling the space.

  Chapter 12

  Matthew’s low whistle sliced through the silence of the night.

  “What are we looking at?” Bree asked, not taking her eyes off the money.

  “Could be a couple hundred thousand, if the bills are large.” He leaned close and peered at the stacks. “Could be less. But I’d bet my career it isn’t from legal activity.”

  “So, are we talking money laundering?”

  Matthew shook his head. “Depends. Laundering specifically refers to taking stolen money and making it appear to come from legal sources. This could be laundering or simply transfer of stolen goods.”

  “With Sasha involved, my guess is we’re close to something bigger than a local crime lord.” She leaned forward to grab a stack of cash, but Matthew stopped her.

  “Don’t touch anything. It’s time to call in reinforcements.” He closed the hidden compartment, pushed the carpet back in place, and shut the trunk. “Keep the key and any spares you find. We’re taking them with us to minimize the chances of anyone else finding what we just saw. Meanwhile, I’m calling in Shoe to babysit the stash while you get some sleep. By morning, I’ll have talked with my contacts at my former agency and anywhere else I need to. This could be the break I’ve spent the last decade chasing.”

  “Is it really that important?”

  “It could be the key to taking down the terror cell, or it could be Sasha’s idea of misdirection to waste our time. Either way, it’s bigger than Sci-Spy. And definitely bigger than the local PD, although I think it wise to loop O’Neil in tomorrow.”

  Matthew led her to a quiet corner of the garage and made a few more phone calls before turning to her. “Your gut reaction is what led us to look at the Crown Vic. You know that, don’t you?”

  “It was a lucky break.”

  “No. It was good investigative work, coupled with a little luck. There’s a world of difference.” He waited in silence for a while, letting her absorb his words. “I know O’Neil is trying to convince you to leave the organization.”

  Bree’s heart skipped a beat and she looked at him to gauge his reaction. “How exactly do you know that?”

  “It’s what a normal, private LEO would want for the woman he cares about.”

  “Leo?”

  “Law enforcement officer. He’s never hidden his contempt of me and what I do. By extension, he’d not want you doing it either. I didn’t need to listen to your private conversations to deduce that much.”

  “Did you, though? Listen?”

  He shook his head but gazed into the far corner of the expansive space, withdrawing from her. “I would watch and listen if I thought you were in danger. Physical danger. I don’t give a damn about what happens between the local cop and the woman I—” He stopped and paced to stand inches from the Crown Vic.

  “The woman you what?” Bree followed him.

  His shoulders tensed. “The woman I trained,” he said, voice glacial and detached. “Whatever time, money, and energy I invested in training you are more than paid back with this discovery.”

  Before she could respond, a call from Shoe interrupted them, asking for directions to their location. Within minutes, Shoe had taken up watch over the car and Matthew had finally driven Bree to her vehicle at the Tech Ops center.

  As she unlocked her car door, he lowered the window and spoke, a whisper in the night. “Do what you have to do, Bree. No hard feelings.”

  “I’ll be in place tomorrow and the days after to see this mission through.”

  And then? Neither of them asked, nor answered the question.

  Bree sucked down an espresso and rubbed the grit from her eyes, careful not to disturb her Cat Holmes makeup. The four hours of sleep she’d grabbed qualified as a nap, not a night’s sleep. No matter. The investigation demanded her attention. She pasted what she hoped was a friendly, clueless smile on her face and walked into Trader Jack’s.

  After pulling on her uniform vest and tossing Billy’s tin of antibacterial into a corner of her locker, Bree entered the main retail showroom. Subdued silence greeted her. Liza sat at the counter, head on her hands, while Margie dusted the shelves. Three other workers, whose names she didn’t know opened packages of merchandise, removed the contents, and broke down the boxes.

  “Pretty lady,” squawked Scarlett, alerting the others to her presence.

  “Hey, Cat.” Liza turned on her seat and attempted a smile.

  “What’s going on?” Bree asked. “You all look like—” She swallowed the casual greeting. You all look like someone died. Crap! Way to blow your own cover. She definitely needed more caffeine or more sleep to get through the day.

  “Billy’s dead,” Liza answered in a monotone voice.

  Bree widened her eyes, hoping her look passed for shock.

/>   “Oh, don’t act like it was such a tragedy.” Margie abandoned her dustrag and strode to the counter. “No one is going to mourn Bag-O-Gas, except maybe Jack Trayder.”

  “Billy?” asked Scarlett.

  “And that dumb bird.” Margie glared at the parrot. “Who gives you grapes?” she asked, her voice soft despite her scowl.

  “Grape? Margie grape.” The woman smiled and rummaged for a small cooler under the counter from which she extracted a grape.

  “There’s a good girl,” she said, giving it to Scarlett before heading back to her work on the shelves.

  Bree watched her go, wondering if she hated Billy enough to do him in or if she was simply relieved that someone else had done the deed.

  “Lizzie grape?” said a voice sounding eerily like Billy.

  A chill raced down Bree’s spine as her gaze flew to Liza. “It’s Liza,” the woman corrected, planting herself in front of the cage. “No Lizzie. Liza.”

  After a few attempts, Scarlett spoke in her normal voice. “Liza. Grape.”

  “Good girl,” murmured Liza, handing over the grape. “It’s creepy hearing a dead man’s voice coming out of her.” She shuddered. “Like he can’t rest in peace and leave us alone.”

  “How did he die?” Bree asked, observing Margie and Liza, focused on their micro expressions.

  Liza’s face went blank. She twisted her fingers together until the knuckles turned white. “Someone found him in the garage last night,” she said at last. “Jack told us this morning before the shift began.”

  “In the garage, my butt,” Margie added, her brows pinched. “They found him stuffed in the trunk of that dang car he was so particular about. My guess is one of the boys who works with him had enough of his bluster and bashed his head in. Serves him right.” She clamped her mouth shut and pulled a package of cigarettes from her vest pocket, making her way to an outside door.

  Liza watched her go. “I can’t imagine,” she started. “I mean, I didn’t like him, but I didn’t want him dead. Margie can be so cold.”

  “She’s not saying anything anyone else hasn’t thought.” One of the boys unpacking boxes sauntered over. “He deserved to die. He wasn’t nice m—man. He wasn’t a nice man, uh, Liza,” he stammered. He ducked his head and shifted his feet restlessly.

  “Maybe not, Samuel, but that doesn’t mean what happened to him was right.”

  Bree turned to the young man, wondering if he stuttered out of nervousness or speech challenges. He stuffed his arms into his pockets. His dark hair with blond tips and slender build reminded her a bit of Grant Mitchelson. Was the boy into extreme sports like the Sci-Spy computer expert? Bruises and scratches on visible parts of his upper body were consistent with the idea.

  Given that, was his slender build deceptively strong? Strong enough to lift Billy into the trunk of a car? What of Liza? Margie? She filed the questions away and turned to the young man.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Cat Holmes. I’m new here.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He pumped her hand in a sweaty, weak grip. “You just started?” At her nod, he continued. “Well, it only takes a day or two before Billy gives you a nickname. Usually a degrading one.”

  “Yeah, he called me Kitty Cat. I didn’t like it much,” she added, commiserating with the boy.

  “It isn’t as bad as Namby-Pamby-Sammy. Just because I took too long replacing a spare tire when I worked in the garage with him.” His face cleared. “At least Mrs. T didn’t make me stay in that position.”

  “You don’t look like a weakling to me,” Bree began. “I’d guess you were into skateboarding or…”

  “Don’t take it so hard.” A trim man a little taller than Bree sauntered over, interrupting her questioning. The toned muscles on his forearms suggested strength without bulk. “I’m Graham, the shipping and stocking supervisor. That’s Michael.” He pointed to the young man with inky hair cut short in the back and artfully styled in the front.

  His arms, exposed by his rolled-up sleeves, were a brown that could only come from hours baking in the sun or a lucky gene pool. Their smoothness argued for the gene pool. Michael gave a nod of acknowledgement and focused on hauling boxes off the showroom floor. “He and Samuel are the best team I could want,” Graham said. “I’m glad Billy didn’t snag you for himself.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Samuel mumbled, going red in the face. He moved away from the group to help Michael with the boxes.

  Graham stayed for a minute, looking from Liza to Bree. “I know it’s hard to take this in stride but do your best. That’s all Jack asks of us. Your feelings,” he paused and assessed them both, “they are what they are. You don’t have to suddenly like Billy just because he’s dead. You’re both too young to have lost many people, I’m guessing.

  "Take it from experience, talking about it can help. Don’t shut yourself off. But try not to dwell on it, either.” He patted Liza on the shoulder and moved to do the same for Bree, hesitating to judge whether she would welcome the act. She smiled and accepted his condolences.

  After Graham left, Liza turned back to Bree. “It’s going to be hard not to dwell on things with the police coming to question all of us.”

  “What?”

  “Jack warned us that there will be an investigation. The police are coming to question us individually. Jack set aside a private office for them to use.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s almost time to open. Let me show you a few quick things about handling customers. You and Margie will be the front lines while I’m with the police. Are you ready to handle things on your own?”

  Bree nodded, but inside, a different worry formed in her gut. Who would come to question the other workers? James? Or Abe Griffin? And would they respect her cover?

  Shortly after opening, James arrived on site, accompanied by Jack Trayder. Jack introduced him and asked for everyone to cooperate with the investigation.

  James scanned a page that Jack handed him. “Let’s see,” he said, looking around the room. “Which one of you is Cat Holmes?”

  Bree moved from her position behind Liza and shyly raised her hand.

  “Good.” James offered her a cool smile. “I’d like to start by asking you a few questions.” He led her to the office Jack had set aside and closed the door. “How’s that for keeping your cover intact?”

  “You did good.” She gave him a once-over, wondering at the reserve in his face as they both sat on opposite sides of the desk.

  James rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. “I doubt I got much more sleep than you last night. How are you holding up?”

  “A little slow and groggy but getting better. You?”

  He pushed his chair back and walked across the room, returning with two large paper cups of coffee. He handed one to Bree. “We could both use this.”

  “Any news on Billy’s death?” she asked as she accepted the cup. “I know it’s too early for toxicology but has the medical examiner had a chance to look over the body?”

  “The ME did an initial screen when we—you—discovered the body. Other than time of death and the fact that no physical trauma is in evidence, we don’t have any info.”

  Bree nodded and sipped her coffee, pleased as she detected the flavor of caramel macchiato. James knew her well and if the offering was any indication, he didn’t hold last night against her. “Thanks.”

  “For the information or the coffee?”

  “Both.”

  He tilted his head indicating the coffee. “For the record, I had them add double espresso to yours.” He took a long drink from his own cup and settled back in his chair. “It’s not every morning—or any morning really—that a guy like me wakes up to a call from a security specialist at the Department of Homeland Security.”

  Bree lowered her cup and stared at him.

  “Your spook has powerful friends,” he added, referring to Matthew.

  “I
wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

  James shook his head. “Old habit. I don’t like people who pretend to be other than what they are, even if I understand the need for some people to do it.”

  Was it her imagination or did he emphasize some as if to indicate she wasn’t one of them?

  “In any case, it looks like you, Matthew Tugood, and I are going to be working together for a bit. And I’m going to hate every minute of it.”

  “What’s going on? Fill me in.” Bree leaned closer and braced her elbows on the desk.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t—” James broke off and waved the comment away. “It’s best we address the elephant in the room. I’m not crazy about Tugood’s job. And I’m pissed about him dragging you into it. Pissed and…jealous.”

  He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “There. I said it. I’m jealous of the time you spend with him. He’s going to hurt you and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “James,” she reached across the desk and held her hand out for his. He took it. “Stop. The last months have shown me Matthew’s true colors. He’s not the man for me. You are. He’s just a partner and, on some level, a friend. As much as he is capable of being.”

  She squeezed James’s hand. “My eyes are open. But working with him makes me feel like I’m using my talents to do something important. For the world. I don’t want to stop.”

  James released her hand and nodded. “I get it. At least, a little. I feel that way about being a cop. For the record, I wouldn’t want to see you in my job either. Call it old-fashioned protective instincts, but I don’t like seeing you in danger.”

  “I have you for backup.”

  “As much as I hate to admit it, you also have him for backup. The homeland guy I spoke to wouldn’t tell me what agency he worked for or any info about his past—most of which is redacted—except to say that he has a reputation for never leaving a colleague or an asset behind. Even if it goes against direct orders.” He shrugged. “For what that’s worth.”