by Elle Gray
The bar is empty, save for a few stragglers in suits sitting together and one old-timer sitting at the far end, nursing a pint of beer as he watches a game on one of the six flatscreens mounted behind the bar. The walls of the place are painted in the same obnoxious green as the door—and like the door, they’ve been very liberally glittered. Even in the dim lighting of the place, they sparkle.
The place isn’t what I expected. It’s kitschy as hell, sure, but it seems to be well kept, clean, and well ordered. There is a row of black padded booths against the wall to our left, the polished dark wood bar runs half the length of the wall to our right, and black topped tables fill the rest of the open space. There’s a small stage at the back of the bar, likely for live music. It makes me remember the girls had mentioned that he’s a musician.
Astra and I walk over to the bar and I’m keenly aware of Betts’ eyes on us. They move up and down, taking us in, though I don’t get the feeling it’s in a lecherous, sexual way. He’s appraising us. Taking our measure. And by the time we get to the bar, a corner of his mouth is curled upward like he’s already got us sized up.
“What can I do for you, officers?” he asks.
I glance over at Astra and she chuckles. The guy is obviously street smart and knows how to pick the cop out of a crowd. His rap sheet was light. He was busted for auto theft when he was fifteen and he had a couple of minor arrests for weed. But he’s obviously plugged in enough to know law enforcement on sight, which makes me wonder about what else he does for a living. And what he does that he hasn’t been busted for. The grin on his face is cocky and he radiates arrogance like heat off a stove.
Astra and I flash our badges. “Actually, we’re Agents. Not officers,” I correct him. “SSA Wilder, Special Agent Russo.”
“Well, I beg your pardon then,” he replies. “What can I do for you, SSA Wilder and Special Agent Russo?”
“You can tell us about your girlfriend,” Astra says.
“Which one? I mean, I’ve got so many it’s hard to keep track—”
“Summer Kennedy,” Astra cuts him off, her voice colder than ice.
A shadow crosses his face and that cocky smirk immediately melts away. He looks away and clears his throat as he picks up a rag and starts polishing a section of the bar that I didn’t see a single streak on. It’s obvious he’s giving himself something to do while he gathers himself. It’s an interesting reaction. It tells me that he’s already putting together the story in his head—which makes me curious as to what he’ll say. After a minute of wiping down the bar, he looks up at her, fully composed, his face a mask of cool indifference.
“What about her?” he asks.
“We heard you were seeing her,” I say.
He furtively glances around the bar, as if checking to ensure he’s not being overheard. And when his gaze lands on mine again, he puts that cocky smile back on with the practiced ease of a man slipping on a familiar pair of boxers. He shrugs casually.
“I see a few people,” he replies. “What’s this about?”
“Like ‘em young, do you?” Astra asks.
He tries to cover it, but I see him swallow hard. A slight tremor passes through his body and he’s suddenly crackling with an unmistakable nervous energy. He’s doing his best to hide how anxious he is, but both Astra and I can sniff it out as easily as a shark smells blood in the water. His cocky swagger has evaporated, and he suddenly looks more like a caged animal than anything else.
“It’s like that,” he says. “I’m not like a pedophile or anything.”
“You’re really walking that fine line there though, aren’t you, Dylan?” she presses.
“Screw you. She was nineteen when we got together.”
“And you’re thirty-one,” I say. “That’s quite an age gap. Let me guess, she was really mature for her age?”
“She…”
He lets his words trail off as he apparently realizes how stupid that sounds. It’s something a lot of pedophiles say to justify their predilection. But I know he’s not a pedophile. Technically speaking, he might be considered an ephebophile, which is an adult who is sexually attracted to mid-to-late adolescents. Ephebophiles are generally considered to covet those who fall between the ages of fifteen to eighteen, or so.
But we’re not here to roust him about his perceived sexual peccadillos. We’re just trying to rattle his cage to see if we can knock him off balance and put him back on his heels. See if we can get him to admit something he otherwise wouldn’t. With us there putting the screws to him, we’re hoping he’ll crack and slip up. You’d be surprised at how often you can get people to absolutely fold if you apply just the barest amount of pressure.
He runs a hand through his hair and looks at us. “She was very mature for her age,” he says, apparently figuring that finishing his thought would look better than not. “But her age had nothing to do with it. Summer was…”
“You’re aware she was murdered just a few days ago, right?” I cut him off. “Personally, I think you seem to be fairly chipper after such a tragedy.”
That nervous energy explodes back into his face again, and his eyes dart around the bar. His face is tight, and he looks like he’s afraid of somebody overhearing him. He leans forward and pitches his voice low so only we can hear him.
“Listen, can we talk about this someplace more private?” he asks.
“Got someplace in mind?”
He nods then walks over to a blonde twenty-something in a short skirt and tight top and whispers something in her ear. She nods and he motions for us to follow him. Dylan pushes through the swinging door that leads through the kitchen. It’s sweltering in the kitchen, but the air is redolent with a host of fragrant aromas that make my belly growl. I find myself surprised once again by the place. Who would have thought you could get a good meal in a place that glitters their walls?
We follow Dylan through a black security door that’s standing propped open and out into a parking lot behind the bar. About twenty yards off is a pop-up tent that has a couple of benches, a trash can, and a standing ashtray beneath it. It’s obviously the smoker’s area. As soon as we reach the tent, Dylan fishes a pack of smokes out of his pocket and lights up. I can’t help but notice that his hand is trembling as he takes a drag of his cigarette.
“So you want to know if I killed her,” he starts.
Astra shrugs. “Did you?”
He looks at her and his face darkens. “No, I did not.”
She glances over at me. “Oh, okay. Good enough for me. I guess we should go ahead and take his name off the suspect list, boss.”
I laugh softly to myself, but Dylan’s face darkens, and he glares hard at Astra. And when he takes a step toward her, I drop my hand to the butt of my weapon. He looks over at me, and when he sees that I’m about to draw down on him, he clenches his jaw and takes a step back, his glare harder than iron. He points at Astra with two fingers, his cigarette clenched between them.
“I didn’t kill her. Why would I?”
“Oh, I can think of about a million reasons off the top of my head,” she replies. “Men kill women for all kinds of stupid reasons, all the time. You ever read the news?”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t kill her. I wouldn’t kill her,” he insists, his voice softening. “I was in love with her. I would never hurt her.”
“Even men who claim to be in love with a woman have been known to kill them,” I offer.
“Maybe so. But I didn’t,” he says. “I wanted to marry her.”
“After what, six months?” Astra scoffs.
“Sometimes you just know,” he says, sounding miserable as he drops down onto one of the benches.
I watch Dylan closely. His hand is still trembling as he raises his cigarette to his lips and takes a deep drag. The expression on his face is one of pure anguish and it looks to me like he’s fighting back tears.
“This is a nice act,” Astra presses. “But what about what you were saying inside about having a lot of
other women—”
“It’s an image. Nothing more than a stupid image,” he mutters.
“If you were so in love with Summer, why in the hell would you want to make out like you’re some big player?” Astra asks.
A wry grin curls his lips. “Because women, and some men, tend to tip better if they think you’re single. Crass, I know. But when you rely on tips, you have to work with what you have.”
On the one hand, it makes sense. On the other, it does still make me question his credibility. There’s also the fact that he’s so shaken that he’s trembling. It could be a sign of nervousness, which could be an indicator of guilt. Or it could simply be that he’s so rattled by the murder of a woman he loves, he’s barely keeping it together. At this point, I don’t have enough information to know which theory is correct. But I need to find out.
“Mr. Betts, I’d like you to come down to the field office tomorrow,” I tell him. “We have some more questions we’d like to ask you.”
“Are you arresting me?” he asks, his eyes widening.
I shake my head. “No, we’re not arresting you. We’d just like to ask you some questions, and I’d like to do it in a setting that’s more conducive to a conversation. That’s all.”
He looks from me, to Astra, and back again. I can see him mulling it all over in his mind. He’s scared. That much I can see, and I know I need to do something to agree to get him to come in. I want him on record so that we can either catch him in a lie or find a reason to exclude him from the suspect pool. Because let’s face it, in a hell of a lot of cases, it’s the significant other, be it a husband, boyfriend, or even a wife or girlfriend, who is responsible for somebody’s death.
“Look, we want to find Summer’s killer. I’m sure you want that, too. And the best way to do that is to gather up as much information as we can,” I tell him. “And that includes information from you. You very well might have a critical piece of information that you’re not even aware of right now.”
He hesitates a moment longer and then nods. “Yeah. Okay. I can come in tomorrow before my shift here,” he tells us. “Whatever you need. I just want her killer caught.”
Dylan gets up and we watch him walk away. My mind is spinning as I process everything he said, and I frown.
“That sounded sincere,” I say.
Astra nods. “It did. We may be barking up the wrong tree.”
“It’s the only tree we have right now.”
“Well, let’s shake the hell out of it tomorrow and see what falls out.”
Eleven
Interrogation Suite Alpha-2; Seattle Field Office
Astra and I stand behind the two-way glass watching Dylan Betts. He’s sitting at the table in the center of the room, nervously shifting in his seat. He pulls out a pack of smokes, then notices the large “No Smoking” sign on the wall and drops the pack. He starts to flick his lighter though and can’t seem to stop fidgeting.
We’re standing in the observation pod, giving Dylan a little time to sweat. The pod is where all the audio and visual equipment for the interrogation suites are set up. There are four two-way windows in the pod, each one overlooking one of the four interrogation suites it’s connected to. A tech sits at the control board in the corner of the room, situated before two of the windows to our left.
“Nervous,” Astra observes.
“I imagine being hauled in by the FBI has that effect.”
“Technically, he came in on his own.”
“That was the first test,” I nod. “He didn’t skip town, so that’s something.”
“True,” Astra admits. “But I’m not ready to absolve this creep just yet.”
The door to the observation room opens and Rosalinda Espinoza—Rosie to most of us—saunters in. She’s the Special Agent in Charge, or SAC, overseeing the entire Seattle Field Office. To look at her, you wouldn’t think she’s quite the rough and tumble woman she is. She’s got dark hair shot through with gray, rich tawny colored skin, and caramel-colored eyes. She’s on the smallish side, though far from waifish, and has a quiet and unassuming manner about her. She’s a straight shooter and a no-nonsense kind of woman. Rosie is tough as nails, but cares for others deeply. I have all the respect in the world for her and have never had a better boss.
“What’s all this about?” she asks, then points to Dylan. “Who’s Mr. Twitchy in there?”
“That’s Dylan Betts. The boyfriend of Summer Kennedy,” I respond.
“And Summer Kennedy is… who?”
I turn to Rosie and give her a hard look. “Do you not read the reports I every so faithfully and dutifully file?”
“I skim,” Rosie shrugs. “When I get a chance.”
“Sounds like you don’t have to file reports anymore to me,” Astra whispers.
“Yeah, that doesn’t work,” Rosie replies. “I may not read them cover to cover faithfully, but you know how the brass loves their paperwork.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I know. We all have to give the pencil necks something to push around their desks.”
“Exactly,” Rosie says. “So, fill me in.”
I tell her about the discovery of Summer Kennedy’s body and then take her through our investigation to this point. She listens closely, nodding along until I finish. Then she points to Dylan sitting beyond the glass.
“So, why is he here?” she asks. “Couldn’t you have just interviewed him at his home or place of employment?”
“I want this on record,” I tell her. “That way, if he lies, we can nail him to the wall.”
Rosie nods, but frowns. I can see her mind working and know she’s wondering the same thing Astra has already questioned me about. She turns to me.
“Okay, so this is great and all, but why aren’t you letting local LEOs handle this?” she asks. “Last I checked, SPD has a fully functioning detective’s bureau. So why take this on?”
“Hey, that’s a great question,” Astra says. “And it sounds so familiar too.”
“Stow it, Russo,” Rosie barks at her, though she’s grinning.
“Because I don’t think this is a one-off, Rosie. The level of sadism and violence this girl went through was extensive,” I explain. “Based on my experience, it feels like this isn’t the first time our unsub has killed. The killer was methodical. Careful. He wasn’t rash or impulsive and took care to employ forensic countermeasures. Those are all hallmarks of a serial. And if there’s one thing we know about Deputy Chief Torres and the SPD, it’s that they don’t handle serials well. They’re too busy covering their butts to work a case properly.”
“So, basically what you’re telling me is that you’re going on a hunch. And you’re running a parallel investigation to the SPD,” she states.
I shrug. “Yeah, pretty much. I just have a feeling about this one,” I tell her. “If we don’t get ahead of it, Summer Kennedy won’t be the last body to drop. As it is, I would bet my entire salary for the year that she wasn’t the first, either. When we start digging, I’m sure we’re going to find more.”
Rosie frowns, considering my argument. I know she’s only trying to make me sweat. My gut hunches have always been good enough for her before. I get a latitude a lot of agents don’t, simply because I have a solid track record. Does that mean I’m always right? Of course not. But I’m right more often than I’m wrong, which affords me a certain benefit of the doubt.
It’s that latitude that’s caused some friction between me and some of my fellow agents. Some of them are resentful of the opportunities I’ve been afforded. But I’ve worked my tail off to get to where I am, and I want to take advantage of that opportunity.
“And what are you doing about the ATM bandits you were so hot about a couple of weeks ago?” Rosie asks.
“I have Mo running point on that.”
She looks at me with an arched eyebrow. “Mo?”
“She’s fantastic at analyzing data points and finding patterns, especially with financial cases. Honestly, she might be even better than
I am about that, coming from White Collar,” I tell her. “I’ve got the utmost confidence she’s going to be able to crack it.”
“She’s also not real great at murder scenes,” Astra adds.
I look at Rosie. “We’re having a period of adjustment. It’s not easy to come out of White Collar straight into the blood and gore.”
Rosie turns back to the window. “And you think Mr. Twitchy in there has something to do with all of this?”
I shrug. “I don’t know yet. We need to get in there and talk to him.”
“What does your gut tell you?”
“That he’s not our guy. He genuinely seemed to care for the vic,” I say. “But I can’t exclude him just yet. Just because he’s showing his love for her right now doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a monster lurking inside of him.”
“That’s true,” Rosie nods.
“So? Do I have your blessing to run with this?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. You do,” she says. “But if it looks like you’re going to step on the SPD’s toes, I want you to liaise with them. We clear?”
“Of course.”
“I mean it, Russo. I don’t want to talk to Torres any more than you do,” she tells me with a smirk.
“You go it, boss,” I say.
“All right. Then get in there and rattle his cage. See what you get.”
“Thanks, Rosie.”
I nod to Astra and we head through the door that leads us into the interrogation room where we’ve got Dylan sitting. He looks up at us, a frown creasing his face. We take a seat at the table across from him.
“Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?” he asks.
“Only if we were arresting you,” I explain. “It’s like I said yesterday, we only want to have a conversation.”
“Okay, so… what?” he asks.
“We just want you to tell us a little more about your relationship with Summer,” Astra starts.
