by Alex Ander
Her shoulders bobbed up and down, as her amusement blossomed.
Nodding, Randall turned away, a grin of his own materializing. “You really had me going there. I thought you were serious.” He glanced down. “I think my palms were even sweating.”
“I’m sorry.” Her laughter waned. “I might have played that out a bit too much.”
He faced her. “You think?” He touched his chest. “For a minute there, I thought we were going to have to stop for some nitroglycerin tablets when this was over.”
Devlin chuckled. “I’ve just always wanted to say that to one of Faith’s boyfriends.”
“And you picked me, huh? Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“Well, if my newfound suspicions are correct,” she opened her door, “I won’t be getting another chance to say it.”
Picking up on her implications, he smiled inwardly, got out of the sedan, and met her at the start of the upward-sloping black asphalt driveway. “Just so you know, payback for that will be swift and complete.”
She nodded once. “I expect nothing less.”
“And at a time and place of my choosing.”
They reached the front entryway, Devlin on Randall’s right.
She poked the buzzer to the left of the door’s brass loop handle and smiled at her partner. “So, it begins,” a beat, “the back-and-forth exchange of verbal barbs and—”
The door opened.
Emerging in the archway, a five-five barefooted mid-twenties woman in a pair of blue flannel pajamas—a slick sheen on her tousled, matted hair—greeted the members of law enforcement.
Devlin noted a darkened expanse beyond the woman’s left shoulder then noticed drooping eyelids, a down-turned mouth, and swollen bags under the homeowner’s eyes. “Julia Witten?”
The woman yawned while nodding. “You the marshals that were supposed to be stopping by?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Devlin produced her credentials and held them up. “I’m Marshal Devlin, and,” she motioned to her left, “this is Deputy Marshal Randall.”
Randall dipped his chin once, glimpsed Devlin, and came back to the grieving woman. “We’re very sorry for your loss, Ms. Witten.”
Witten acknowledged the sentiment with a half-hearted nod.
Devlin stowed her cred pack. “With all that you must be going through, we realize this is a bad time. But if we could speak with you about what happened that day, we’d really appreciate it.”
“Of course.” Witten opened the door further, turned, and shuffled deeper into the blackened abode. “I mean that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
The agents entered.
Randall closed the door and followed Devlin into the living room, stumbling a bit when his foot sent something rolling across the hardwood floor.
Witten cranked her head around at the noise. “I’m sorry.” She trudged to the other side of the room and threw open the curtains. “I guess—” wincing, she held up a hand at the sun beaming in from the west, “I guess I should’ve turned on a light, so you could make your way around.”
“That’s,” he picked up the object he had kicked, an empty wine bottle, and placed it on an end table alongside another empty wine bottle, “that’s quite all right, ma’am. No harm done.”
Rubbing her forehead, her head bowed, Witten lumbered to an afghan-laden three-person sofa situated across from a matching floral-print loveseat, a dark wooden coffee table in between the two pieces. “Please,” she dragged a hand down her face, took a deep breath, and exhaled, “have a seat.”
The federal agents eyed the drained wine bottles, exchanged a look of raised eyebrows, then sat on the loveseat.
Taking a position closer to the front door, Randall lowered himself onto the cushion on Devlin’s three o’clock.
Their host plopped onto the sofa, brought ankles to her butt, and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “I’m not sure what more I can add to what I’ve already told the police.”
Devlin crossed her legs at the knee. “We were hoping you could simply tell us what you told them.” She motioned toward Randall. “We’re coming at this case with fresh eyes. And if it’s all right with you, we’d like to hear what happened,” a tick, “in your own words, that is. I know this must be difficult for you, so please take your time.”
Her chest rising and falling, Witten let out a prolonged sigh while looking away. “Todd and I were standing in line when they burst into the bank and shouted at everyone to…”
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Chapter 8
Rose Bloom 55
“And then they just ran out of the bank.” Witten imagined holding her boyfriend’s lifeless body in her arms. “And,” she put a hand to her mouth and nose, “and that’s when I looked up and,” she sniffled, “started balling.” Her shoulders rocked up and down, as she stifled her sobs.
Devlin and Randall spied each other.
The whimpering woman lifted blankets, glanced at the end tables on either side of her, and leaned forward to scan the floor.
Spotting an object under the coffee table, Randall stood, stooped to retrieve the light-colored box, and set the carton on the couch next to her before heading toward the kitchen.
“Thank you.” Witten plucked three tissues from the container then wiped them over her eyes and nose. “I’m sorry. Sometimes, I-I…I just can’t control the emotions any longer. And I just lose it.”
Devlin proffered a disappearing partial smile. “I think you’re allowed to lose it, Ms. Witten. You’ve experienced something people shouldn’t have to go through.”
Returning, Randall held out a tall glass while placing an overly ripe banana and a foil-wrapped granola bar on the coffee table. “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped my bounds, but I thought some water might be in order.”
Witten wrinkled her nose at the brown-colored fruit.
He noticed. “I didn’t think it appropriate to rummage through your kitchen cupboards, so I just grabbed what was in sight.”
Picking up the granola bar and tearing the foil off the snack, she regarded him with a faint smile on her face. “That was sweet of you. Thank you. Todd always does nice—” she caught the incorrect verb tense but kept going, “nice little things like that for me.”
Randall sent a smile and a nod her way, “You’re welcome,” before taking his spot next to his partner.
Devlin spied him out of the corner of her eye, her heart tingling at his kind gesture.
Witten nibbled on the bar.
Devlin faced her. “Ms. Witten, is there anyth—”
“Please,” Witten acknowledged Randall then eyed her female counterpart, “feel free to call me Julia. You two have been the first ones—among the FBI men, that is—to show me some kindness. I got the impression they only saw me as a source of information.”
“Thank you. And we’re sorry for how you’ve been treated.” A beat. “Julia, is there anything you can tell us about the robbers…anything you thought was unique, stood out in any way? We’ve gone over the video footage from the bank. But was there anything you noticed—or heard— that might not be on the recording?”
Taking a bigger bite of the bar, she chewed while her gaze went to the ceiling for the next twenty seconds. She swallowed. “All I can say is that they moved like they were soldiers or something.” She shot a look at each agent. “You know what I mean?”
Not wanting to influence the woman’s recollection, Devlin and Randall said nothing.
“Todd used to watch these shows about these SWAT guys, these…these…I think they were called tactical…tactical operators.”
Having come to the same conclusion about the robbers, after having watched their movements during the heist, Devlin and Randall nodded.
“They moved with purpose. They swung their guns back and forth, each one protecting—covering each other—is what I think it’s called.” Witten finished off the goodie, crinkled the wrapper and tossed it onto the coffee table.
Devlin leaned forward. “Did they say anything…anything out of the ordinary?”
Witten slowly shook her head. “Only one of them, the tall one, ever said anything. And that was only short sentences…sixty seconds, thirty seconds, let’s go…things like tha—” she frowned then dipped her chin to stare at the floor.
Devlin and Randall peeked at each other before coming back to the pondering woman.
Her mouth agape, Witten wagged a finger in the air. “Rose Bloom 55.” She cast alternating glances at her questioners. “I remember smelling Rose Bloom 55 when one of the robbers—the small, short one pushed me and Todd to the floor.”
Randall cocked his head at her. “Ma’am?”
She observed the confusion on his face. “It’s the name of a perfume. Todd bought me a bottle for my first birthday after we got together. It’s very expensive. I’d only wear it when we’d go out for dinner, go to a wedding, make lov—” she dipped her chin to peer at nothing specific. “You know…special occasions.”
Remembering her own ‘special occasion’ from this morning, Devlin smiled inwardly before sadness crept into her thoughts, as she imagined what it would feel like to lose her husband in a violent shooting. Her heart went out to the woman who would never again feel her boyfriend’s touch.
Witten cleared her throat and lifted her head. “Anyway, I know I smelled that fragrance. And I know I wasn’t wearing it that morning. We were just running errands. So, I think one of the robbers had to be a woman.” She paused. “In fact, I’m almost sure of it.”
Devlin poked her chin at the female across from her. “Why’s that? A woman nearby could’ve been wearing that scent.”
Witten made a face. “I suppose that’s possible. But before I was pushed to the floor, I looked at her, the thin robber, and I saw extremely long, extremely dark eyelashes behind the goggles she was wearing. Now, I know men can have long lashes, too, but this person was wearing mascara. I could see it clumping in places.” Witten confronted the female marshal. “I’m positive that robber was a woman.” She went from Devlin to Randall. “I just remembered that detail, so I probably didn’t mention it to the FBI. Do you think that’s helpful...in catching these people, I mean?”
Randall offered the woman a warm smile. “It most certainly is. Thank you.”
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Chapter 9
If You’ll Indulge Me...
2:59 P.M.
Following a few more minutes of questioning Witten, Devlin and Randall stood, thanked her for her time, and made their way to the front door, Devlin in the lead.
Hearing a sigh coming from behind, he looked over his shoulder to see a sullen expression overtaking Witten’s face. She’s sinking back into a funk again.
Devlin opened the door.
Randall stopped and faced his host. “Ma’am, if you’ll indulge me for a moment before we leave.”
She peered up at him.
“When I was sixteen, I fell head over heels for this girl a couple years younger than me. I mean we spent every free minute we had together doing all sorts of things.”
Devlin pulled up short and faced her partner, her brows bunched together. I thought we were finished here.
“Yes, at the time, at the age of sixteen, I had thought she was the one.” He chuckled. “Then, one day I found out that she wasn’t quite as fond of me as I was of her. Chalk it up to young love, teenage hormones, fickleness...whatever. The relationship died.”
Picking up on his last word, Witten intertwined her forearms and tilted her head to one side.
“Well, anyway, when she left me, and I discovered she was seeing this other guy, I went into a deep funk.” He glanced around at the darkened dwelling. “I spent all my time in my bedroom...under the covers with the curtains closed and the lights out...licking my wounds.”
Witten shot a look at her surroundings.
“I even downed,” he shook his head at the floor, “way too many twenty-ounce bottles of soda pop.”
Envisioning the wine bottles behind her, she averted her gaze and swallowed.
“This went on for,” he spied the ceiling, “oh, I’d say a good week or more. Then, Pops walks into my—Pops was my grandfather. He was also my mentor and my best friend all rolled into a good man.”
Devlin folded forearms over her chest and inwardly settled in for the story, for the nugget of truth, the inspirational ending she knew was coming.
“Anyway, he walked into my darkened room and kicked one of those pop bottles I had littered around. Only this one,” he glimpsed the empty wine bottles on the end table, “wasn’t empty. It was half full. And it spilled all over the carpeting.”
Devlin winced then eyed Witten to see the woman totally engrossed, totally focused on the storyteller.
“Pops never said a word, though. He just picked up the bottle, put the cap back on, and set it aside. Then, he sat on the edge of the bed, clasped his hands together, put his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward. Of course, I said nothing. Wasn’t in the mood for talking, for company, for eating...pretty much wasn’t in the mood for anything.” He peeped at Witten. “You know what I mean?”
She pressed her lips together.
“Five minutes pass, and I can’t take the silence anymore. So, I said to him ‘Go ahead, Pops. Tell me I’m acting dumb. Tell me I just need to get over her and move on with life.’” Randall half snickered, his mind taking him back to that moment. “And you know what he did, what he said to me?”
Witten took a half step toward Randall and leaned in closer, her eyes boring a hole through the man’s skull.
Devlin noticed. She also noticed that the woman’s demeanor had done an about-face, as Witten waited for the ending. She no longer had that sad, sullen, ready-to-slit-her-wrists facade. Devlin regarded her partner and privately beamed. You sure know how to capture people’s attention.
“Pops just barely shook his head and said, ‘Nothing to be said, Son. Pain comes and pain goes. In between those times, people just need to know that others are around...others who care about them and who are standing by ready to help.’” Randall squinted at Witten and noted watery eyes and a barely perceptible twitching lower lip.
Blinking repeatedly, the woman looked away.
Ten silent moments passed.
“Now, I’m in no way implying that what I went through is anywhere close to the devastating loss you’ve endured, Ms—” he shook his head, “Julia. But what I am saying is,” he paused, “you have loved ones who care about you, who want to help you. Don’t,” he jutted out his chin at the gloomy setting behind her, “don’t stay holed up inside. In time, your pain will pass...or at the very least become bearable. Remember what my Pops said. Pain comes and pain goes. But until it leaves you, know that others who care about you stand ready to help you.” He laid a gentle hand on her right shoulder. “Let them in, Julia.”
Her face contorting, unable to keep her lower lip from quivering any longer, she went to tip toes and hugged him.
Randall returned the gesture before adding a couple pats between her shoulder blades.
Ten seconds later, she backed away and wiped her eyes. “What kind of cops are you, anyway?” She sniffled and swiped at her nose. “Do you always go around counseling people?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Everyone has to have a backup plan in case their day job doesn’t pan out.”
She snorted out a quick laugh then waggled her head a couple times. Her eyes grew bigger in the next instant. “Since this all started,” she huffed, “I can’t really remember the last time I actually laughed.”
Devlin smiled.
Randall mimicked his partner’s expression. “It suits you well. Take care of yourself, Julia.”
“I will. Thank you.”
The marshals exited the home and headed down the driveway.
Witten listed toward them. “So, are you going to catch the people who murdered Todd?”
Randall whirled arou
nd. “Hell yeah, we are.”
Devlin scowled at him before facing Witten and delivering a more measured, professional reply. “We’re going to do everything in our power to see that justice is served.”
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Chapter 10
Bank Note
3:39 P.M.
Having come across a nearby small ‘mom and pop’ pizzeria, which they later learned was a favorite among the locals, Devlin and Randall had ordered a medium pizza and were now in the process of devouring it. He was on his third slice, and she was halfway through piece number two. Having stopped in between the lunchtime and dinnertime rush, the agents had the place to themselves, as they sat across from each other in a dark-green vinyl booth.
Devlin finished chewing, wiped her face with a cloth napkin, then took a moment to eyeball Randall.
Noticing her, he swallowed the food in his mouth. “What’s the look for?” He picked up his glass of water.
She grinned. “I was just thinking of what you said to Ms. Witten...your Pops story.”
He took a swig and returned the vessel to the table. “Here we go, again, with you picking on me about my stories.”
“No. No. Quite the contrary. I’m impressed with how you can captivate your audience. You have an ability, maybe even a gift, to be able to,” she made a gripping motion with her right hand, “pluck someone out of their troubles, their problems, or whatever they may be dealing with and impart on them some, some...hope or inspiration.”
Randall nodded, “Well, thank you for saying that,” before taking a big bite of food.
“So, how is it you have so many stories to tell, anyway? You’re only thirty-six.”
Holding up an index finger, he chewed.
Devlin took a sip of water.
Swallowing, he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Age has nothing to do with it, Jessica. If you’ve lived in this world for five minutes, you have a story to tell. Everyone has stories. In fact, life is nothing more than a collection of stories that have played out...one right after another.” Randall pumped his forefinger at her. “The tough part is sharing them with others.”
