by Robin Caroll
Jackson grunted again. “Show Baxter to his desk. Give him the grand tour.” He plopped back down to his chair, an obvious dismissal.
Hartlock headed over the threshold. Rafe hesitated. “Thank you, sir.”
Jackson gave a quick nod.
Rafe turned and followed the ASAC down the hall. Their footsteps were muffled by the carpet as they headed toward a large room filled with cubicles.
“Pay no attention to Alphonse. He thinks he’s a grizzly when really he’s nothing more than a teddy bear.”
Yeah. Sure. Right.
“And call me Lars, by the way. Never really got into the whole last name thing.” Hartlock turned into the room and stopped at the first cubicle.
Two desks sat together, forming a big square. One side was empty. The other housed a dumpy-looking, balding man. How long had it been since he’d qualified on the physical?
“This is Jack Devane, my partner.”
Rafe extended his hand. “Rafe Baxter, new kid on the block.”
Devane stood and shook hands. Not a firm one like his partner’s. And his hands were beefier and sweaty. “Pleased to meet you. Welcome to our humble abode.” Shorter than both Rafe and Hartlock, he wore his cheap black suit without flair or style. He had to be a couple of years older than Hartlock, maybe even Jackson.
“Come on, I’ll show you to your work space before I introduce you to the rest of the crew.” Hartlock walked at a fast clip to the cubicle in the corner. “Here you go.”
If Rafe had entertained any thoughts about being accepted from the get-go, his fantasy shattered right now. The cubicle he’d call his office was less than half the size of the others they’d passed. A lone desk sat pushed against one wall, with just enough room to squeeze around to sit. The lighting over the cubicle was shadowy, at best. He’d have to get a desk lamp to be able to read. Winter seemed to have crept into the corner, making the small space even gloomier.
Rafe stepped into the cramped cubicle.
“Human Resources already set you up in the computer. Same system as what you’re used to. Your login and initial password is taped there to the monitor.” Hartlock leaned against the cubicle’s opening. His cell phone filled the stale air with chirping.
While Hartlock took his call, Rafe lowered himself onto the ripped chair and spied the yellow scrap of paper on the screen.
Hartlock slipped his cell back into its holder and addressed Rafe. “Alphonse said we should let you work some cold cases . . . just to get your feet wet with the new location and all.” He pushed off the opening and pointed to the dented in-box on the corner of the desk. “There’s a listing of all this office’s cold cases. Pick any you want to work. Maybe a fresh set of eyes will blow open a case. The files are in the record room, right off this main hall. It’s got a sign on the door.”
So much for the grand tour.
“I’ll hook up with you later to introduce you around. Just got a call that Jack and I have a witness to interrogate, or I’d do it now.”
An excuse or the truth? Didn’t matter. Either way, Rafe was on his own. “Thanks for showing me around.” He reached for the list.
“Let me know if I can help you with anything.” With that, Hartlock smiled and disappeared.
Rafe heaved a sigh and let the list slip from his fingers. It slid to the desk, sending particles of dust dancing into the air.
The bit he’d seen of Little Rock over the last few days wasn’t so different from Memphis. The efficiency apartment he’d rented was nice enough, as was the neighborhood to the west of the city, but he already missed his coworkers back home. And his sisters. And Darren and Savannah. The memory of telling them good-bye almost shattered his resolve.
What was he doing here? Was the sacrificing of his personal dreams going to be enough? Would it restore his relationship with God? Would it make up for his breaking of one of the Big Ten?
He sat straighter in the chair. It squeaked as he inched closer to the desk and lifted the list again. Maybe if he solved a couple of these cold cases, he’d earn the respect of the agents here.
A grunt of laughter boomed outside his cubicle. Maybe he should make the first move. Careful not to slam his chair into the wall, Rafe stood and stepped into the hall.
Two agents stopped in their tracks. One was about twenty-five or so—had to be a rookie—with wild, scraggly hair, scrawny at no more than five eight or nine. The other man looked to be at least ten years the rookie’s senior and stood at least six one or two.
Rafe smiled and extended his hand. “Rafe Baxter, new to the office.”
Neither man moved at first. Then, after the longest pregnant pause Rafe had ever experienced, the rookie took his hand. “Ed Major. Undercover.” That explained the grunge look.
“Jay Snead.” The agent beside Ed didn’t bother extending his hand before moving on down the hall.
Ed hesitated a moment, offered Rafe a quick shrug, then hurried after Jay.
Rafe stared at their retreating backs. He was about as welcome here as a severe case of shingles.
Day 24
Oh-my-stars, I was officially on the run now, with an illegal identity.
I glanced at my new driver’s license, the third one I’d had made since the original fake identification Smitty had procured for me. Didn’t matter the name, as long as they were different. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Smitty . . . or Mike . . . or Brian, it was all a matter of burying myself under many layers.
Layers that would keep me alive.
Completing my inspection of the documents, I nodded at the man, keeping my eyes from darting from his stare. “This all looks satisfactory.” I forced myself not to tighten my slouch.
“That’ll be fifteen hundred.” Brian glanced over his shoulder, then slid his focus back at me.
Textbook indicator of nervousness and deception.
I paid the man cash, then hopped into my new-to-me truck. Man, if only I could’ve bought another little hybrid—I’d adored mine—but the point was to do what a normal person on the run wouldn’t. And that meant, for me, forsaking cute, energy-saving cars in lieu of a big diesel truck. I couldn’t even get blue. Had to settle for a white one.
The sun dipped behind the trees. I snuggled into my leather coat. Snow wouldn’t hit Arkansas again until February. This was my window of opportunity to escape. But the gloominess of the weather tugged at me. I turned over the engine and welcomed the heat from the vents. On instinct alone, I glanced around the parking lot of the hotel.
My hands trembled and I could almost taste nicotine. I cracked the truck window, letting the fresh air fill my lungs.
Wasn’t as satisfying.
I had no excuse not to head toward my destination. As I pulled out of the lot in North Little Rock, emotion clogged my throat. I gripped the steering wheel tighter as I drove, willing determination to put a dam on the waterworks threatening to erupt. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down, not even an inch.
Right now, everything in me screamed to do something about Daniel’s murder. I’d watched the news as they reported the murder, including the BOLO for me. Yeah, the feds were on the lookout for me all right. They just assumed I’d act like everyone else and try to get as far away as fast as possible.
Stupid of them, really, knowing what I did. I’d taught them, for pity’s sake. I’d instructed them for years on what to expect from someone on the run. Did it never occur to them I’d do the exact opposite?
Obviously not.
Perhaps local could get involved. Ask the right questions. Look at what the feds would ignore. I sure couldn’t trust anyone with what I’d witnessed, but maybe an anonymous tip.
I couldn’t do nothing.
I whipped the truck into a convenience store’s parking lot in Pine Bluff and pulled alongside the pay phone. Harder
to find than most people realized these days. Everyone had a cell. I glanced at my shiny new Go-phone in the console. No one could track it back to me, but I didn’t want any law enforcement to have the number.
Silly to have a phone when I had no one to call, but I needed a number for reference when I tried to rent a place, or anything else. Most people were suspicious of folks who stood out from their perception of normal—paying for everything with cash, having no telephone number and the likes. Now so many people didn’t bother with landlines, so only having a cell was the norm rather than something that would raise questions.
I slipped out of the truck, handgun in my coat pocket, and lifted the pay-phone receiver. Fighting the urge to jerk my head in every direction, I let my gaze roam the area. No one paid any interest to the brunette at the pay phone at dusk. The parking lot was a bustle of activity as people stopped to pick up last-minute items on their way home from work. As per the pattern of human nature, busy people paid attention to very little outside their own world.
My fingers trembled a bit as I punched 911 and cleared my throat. I couldn’t just blurt out the truth. They’d know I was alive in a nanosecond and come after me. I was still too close, the murder too high profile. I could only hint, and not too obvious at that.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“I have information about the murder of Daniel Tate.” I glanced at my watch. No way could I allow them to trace the call to this phone. I sped up my information, struggling to keep from telling all. “They need to look at his recent cases. That’s the connection.”
“May I have your name?”
My heart pounded and I knew I exhibited a million nervous nuances that anyone with a little training could detect. “My name isn’t important. Just listen to what I’m telling you. Have the police check Judge Tate’s most recent cases. The murderers are a direct connection to one of those cases.”
I hung up the phone and let out a long breath. First dry run with law enforcement, and I hadn’t done so hot. I’d have to work harder.
Or go with my gut instinct and avoid cops at all costs from here on out.
Now what?
Hayden Simpson held his breath as his younger sister marched into the Hopewell police station. By her quick pace and scowled face, there was no mistaking she was ticked off about something. And it had to do with him, no doubt. Didn’t it always these days?
She approached his desk, hands on her hips. “Why did you give Boyd a DUI?”
Glancing at his day officer’s interested stare, Hayden rose and shut the office door before addressing Emily. “Why do you think? Because he was driving under the influence.” He returned to his chair, gauging her reaction.
“He wasn’t drunk. He’d only had two beers.” She blew her wispy blonde bangs from her forehead. “You pulled him over because you don’t approve of our dating.” Emily crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “Admit it.”
“I pulled him over because he was weaving all over the road. I gave him a DUI because he failed the field sobriety test. It had nothing to do with you.” But that it’d been Boyd Keller had made him enjoy his job.
Emily huffed, much like she’d done as a spoiled toddler. “You don’t approve of me and Boyd.”
Of course not—the man was married! Hayden selected his words very carefully. “Em, I only want you to be happy. I just don’t think being involved with a married man is going to give you happiness in the long run.” If only he could tell his sister what he really thought. But he’d learned the hard way—Em was stubborn enough to do the exact opposite of any lecture he gave her. He had to slip little bits of truth in when he could.
“He’s getting a divorce.”
“Does MaryBeth know that?”
Emily’s face fell. He was lower than pond scum for hurting his sister. Especially considering her illness. But someone had to be the voice of reason. And since Dad died . . . the duty fell to him.
Standing, Hayden rounded his desk and put an arm around her. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but just last week MaryBeth was telling some of the young ladies at church she and Boyd were looking for a house to buy. Doesn’t sound like someone getting a divorce, does it?” Why couldn’t Emily see the truth about Boyd? Was she that naive or delusional? Could it be her bipolar disorder?
Shrugging out of his embrace, Emily narrowed her eyes. “Lies. She’s trying to turn the town against Boyd. She knows he doesn’t love her anymore but doesn’t want him to leave.” Emily stomped her foot, firming up Hayden’s memories of her terrible childhood tantrums. “He loves me. He’s going to divorce MaryBeth and marry me. You’ll see.”
If only his sister wasn’t so fanciful. Or was she still acting out, pulling her rebellious routine? It’d gotten old already. He could never know for sure if it was her disorder or just plain old rebellion. “I hope it works out for the best.”
She cocked her head as if to wonder if he meant that best for her or best for MaryBeth.
He kept his expression neutral as he went back to sit behind his desk. Small steps.
“So, can you drop that DUI charge?”
His jaw fell. His sister actually believed he’d let it go? “I can’t do that, Em. This is my job, and he failed the field test. And the test here at the station.”
“Please, Hay.” Her voice tipped to whining, and she used his long-abandoned pet name. “Boyd’s a good man. He’s just under a lot of stress because of everything going on with MaryBeth. He can’t have another DUI on his record. His insurance company will drop him.”
So sad, so sorry. Hayden had to concentrate on keeping his expression in place. “I can’t, even if I wanted to. The report’s been filed, his insurance company already notified.”
Her face scrunched. And turned red. Really red. “I knew you wouldn’t help us. You hate the idea of me and Boyd. Offends your Christian sensibilities.”
So she was back to personal slams on his faith. He wouldn’t take the offense.
“You’ll be sorry one day, Hayden. Sorry you didn’t listen to me.”
He cleared his throat. “Hey, Bella and I are going fishing next week. Want to come with us?”
She opened her mouth, hesitated, then clamped it shut. Without another word, she spun around and stomped from his office, slamming the door in her wake.
Lord, why did You make women so confounding? His baby sister included. No, his baby sister especially.
He’d take her exit as a no on the fishing invitation.
Chapter Four
“Things do not change; we change.”
HENRY DAVID THOREAU
Day 28
The twanginess of the country western singer’s voice spilled from the truck’s radio speakers as I crossed the Arkansas state line into Louisiana.
I grinded my teeth. Oh-my-stars, how did people listen to this stuff? And like it? I reached over and turned the volume louder. The grating on my nerves didn’t improve.
A record of purchases I’d made in the past was being scoured over by the FBI. They would try to track me from new purchases in the same items. Human nature demanded people re-create their comfort zones, even when they shouldn’t.
It was why so many in the Witness Security Program failed. They couldn’t go against what was ingrained in them. Dog lovers got canine pets. People who loved certain country singers would continue to buy the same artist’s CDs. Lovers of a certain brand of coffee or soft drink would keep to their drinking preferences. And these little telling signs often outed people trying to hide.
Not me. I knew the score. Was trained to look for and track these trends. Had taught many agents to do the same. I wouldn’t make a mistake.
But, man . . . this music . . .
A forlorn diner sat off the road, its neon sign in the window lit up the word OPEN, calling to me. Nestl
ed against a dark, wooded backdrop, the eatery was perfect.
I hit my brakes and whipped into the deserted lot and parked. Darkness surrounded me. I grabbed my purse and flipped open my wallet, gazing at my new license.
Once sure I wouldn’t slip up on my identity, I headed inside. Even though no one would probably ask my name, it never hurt to be prepared. A little bell over the door announced my arrival. The strong aroma of coffee wrapped around me like a down comforter. My stomach growled as I took in the surroundings.
Small, a little on the shabby side, but at least the diner didn’t look like they’d gotten many warnings from the health department. A single man sat at a corner booth, his face buried in the latest hardback best seller.
“Sit anywhere you want, honey.” A skinny woman in a seventies waitress outfit appeared behind the counter. She lifted a carafe. “Just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
My taste buds tingled as I dropped into the vinyl booth closest to the door.
She hovered tableside, her from-a-bottle red hair pulled a little too severely from her face with a band and bounced with her movements. “Coffee?”
I salivated and reached to turn over the cup on the saucer she’d put before me. I froze, swallowing before clearing my throat. “No, thank you. Just water, please.”
The woman’s arched brows went up a good half inch. “Water?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please.” I lifted the stained menu from behind the napkin dispenser before I snatched the pot from her hand and downed the scalding liquid. I so needed a cigarette right now.
“Suit yourself.” She went back behind the counter, her slippers shuffling against the dirty linoleum floor.
Now, to figure out what I wanted. While I’d love a fresh salad, I didn’t think the word fresh and salad should be used in the same sentence in such a place. One of the reasons I’d pulled in—I’d never eaten at a real diner before.
I’d stomached a piece of pepperoni yesterday and it hadn’t made me hurl. Not like the first beef hamburger last week. The stomach cramps were the worst. Over time my body would get used to the nastiness stuffed into it, but I doubted I’d ever learn to truly enjoy the taste of dead animal.
