A Sharp Solitude_A Novel of Suspense

by Christine Carbo

• • •

  “Here,” I say, handing Emily a warm turtleneck and jeans I’ve picked out from her drawer in her bedroom. “Put these on.”

  “Why can’t you come with us?” She’s turning high-pitched again.

  I force myself to take a seat on her disheveled bed to signal that we’re in no hurry. “Because I have to go to work,” I say softly and calmly. “Just for a little while, though.”

  “But you promised.”

  “I’ll be back soon, sweetie. After you get ice cream with Herman. That sounds like fun, right? You won’t even know I’m gone.” I know Emily loves Herman; she’s always asking me if he can come over for barbecues. She’s much more social than I’ve ever been, and sometimes I think she’s lonely spending so much time with Rose and me at home when she’s not at school or with her father.

  She smiles and nods enthusiastically, then pulls on the turtleneck. “I have an idea.” She grins. “After we get ice cream, you, Herman, and me can all go for a picnic.”

  She’s proud of her idea, so I refrain from telling her that it’s too cold for a picnic, but I can’t help but correct her grammar. “ ‘You, Herman, and I,’ ” I say. “Come on,” I encourage her, “Herman’s waiting.”

  • • •

  When I get to the county building, Brander is waiting for me inside. He tells me we’re meeting with Commander Vance in her office. I’m irritated that they’ve involved her. I want to point out to them what a bunch of candy-asses they are. Why can’t they talk to me first like professional adults without running to their commander? But I bite my tongue. I also want to ask why he felt the need to wake my nanny over this nonsense, but I don’t. I know I’m the one being childish. I feel like I’m heading to the principal’s office or, worse, like I’m going to see Sara Seafeldt so she can pry answers from me about my out-of-control home life and report my mom. I straighten my coat collar and pull my shoulders back.

  This can’t be good, I think, but brush the idea away. Commander Vance is not my boss. She can do damage to me only if she decides to call the higher-ups in Salt Lake City, which would be an aggressive, out-of-character move on her part. Besides, she and I get along just fine, and she was very pleased with the work that Herman and I did on a recent local Internet child pornography operation. Brander doesn’t say a word as we approach her office door, and I smooth my hair behind my ears as I enter.

  Reynolds is seated in one of the two chairs before Vance’s desk, one leg crossed over the other and smiling like they’ve got some joke going. Vance stands up immediately when I walk in, which I appreciate. “Agent Paige.” She smiles politely. “Thank you for coming, especially on a weekend.”

  “No problem,” I say. “Happy to help.”

  “Have a seat.” She waves to the chair next to Reynolds, who hasn’t bothered to rise. I hesitate, since that leaves Brander without a chair and I’m not sure I want to sit anyway, but I figure I should be as compliant as possible. I take the seat while Brander goes over to the window and props a hip on the sill. A maple tree outside is framing Brander in gold, making him look like some college student hanging out in a professor’s office. It makes me wish I was simply dealing with him, not Vance and Reynolds too.

  I glance at Reynolds. The smile has faded from his face and he’s got a set of cold cop eyes going. We’ve all developed our own version of the look over time. I remember one of my instructors in Quantico telling me: Paige, agent eyes are not full of rage. Get the anger out of that face. The secret to a good glare is the absence of emotion!

  Reynolds is adopting that void stare, Brander is staying neutral, and Vance is going for courtesy, a small, pleasant smile still playing on her lips. “So, Agent Paige, I’m not sure if you know why we’ve asked you here?” Her brow lifts in question.

  “I have an idea,” I say, motioning with my head toward Brander. “Brander filled me in some.”

  “Yes.” She looks at her desk for a moment and folds her hands before her. “Unfortunately, it’s come to our attention that one of our suspects, Reeve Landon, apparently is the father of your child.”

  I sit still, not nodding, not replying.

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes, he’s the father of my daughter.”

  “And, well, I was with you watching him get interrogated, and you didn’t mention that you knew him. I’m curious why you didn’t.”

  I let out a pent-up breath, keep my eyes trained on Vance, and refrain from glancing at either Brander or Reynolds. Her hair is in a tight bun, and pale, cinnamon-colored freckles dot her forehead and her cheekbones. She’s still looking at me with a closed-lip smile, but her eyes pierce mine with an air of authority, like some of the SACs—special agents in charge—I’ve served in the past. They say loud and clear, I’ve been through a lot to get to this position, and my expectations of you are high. I want to look away, but I force myself to keep my eyes on hers. I begin with the truth: “I didn’t mention that I knew him because I like to keep that part of my life private, Commander. I figured it bore no relevance on the questioning that was going on, and I didn’t want to bring up my own personal stuff, or”—I shrug—“give any reason to spark gossip around the local forces before I even knew if he’d become a person of interest. I’m sure you can understand.”

  She doesn’t nod, but I can see it register. She’s a high-level female in a male-dominated profession. Of course she understands my need for privacy. In fact I know very little about her family situation, either, only that she has no kids. There’s rumor that she has a female partner, but I have no idea if it’s true or if they’re married or what. “But,” she proceeds cautiously, “you didn’t just watch the interview. You’ve also spoken about the case to both the detectives here and to our forensics department.”

  It bothers me that Ray or Gretchen told them about our conversations—it feels like a betrayal, though maybe that’s just my ego talking. “I was asking out of curiosity,” I say. “It’s an interesting case.”

  “Uh-huh, even more interesting because it involves the father of your child?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t take that part seriously. I mean, right, there’s no real evidence to suggest that Mr. Landon had anything to do with it?”

  “Brander and Reynolds here”—she motions to them—“they beg to differ.”

  “All right, well, I’m sorry for asking questions. I really just wanted to be helpful,” I say as sweetly as I can muster. I can feel the heat in my cheeks and sweat begins to prickle the back of my neck. I’m hoping they haven’t turned red.

  “We can certainly appreciate that, and you know we always appreciate your assistance. But clearly there’s a conflict of interest here, and I’m surprised that you wouldn’t think better of getting involved.”

  “I understand that, but I figured if you found any real evidence to back your suspicion of Mr. Landon, I would fill you all in about my personal connection to him. But honestly I didn’t think you would, and I don’t know if anything else has emerged, but I’m still not seeing anything to suggest that you have.” I can hear the edge starting to take shape in my voice, and I can feel a pulse begin to throb in my neck. I try to slow my breathing down to regain control over it.

  Reynolds shifts in his seat and puffs out a quick disbelieving humph of air.

  “Besides”—I lift my chin, ready to lay it on them—“the case Herman and I are working on involves the victim too.”

  Vance narrows her eyes and leans forward. “How so?”

  I tell her about Anne Marie’s connection to Smith, omitting the fact that I just found out about it, but aware that this is going to lead her to ask me why I didn’t share that development with them in the first place. “I called Brander about it early this morning.”

  She looks at Brander.

  “I didn’t get back to her, what with these developments.” He sounds defensive, turns to me, and says, “How long have you known this?”

  I have no choice but to be honest. Saying it was the reason I
was poking around from the beginning would make things even worse because it would have been equally damaging to our relationship with the county to hold back vital information about a murder victim. “I discovered it late last night when I was going through the case file.”

  “That’s certainly an interesting piece of information,” Commander Vance says, looking from Reynolds to Brander.

  Brander jots down notes, but Reynolds wears a smirk that says he thinks I’m grasping at straws and that he doesn’t think it will mean much in the scheme of things. I can tell he already believes they have their man.

  “Yes, it is.” I perk up and scoot to the edge of my seat. “Especially since it implies she’s been hanging around some pretty violent types. Not to mention the gun stuff she was involved with.” I turn toward Reynolds and Brander. “Have you two looked into any of the characters she interviewed for her articles?”

  “Look, Agent Paige,” Reynolds says, “with all due respect”—clearly a disingenuous preface based on the level of irritation in his voice—“we’ll certainly look at all the elements. But right now, let’s stick to what’s right in front of us. Let us ask you this: Where is your ex-husband?”

  “He’s not my ex-husband,” I say. “We have never been married.”

  “Excuse me. Ex-boyfriend. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Probably working.”

  “On a weekend? When all of this is going on? His cell phone untraceable, his cabin vacant since early this morning? That’s very suspicious behavior, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, not really—not for a guy who spends copious time in the woods on a regular basis. I’m sure he’ll be back by this evening.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he says. “But, see”—he extends his arm dramatically to me and addresses his commander—“this is why there’s a huge conflict of interest.”

  “You asked me a question,” I say.

  Vance nods and looks impatiently at Reynolds like she doesn’t need his theatrics. Right then I want to smile at her, but I know that won’t come across so well. “Let’s back up a bit here,” she says, raising a hand. “How will you be handling this Smith case going forward, given the fact that you’ve identified a connection between Smith and a murder victim last seen with your ex?”

  “We have procedures,” I say. “I’ll go through the appropriate channels.” I don’t share what those are, since we agents rarely share anything about FBI procedures to anyone who isn’t part of our organization. But I know that withholding in this moment isn’t going to get me anywhere.

  Vance is sitting with her thumb and forefinger framing her chin in a V shape. I can tell she’s thinking. She wants to put me in my place, but she also doesn’t want to push me away in case they need information from us on Smith. “Okay,” she finally says, “it would be great if someone in your office could collaborate with my detectives here on these connections you claim the victim had to this Smith guy.”

  “Of course,” I say. “That was the plan all along.”

  “To be clear, I think we can all agree that it would be best, because of the conflict of interest, that you recuse yourself from this case. We’ll need to be in touch with someone else from your office.”

  “Of course,” I say again, but already my mind is reeling. I see Reeve nervously pacing by the hurt deer in the shimmering headlights on the lonely gravel road. Reeve wouldn’t hurt a fly, I tell myself. And then my mind hops to how I intend to find out why Vivian suddenly resigned; how close Reeve’s boss, Jeffrey O’Brien, was to the victim and how jealous his wife might have been; what kind of grudge someone like Smith or Anne Marie’s other interview subjects might have had against her. It’s overwhelming, all these threads, and I’m almost tempted to share what I know with all three of them so they can use their resources to help me figure it all out. But I can’t, because then they’ll know the extent of my snooping around. I’m on thinning ice here, but Emily and her father are out there in the middle of a frozen pond, and I fully intend to bring them safely to shore.

  • • •

  Herman and Emily ended up at a park about two miles from the courthouse. I find them in the playground, deserted of children except for Emily and one other boy in a red sweater who looks to be about her age. I see his coat tossed over to the side on the grass outside the area with the wood chips. Emily is still wearing her pink Columbia coat, and I’m glad for that because clearly the weather is cold enough that no other kids are out on the playground.

  Emily and the other boy are both on a tire swing dangling from some elaborate metal contraption of ladders and railings. She and the boy are swinging back and forth and giggling, and I guess that it was gregarious Emily who approached him first, deciding she needed a friend to play with her.

  There are several boulders beside the playground and Herman sits perched on one of them, watching Emily. I walk up to join him, buttoning my coat up to my neck. “Hey,” I say.

  Herman stays seated and gives me a stiff nod of acknowledgment. He’s still angry.

  “How’s it going?” I ask.

  “She doesn’t tire, does she?”

  “Nope,” I say. “Maybe by tonight. The cold air will help.”

  “She’s having fun, though. Met that boy about a half hour ago, and they’ve been playing ever since. She hasn’t glanced over here once.”

  I scan the playground for the boy’s mom, and Herman notices me doing that. He points to a navy-colored SUV parked beside the lot with a blond woman sitting inside, reading. “Watching from the warmth of her car,” he says. “Doing more reading than watching, though. How did it go?” he asks.

  “It went okay,” I say, sitting down on the boulder next to his. I tell him how we discussed the conflict-of-interest part and that I told them about the Smith file and finding Anne Marie Johnson’s name in it. “Vance is a professional,” I say. “She’s instructed Brander and Reynolds to contact you from now on for any more information on that front.”

  “Vance? She was there?”

  “I was surprised by that too, but now I think it’s a good thing. She understands my need for privacy in a male-dominated profession, and she’ll keep Reynolds from stirring this into something it’s not.”

  “What exactly are they stirring this into, Ali?”

  He’s definitely still angry with me, and I’m disappointed. I had hoped he’d be relieved that it was out in the open now, and that I’d met with the county. “It’s a case with a lot of leads,” I tell him. “And if they’d only open their eyes and quit focusing on the first person they interviewed, they’d see that there are a lot of avenues to explore.”

  He raises his head slightly, and I take that as some form of a nod, but then he looks down at the boulder he’s sitting on and traces one finger over its uneven surface without saying a word, as if he’s the parent and I’m the unruly child, and he’s learned that the best way to deal with a disruptive child is to not say anything at all and remain calm.

  “For example,” I continue, because his silence does get to me, “Vivian Gould, the woman whose cabin the victim was shot at and who happens to bear an uncanny resemblance to the victim, quit her job but didn’t mention it when spoken to.”

  “Spoken to by you?”

  I don’t answer, just forge ahead. “And Jeffrey O’Brien, Reeve’s boss, also knew the victim, but denied it, and now this Smith thing. So why focus on Reeve? He’s the least likely suspect of them all.”

  Herman turns and studies me, his forehead raised and wrinkled in concern. He’s not letting it go. “You interviewed the owner of the cabin where the victim was found? And your ex’s boss?”

  I don’t say anything.

  He shakes his head in disappointment. “I should go.” He stands up from the rock and brushes off his pants. A faint cloud of his aftershave wafts around me in the dank air. “Haven’t even seen what you’re talking about yet in the Smith transcripts, so I should look those over before they contact me. If they contact me, if they
trust me now and don’t think I’ve been colluding with you all along or won’t in the future. I mean, there’s only two of us, and I am the only other RA in the office. Kind of hard to trust me now too.”

  “They do,” I say, but what he says prickles because I know it’s true. I’ve compromised both of us. “It’s not like that. It’s fine, Herman. Everything went well with Vance. Thank you for watching Emily.”

  He looks sad, as if I’ve taken a razor blade to our relationship, and I want to repeat that I haven’t done anything that irreparable, that everything will be fine with the county.

  “Ali,” he says, “you know you need to stay out of it from here on out, right?”

  I nod.

  “They’re not idiots. They can solve this case without you.”

  “I know,” I say. But in my gut, I have this deep sense that Reynolds wants to nail Reeve. My mind goes to an image of my mom, my sister, and me visiting my dad at the New Jersey State Prison in Trenton. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, sitting behind thick glass in a visiting booth and talking through a phone on the wall. He had been arrested for dealing heroin when I was eight. More than the visit itself, I remember most what came before that. I had begged my mom to visit him, and she finally gave in, driving us there one hot New Jersey summer day. Toni and I had on our summer dresses, and when we arrived, we waited in line outside the tall brick fortress. The heat overpowered us, making our dresses stick to our sweaty legs. A crowd was already queued up outside the door with a sign on it indicating the visiting hours.

  Twenty or more women, most with children, stood braving the heat to visit their husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles. My mom looked nervous, rocking on her heels, and then when the large door opened and a prison guard stepped out, he said they were taking the first ten families in line and would come back in twenty minutes for the next ten. I counted the families in front of us and was relieved to find we were the tenth. But while the guard was admitting one family at a time, checking IDs, another women carrying a child on her hip inserted herself in front of the three of us. I looked up at Mom, waiting for her to say something, expecting for her to tell the lady that that wasn’t fair, that we were there first, but she didn’t. “Mom,” I said, pulling on her dress, “she cut in front of us. That’s not fair. We’re the tenth family.”