Intentional Acts

by Melissa F. Miller

  Sasha was of two minds about this plan. Her lawyer brain thought it was a foolish, possibly dangerous, idea. Her human being brain thought it was a kind, compassionate gesture. In the end, humanity won. But she insisted that Gella let her tag along, just in case damage control proved necessary.

  Gella refused to consider the idea that Wheaton’s death could be related in any way to the data leak. She insisted it was just a coincidence.

  Sasha hoped her client was right, but she’d seen too many so-called coincidences caused by killers to dismiss the possibility. She wished Connelly would turn up so she could bounce her wild theories off him. He was her most trusted sounding board. But he was gone.

  As if her daughter could read her thoughts, Fiona piped up, “Daddy will be home soon.”

  Her lilting voice broke through and caught Sasha’s full attention.

  “I hope so, honey.”

  Her daughter looked up at her. “It’s a secret.”

  “And a surprise!” Finn chimed in.

  She turned to Finn. “Did Uncle Hank tell you that?”

  He pressed his lips shut and looked at his sister for guidance.

  Fiona wagged a finger at him. “Daddy said don’t tell.”

  “Daddy was at Hank’s house?” Sasha probed. Her voice crackled with urgency and searched her children’s faces to see which of them would cave first.

  They wore identical looks. Their foreheads scrunched up with worry, their eyes wide and uncertain.

  She took a breath and pasted on a wide, reassuring smile. “Never mind. If it’s a secret surprise, you shouldn’t tell me.”

  They resumed walking. Finn’s shoulders relaxed. Fiona skipped in time to some vaguely familiar tune she hummed.

  Having stopped herself from deposing her three-year olds until they cracked and dooming them to a life of therapy, she turned her frustration inward. Her husband was up to something, he was keeping her in the dark, and she just knew he was in trouble.

  A heavy helplessness settled over her chest. The realization that the tables were turned—that she put him in this exact spot on a regular basis—made the weight even heavier.

  Lost in thought, she forgot all about her plan to stop at the grocery store. She was unlocking the door when she realized she had nothing to feed the kids for dinner. She ushered them inside, rested the back of her head against the wall just inside the door, kicked off her high heels, closed her eyes, and managed a wry laugh. Maybe Connelly was right—this place was falling apart without him, and he hadn’t even been gone a full twenty-four hours.

  Mocha ran toward her from the kitchen and nudged her hand with a wet nose. She opened her eyes. “And I guess you want to go outside, huh?”

  She ruffled the dog’s fur and led him to the kitchen then put him out back in the yard. A walk would have to wait. She filled Java’s food and water bowls under the cat’s watchful eye.

  Then she rummaged through the refrigerator. No dinner ingredients had magically appeared while she’d been working. But Connelly did have a couple craft beers nestled on the bottom shelf. She grabbed one and dug through the utensil drawer for a bottle opener. She pried off the cap and took a long swallow of the cold, heavy stout.

  Finn and Fiona had made a beeline for their craft table. They sat across from each other sharing a package of fat crayons. She walked over and watched them work for a moment. Finn used slow, careful crayon strokes to create a series of concentric circles that were more or less circular. Fiona, the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth as she concentrated, scribbled wildly, her lines arcing off the paper and onto the laminated tabletop.

  “Hey, artists. Mommy’s going to change her clothes and then we’ll have breakfast for dinner! Isn’t that funny? Eggs, and toast, and a big fruit salad.”

  They bobbed their heads in agreement but never looked up from their masterpieces.

  She let the dog back in then hurried upstairs to change while the twins were still occupied. After she pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old tee-shirt, she called her parents’ number to ask them to watch the kids tomorrow.

  She squeezed the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could toss a load of laundry into the washer while she begged for the favor.

  “Of course, Sunshine,” her mother cooed in response to her request. Her voice was somehow just slightly too soothing. “We’d love to spend the day with Finn and Fiona.”

  She opened the door to the washing machine and frowned. The clothes Connelly had been wearing last night were already in the drum. She lifted his shirt out and stared at it.

  He’d been here? And hadn’t stuck around to see them? Or even left a note?

  Her mom’s voice broke through the thoughts racing around in her mind. “Honey, did you hear me? What time do you need us?”

  “Sorry. I’ll drop them off at seven.”

  “Don’t be silly, Dad will come get them. It’ll be easier for you.”

  “Okay. Great.” She tried to rush her mother off the phone.

  But Valentina was impervious to her efforts. “Where did you say Leo is? You sound stressed. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. I just … it’s a case. I can’t really talk about it. You know, it’s privileged.”

  “Of course. What bad timing, a difficult case while Leo’s out of town for work.”

  The note of concern in her mother’s voice made tears prick at her eyes. She dropped the shirt back into the washing machine and pressed her palms against her eyelids, willing the tears not to well up.

  “He’ll be home tomorrow night, for sure?”

  “For sure,” she lied.

  She said goodbye to her mother then sat on the edge of her bed and drained the bottle of beer.

  What if Connelly doesn’t come home tomorrow?

  The carefully constructed don’t ask-don’t tell policy that formed the foundation of their life seemed to be crumbling around her.

  Leo navigated the highways back to Mars on autopilot, relying on his anterior cingulate cortex to keep him on the road while he focused on Wheaton’s death. As the SUV rolled north on Interstate 79, he ticked through the common motives for murder: passion, in the guise of love, hate, or jealousy; money or greed; a dispute or vendetta; revenge; and protecting a secret. Assuming the man hadn’t been assassinated by a government agent, one of these was likely the reason he was dead.

  And the best way to narrow the options was through humint—human intelligence. A clinical, bureaucratic label for what amounted to gossip. He imagined the small borough’s rumor mill would be working overtime in response to a shocking murder.

  For a variety of reasons, his first stop was the large, bright all-night diner on the outskirts of town. First, he was sure tongues would be wagging inside. Second, he hadn’t eaten since he’d grabbed a chicken sandwich at the Houston airport nine hours earlier. Low blood sugar and investigative work were a poor match.

  He took a seat at the counter and paged through the laminated menu.

  “What’ll be?” the tall, auburn-haired waitress asked.

  “I’ll have a turkey and Swiss on rye and a side of fries.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Just water for now, thanks.”

  She jotted down the order and disappeared into the kitchen. He surveyed the room. A handful of late diners focused more on their meals than chit chat. He didn’t want to be the one to bring up the murder, so he waited.

  It wasn’t a long wait.

  After a few minutes, the woman sitting three stools away caught his eye over her bowl of chicken noodle soup. Her brown eyes glittered from behind a pair of cat’s eye glasses.

  “Did ya’ hear about Essiah Wheaton?”

  He nodded. “Terrible.”

  She tsk-tsked, half-somber, half-titillated. “I heard his wife found the body.”

  The waitress dropped off Leo’s water then leaned across the counter and said to the woman with the glasses in a loud whisper, “Well, I heard the FBI t
ook control of the crime scene.”

  Leo lowered his eyes to the counter and listened intently.

  “Wonder why? Do you think he could’ve been mixed up in drugs?”

  “No, that’s the DEA, not the FBI,” the waitress said with authority.

  He sipped his water. Of course, the Bureau would try to wrest the investigation from the local authorities—they thought Wheaton had been targeted by the task force. He wondered what they’d do once they realized it hadn’t been a government kill.

  “Well, whatever happened out there at their place, it’s a crying shame.”

  “Amen.”

  The gossipy woman shook her head sadly, paid her bill, and slipped off the stool. “Bye, Dana,” she called to the waitress as she left.

  “Turkey up!” A voice shouted from the kitchen.

  Dana grabbed the plate from the pass separating the kitchen from the dining room and plunked it down in front of Leo along with a bottle of ketchup.

  “Enjoy your dinner.”

  “Thanks. So, this Wheaton guy who died—they think he was murdered?”

  She gave him a look. For a moment, he thought she was going to tell him to mind his own business, but the undercurrent of excitement must have won out over her sense of propriety.

  As she walked away to take care of a couple sitting at one of the booths, she said, “They’re sure he was murdered. Stan, the cook, has an uncle who’s a medic. He says Essiah was strangled.”

  Leo nearly choked on his french fry. Strangled, not shot from a distance. He didn’t pretend to know the standard operating procedure of every shadow agency in the U.S. Government. But he did know plenty. And, to his knowledge, there wasn’t a team whose SOP was to strangle targets. Which meant Wheaton’s killer almost certainly hadn’t acted at the direction of the Project Storm Chaser Task Force.

  Which meant, what?

  While he chewed his sandwich, he turned the new piece of information over in his mind as if it were an odd-shaped piece he was trying to fit into a jigsaw puzzle. He finished his meal without an answer.

  “Did you leave room for dessert?” Dana asked.

  “Always.” He ordered a slice of the cranberry-apple pie and a cup of coffee.

  While he waited, he thumbed through his phone, scanning his messages. He started to type a message to Sasha, thought better of it, and deleted the text unsent. He turned off notifications and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

  “Here you go.” She placed a generous wedge of pie, a mug of coffee, and a handful of creamers on the counter in front of him.

  “It looks great. Thanks. Did Wheaton have a family?” He picked up the fork and attacked the pie as if it were more interesting than the answer to his question.

  She narrowed her eyes and studied him from under her thick eyelashes, made even thicker by a heavy coat of mascara. He could tell she was weighing whether she should answer, so he glanced up and flashed her a smile.

  “I have twins—they’re three. A tragedy like that … it just makes a guy think, you know?”

  The suspicion drained from her expression and her eyes softened. “Three-year-old twins, huh? Bet they keep you busy.”

  He laughed. “You know it.”

  She shook her head and her curly ponytail swung over her shoulder. “Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton didn’t have kids. I suppose that’s a blessing.”

  “But he was married?”

  “Yeah. Newlyweds, I think. She actually doesn’t go by Wheaton—she’s one of those gals who kept her maiden name. Funny, because she never struck me as the type.”

  “You’re friendly with her then?”

  Another quick, lidded look. He was pushing it, he knew. He prepared to back off, but she answered.

  “I wouldn’t say we’re best friends or anything. I mean, they only moved here about eight or nine months ago. But, sure, I know her. We don’t get a lot of transplants around here, you know? Sheila Anne and Essiah were both from Texas.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. And my boyfriend and Essiah rode together sometimes—”

  “Motorcycles.”

  “That’s right. How’d you know?”

  “We have—or had—a mutual friend, Essiah and I.”

  “Oh? Do you know C.J., then? That’s my boyfriend.”

  “I’ve met him. He’s one heckuva Scrabble player.”

  She laughed. “Not really. Essiah and their pal Slim were the real Scrabble players. C.J.’s more of a chess player. I never could get the hang of it.”

  The couple seated in a booth on the other side of the diner were staring at them. When Leo caught the man’s eye, he gestured to their mugs.

  “I think one of your other tables is looking for refills,” he said, pointing to the pair.

  She grabbed a white carafe from the counter and hurried in their direction.

  He sipped his coffee and reviewed what he’d just learned. He could rule out two possibilities fairly easily.

  As newlyweds, the odds were good that Wheaton and his wife were in love. Although a jealous ex or a stalker couldn’t be ruled out, it seemed unlikely that one of them had been carrying on an extramarital affair. And women rarely strangled men. It was a matter of strength and size. So, the murder was probably not a crime of passion.

  As newcomers to the town—and outsiders—the couple likely hadn’t had time to make any local enemies. The sorts of disputes and vendettas that pitted neighbor against neighbor hardened over years, generations even. Property line squabbles, kids dating and breaking up, or even something as mundane as umpiring a little league game could get a guy killed. But not in the space of months.

  That left money, revenge, and a secret as contenders that merited a closer look. He considered each in turn.

  Money was a possibility, but it seemed like a stretch. Wheaton and Sheila Anne Whatever-Her-Name-Was didn’t live extravagantly. No flashy cars or in-ground pool. The house was well-maintained but modest. Leo’d seen nothing that would suggest the man owed the wrong guy money or was otherwise having financial problems. It was possible he was the secret heir to a fortune and someone had killed him to keep him from inheriting. Besides, this was real life, not a soap opera, and, on a basic gut-check level, Wheaton’s death didn’t seem to be related to finances.

  Leo could, however, easily see Wheaton’s killer strangling the man to keep a secret or as an act of revenge for some past wrong. Or both, actually. If Wheaton had been involved with the Heritage Brotherhood and he’d crossed them, revenge was a strong possibility. And even if he just knew where the proverbial—or, with these guys, actual—bodies were buried, they’d have plenty of incentive to make sure he never talked.

  The waitress returned with his check and placed it face down on the table. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t know him that well, but it’s a helluva a way to go.”

  She set her mouth in a grim line. “Slim says the guys at Mugsy’s are getting all worked up about it. Essiah was one of theirs, even though he hadn’t been here very long. People don’t just get themselves strangled around here, you know?”

  He nodded his agreement.

  Mugsy’s was on his list of establishments to visit. But now that he had some food in his stomach, he needed to find a hotel room.

  Once he’d had a ninety-minute nap and a hot shower, he’d be ready to walk into a bar full of Essiah’s mourning, possibly half-drunk, biker buddies.

  25

  The twins were sleeping. The dog was sleeping. The cat was sleeping.

  Sasha glanced at the clock hanging on the wall over Connelly’s desk. It was just past two o’clock in the morning. The whole world was sleeping.

  Her phone buzzed to announce the arrival of an email. Leo? Her heart jumped and she lunged for the device.

  She scanned the envelope information.

  Not Leo.

  Apparently Gella couldn’t sleep either. Sasha opened the attachment to the message and began to revi
ew Gella’s comments to the complaint.

  At two thirty, she padded downstairs to make a pot of coffee. She leaned against the counter and thumbed out a text to Connelly while the coffee brewed. She stared down at the screen willing a response to appear. One did not.

  She filled her mug and trudged back upstairs.

  By five o’clock, she’d revised the complaint; had sent it back to her insomniac client and gotten approval to file it; and had uploaded it to the Western District of Pennsylvania electronic court filing system.

  Her head was buzzing from exhaustion and her vision was beginning to blur. She typed a quick message to Gella, copying Naya, to let them know the complaint had been filed. Then she checked her phone for what had to be the hundredth time. Still no word from her husband.

  She drained the last of the reheated coffee from her mug, headed to the kitchen to put on a fresh pot, and tiptoed back up the stairs to take a shower. She might as well start her day.

  She stood under the hot spray of water for a long time, trying to wash away the film of worry and uncertainty about what was going on with Connelly.

  After she dried off, she wrapped her hair in a thick towel and cinched her robe around her waist to go to the kitchen and get yet another mug of coffee.

  When she returned to the bathroom to blow-dry her hair, her phone’s notification light was blinking. She put the mug down in a hurry. Hot coffee splashed over the side and scalded the back of her hand. She wiped off the coffee on a towel and grabbed the phone from the vanity.

  One missed call. No messages.

  She swiped across the telephone app to open it. Connelly had called three minutes ago.

  Her hands shook as she hit the call back button.

  Please pick up. Please pick up. Please pick up.