Spectre Black

by J. Carson Black

  He was ninety-percent positive that if Jolie moved in and out of the house, or if her agent moved in and out of the house, they would do so by night. If she had someone to care for the dog, that person would likely come either early in the evening or early in the morning. Usually people who took care of pets had to work around their own schedules, unless pet-sitting was all they did.

  No car in the driveway—at least not now. So Landry was leaning toward the theory that whoever took care of the Rottweiler and the plants wasn’t staying there.

  He drove two blocks to the Subway shop he’d noticed on the way in to the neighborhood, and bought two sandwiches. One for himself, and one for the Rottie.

  It didn’t take him long to install the two hunt cameras—one focused on the back door and one at the front. First, Landry tossed meat from the sandwich to the Rottweiler. The dog ate it and lumbered over for more, tail wagging. Landry thought: now or never. He hopped down from the wall into the yard and was nearly licked to death. He found a lawn trimmer in the storage shed, put it in the van and drove back around to the front. There, he ran it around the little patch of lawn.

  He had an audience of none. The carports and driveways were still empty and no one was about, not even the hippie woman with the long black hair. The sound of the lawn trimmer, he knew, would be an expected sound and no one would question him being here. He stopped partway through, found a suitable place for the camera, made sure it lined up with the door, and installed it—two minutes tops. He did the same in the backyard.

  He wanted to know who was taking care of the dog. Jolie, or someone else? He wanted to know if her place was being monitored, or whether or not the house needed monitoring at all. If they had her—whoever “they” were—they would not bother monitoring her house. Unless they thought someone was coming.

  Unless they knew about Landry himself.

  It occurred to him that whoever had taken Jolie might be the same person feeding the dog—just to maintain the status quo.

  Landry raked the small yard, making plenty of noise. The Rottweiler decided to join in, wriggling his hind end and dashing around the small yard before wriggling again.

  A real killer.

  After raking for ten minutes, Landry took a break and looked for the home alarm sensor leading to the central control box. He found the magnet where he expected to find it: attached to the doorsill. A home alarm system like this one passed a minimal amount of electrical current to the magnet. The current arced across a very short distance between the sensor and the magnet, sending it back and forth—a cycle. If that cycle wasn’t repeated constantly, the alarm would go off. Say a window was opened, or a door—that would break the cycle.

  Landry donned latex gloves from one pocket of his jeans before reaching into the pocket of the other, past a roll of electrical tape and a couple of bobby pins until his fingers closed around a sheet of tin foil. He fed the tin foil into the narrow crack between the doorjamb and the door—it was a nice tight fit. As long as the foil pressed against the sensor, he could open the window or door with impunity. The foil acted as a de facto magnet, aping the alarm’s cycle.

  Next came the deadbolt.

  Wisely, Jolie had made her home security redundant. She had deadbolt locks as well. But any lock could be picked. Landry removed one of the bobby pins and bent it into a right angle. He removed the second bobby pin and straightened it out flat, all the way. He started with the straight pin, working it back and forth inside the lock, then added the pin with the right angle. He worked the two of them until the latch clicked.

  Inside, Landry walked down the hallway, reconnoitering, and made sure he knew the house. Next, he returned to the open door on the left. This was Jolie’s home office. Inside, he smelled stale air. The house was cool, though—Landry had seen and heard the working swampbox cooler on the roof. It sounded like a bucket of rocks.

  A black-and-white cat was curled up on the desk chair.

  The desk was clear, except for a jar of pens and pencils. He’d hoped for a laptop but found none. Under a standing lamp a printer sat on a stand you’d buy at OfficeMax, paper stacked on the shelf beneath. He opened the desk drawers, but he saw nothing important in them. He went to the filing cabinet with its four drawers, and used the bobby pin to open each of them.

  The filing cabinets were half empty. The cabinet held old files from old cases, some even from Florida.

  Who used filing cabinets anymore? These days a person could file everything they wanted on a USB disk.

  He searched everywhere for the computer and for a USB disk, but found nothing. Wondered if she’d taken her laptop or if someone else had come along and taken it.

  There was nothing else. No iPad, no tablet of any kind. Just a potted plant. He poked his finger in the pot and the soil was crumbling and dry. The pet sitter apparently wasn’t a plant sitter. He went to the kitchen and took down a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, came back to the office and dumped the water on the plant.

  A little bit of the sun came through the slats in the blinds, and the cat stretched and then curled up again, covering its face with one paw. It ignored him completely.

  Landry liked cats. They minded their own business.

  The missing laptop (if there was a missing laptop) meant a few things. She could have taken it with her, she could have cleared out fast and hidden it, or the person who fed the dog and cat could have been charged with keeping it.

  Or whoever had abducted her in the first place also had her laptop.

  The cat came into the hallway and cried at him, turned around and went into the kitchen and stood by the refrigerator. It looked at him briefly, then focused its attention on the refrigerator. It didn’t cry and it didn’t beg. Just stood there expecting him to open the refrigerator and give it something to eat.

  Another reason he liked cats.

  There was no pretense with them: they were what they were and they wanted what they wanted. They didn’t have to get all polite about it.

  Still gloved up, he opened the refrigerator. He saw no cans of cat food. He looked in the cupboard next to the refrigerator and found some cat treats. He didn’t know how much to feed it. The whole bag? Or just a couple? He settled on a handful, and shook the treats on the Saltillo tile floor. The cat ate each one delicately and looked at Landry for more. As if it hadn’t eaten anything at all and was starving.

  “I met a con man like you once,” Landry said.

  The cat gave him a look, then turned his back and cleaned himself.

  Landry didn’t want to spend too much time here. He searched the house thoroughly but quickly, found nothing associated with Jolie’s job as a sheriff’s deputy, except for a couple of uniforms in her closet.

  If Jolie had been abducted—and when she’d called him, she had escaped from somewhere—then when did she contact the person who fed the dog and cat? Did she call her after her escape?

  She’d called the right person. The water bowls were full. Both the cat and the dog looked fine to him.

  Back in the yard, he stowed the lawn trimmer back in the shed. He said to the Rottweiler, “Some watchdog you are.”

  Next, he went to the donut shop two blocks down from the motel. The donut shop was called Duncan’s Donuts, which not only treaded on a well-known copyright, but also went well with Dina’s Diner. He briefly wondered if they had all gotten together in a town meeting and decided what to name their businesses to present a unifying, alliterative theme. Maybe there was also a Rosa’s Restaurant, or a Ginny’s Gin Mill.

  Landry knew that the FBI would send an agent to investigate a missing cop, no matter what the jurisdiction. They would do this within three days. If he hadn’t wasted time waiting by the Circle K, fruitlessly calling the pay phone number, he might have been able to intercept the agent, find out what he knew, and become his replacement. But Landry had no idea how long Jolie had be
en missing. He was way too late to intercept the FBI agent now.

  But he could still strike up an acquaintance with the right cop. He could still pump him for information, if he did it skillfully.

  And so he chose the donut shop.

  Landry had dressed like an off-duty cop, which basically meant jeans (the more faded the better), sneakers, and an open-necked polo shirt. The polo shirt was banded at the bottom, a cop trick used to conceal a gun or knife secured to his belt. The shirt puffed out a little above the band, so there was no telltale outline. The banded polo shirt, along with the fact that the jeans had plenty of legroom to fit over boots (or a leg holster) did double duty, making him easily identifiable as law enforcement or former law enforcement. He could be anything, from a retired cop to an off-duty cop to an undercover cop. His hair was short but not too short.

  There were uniformed cops here—three of them at a four top. The table, like his own, was on a single stand and tottered a little under their elbows, just like his did. Landry put a matchbook under the table, to add to the matchbook already there. He had the newspaper open and coffee at his elbow, and he could watch them.

  And then he realized he was being watched himself.

  A good-looking woman stared at him from her table, her gaze open and interested, before returning to her iPad.

  Landry liked that she didn’t attempt to hide her interest. That set her apart right there.

  He looked at her, willing her to look back up, but she didn’t take the bait. She appeared to be concentrating on whatever she was reading.

  Dark hair with blond highlights swept up and back with one of those stick things women put in to keep their hair from falling down. She was nice-looking. Slender, with a strong face that he had seen on some Brazilian models, bold but narrow, high cheekbones, a flare at the end of her long, thin nose, dark lipstick. She wore a deep cerise blouse, collar out, under a dark navy suit. Expensive leather shoes, lots of support. Hose. In this heat.

  A professional. The question was, a professional what?

  He stood up and walked over to refill his cup at the coffee-and-tea station near the window. Took his time, looking out at the parking lot—

  And saw what he expected to see. One row back, sun glinting off the windshield.

  Landry felt a motion behind him, a misplacement of air. The slightest rustle. An expensive sound. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sliver of her suit jacket and a hand with short nails polished smooth. He caught her scent—subtle but enticing.

  She filled her coffee cup and reached past him for the half-and-half jug. No perfume, just the clean scent of soap.

  He looked back at the car under the hot glare of the New Mexico sun. It was black, a plain-wrap Crown Vic. He couldn’t see the back plates, but he knew what they would look like. They would be white.

  The lady was an FBI agent.

  He felt the air whisk against him and she was gone.

  He did not look around, but kept his eyes on the plate-glass window. The interior of the donut shop was reflected in faint outlines. He saw her pull out her chair and sit down. She did not look back at him.

  As he walked back to his table, Landry kept track of her out of the corner of his eye. Looking for eye response but getting none. She seemed absorbed in her iPad.

  He set his cup on the edge of his table. Three-quarters of the ceramic mug teetered in thin air before falling to the floor with a crash.

  He hunkered down, head low, scanning the room. Looking for a quick eye response, and seeing it everywhere: “flash focus.” Everyone’s eyes turned immediately to the sound of the ceramic breaking. Except for the woman. Instead of looking at him, she was assessing everyone else’s reaction. He liked that, too.

  Finally, she turned her head slightly in his direction. Their eyes met. He threw her a rueful smile as he helped the busboy pick up shards of ceramic.

  The busboy apologized and Landry told him he didn’t need to, it was his fault, no problem. All the time, watching the woman out of the corner of his eye. The boy bustled back with a replacement mug, and Landry walked back to the coffee station.

  Once again, his eye went to the window, the ghostly reflection of people behind him. But she was fast. Already beside him, reaching for the half-and-half. “Your handle should be closer to your belt,” she said. She poured the cream into her cup and walked away.

  Landry fought the urge to look down at his shirt, looking for a telltale shape, but ultimately, he did. As God intended, the knit material puffed out over the band of his polo shirt, completely concealing the H&K snugged underneath. She’d seen nothing. He assumed she’d made him because he had come dressed for the show. That was all.

  Maybe he could get her to tell him what she knew about Jolie’s disappearance, if she knew anything at all.

  Landry stared into the plate-glass window. She had her phone out, her head tipped forward, engrossed in whatever she was doing. Then she looked up at him, and their eyes met through the window’s reflection.

  It was faint, a ghostly image, but Landry saw that her face was impassive. Not just impassive. She held him with a cool stare that his body responded to.

  She dismissed him and looked back down at her phone.

  Landry remained where he was, staring into the window. She did not look up again. She ignored him. He stood there, shaking a packet of sugar, eyes holding her reflection. Then he put the coffee mug down next to the coffee machine, turned around, and walked in her direction. She sat at a table where people had to funnel past her to get to the door. As he passed her, he felt her gaze on his back.

  He’d walked here. Duncan’s Donuts was only five doors and one four-lane bridge down from The Satellite INN.

  He stood just outside the shop, taking in the air, looking at her car, but not looking. Clearly, the FBI agent had targeted him for some reason. Maybe she suspected he had something to do with Jolie’s disappearance. Or maybe she thought he was the guy who shot the militia guy at the checkpoint. There were plenty of maybes. It was her turn to make a move.

  And he’d give her that chance.

  He stood just to the side of the door, pulling a cigarette from the pack he always carried. He didn’t smoke, but it was a good piece of stage business—a reason for him to pause.

  The door’s bell jangled behind him.

  “How long will it take me to find out what you’re really up to?” she said. Her voice was low but musical, with an underlying sarcasm. He liked it. She stood next to him, eyes forward, taking in the view.

  Landry pushed the cigarette behind his ear. He did not look at her. “Do we know each other?”

  “I know you,” she said, staring at the parking lot. “I’ve run into your kind before, plenty of times. You think you’re fooling people, but you don’t fool me. You can dress like a cop but that doesn’t mean you are one.”

  “I’m not such a bad guy. I’ve been known to grow on people.”

  “That kind of thing takes time, and I’m a busy person.”

  Landry removed the cigarette from his ear and flicked it into the parking lot. “Then I guess we have nothing to talk about.”

  He crossed the lot and followed the road back toward the motel.

  He’d spent some time studying the horse whisperers. The famous one, Monty Roberts, once got a deer to follow him over miles and miles of open country. It took patience, but the main thing the man did was never pursue the deer. He made it so that the deer wanted to pursue him. The animal never felt threatened. And Landry had learned that to walk away would very often lead his intended target to him.

  It did this time, too. She fell into step beside him. Landry smiled.

  She repeated the line she’d used before. “How long will it take for me to find out what you’re up to?”

  “What I’m up to?”

  She continued to keep her eyes forward. He wal
ked fast, but she had no trouble keeping up. Expensive shoes with sensible heels: practical. They took the sidewalk on the four-lane bridge spanning the riverbed. It was well past eight and there were few cars on the bridge at this time of the morning. The clean soap scent of her followed the breeze—sometimes strong, sometimes faint, sometimes non-existent.

  “So what do you think?” Landry asked, walking faster.

  “What do I think about what?” She had to take a fast stutter step every now and then to keep up with him. He was tall and had long legs—no one said life was fair. “You’re a cop.”

  Landry said nothing, but increased the pace. She took faster stutter steps.

  “Who are you with? Sheriff’s or PD?”

  He said nothing.

  “Or an outside agency?” She stopped, wiped at a bead of sweat on her cheek. Beautiful. Even the sweat bead was beautiful before she mashed it with her beautiful finger. He noticed her nails. Deep purple, engraved with turquoise fleurs-de-lis.

  Landry stopped as well. She was tall, but he was taller. She tipped her face up to him and he felt the thrill again, only this time it wasn’t in his stomach, but in his groin. A thrill down deep in the muddy bottom silt of him.

  “I’m retired,” he said.

  She came closer, mashed up close against him, lifted a manicured hand and touched him.

  Landry felt the thrill. It was like a short, sweet carnival ride. He felt a lot of things. But the one that screamed at the top of its lungs was the wire. It thrummed like a guitar string all the way up his body.

  “Where’d you say your motel was?” she said.

  It was great and it was awful.

  Thrilling and stupefying.

  She hit every note.

  There was one moment he thought he’d been devoured and what little remained had been left by the side of the road for the buzzards.

  At first it was brilliant. Stimulating. Beyond stimulating. Then it passed the point of pleasure to wanting it to be enough to waiting for it to be over. His own pride was his worst enemy. She kept at him. He lost count of the hours, which could only be marked by the moving bar of sunshine across the bed.