by Iain Levison
The computer fired to life, and, out of habit, Dixon went to the Travel International website. He admired some pictures of sandy beaches and young couples enjoying margaritas with a view of a tropical sunset. He stared at them for a few minutes, and no other use for this device came to mind. He shrugged and turned the computer off.
He went downstairs and cracked open the last of the beers. He wished he could call Elias at work and remind him to bring home another six pack, but no phones. That was the rule. He was good with rules. The ones he made for himself, anyway. They were the only ones that ever did him anything but harm.
Jenny Hingston wanted to be a history professor. Jenny Hingston was going to go to graduate school for history after she graduated, and Elias’s class was very important to her. Very. She said the last word breathily.
Jenny Hingston had the legs for modeling and the cunning for politics, as well as the bloodline to run Hingston Motors, the largest luxury dealership in Concord, and there was no fucking way she was going to impoverish herself by hanging out with a bunch of eggheads who sat around talking about moral corruption in the Weimar Republic. But Elias enjoyed the deception. Most of his C students who desperately needed better grades just shamelessly begged. Jenny Hingston had taken the time to wear a short skirt and expensive perfume and lie to him in a voice which most men only heard in strip clubs and on phone sex lines. Elias’s position on the whole grade improvement scenario wasn’t that she needed to study – although that would help – but that if she expected him to wipe clean a semester’s worth of apathy with the stroke of a pen, she was going to have to do more than dress up and talk in a breathy voice.
“Or maybe I’ll apply to the FBI,” she said, her voice still breathy, letting him know that giving her a bad grade might be a major mistake, not only for him, but for the future of America, which was depending on this graduating class for recruits for their protection against terrorism and serial killers.
A light went on, and Elias nodded thoughtfully. “I know an FBI agent,” he said. “Maybe you should talk to her.”
Jenny nodded, almost surprised at having her own random, whimsical view of her future taken seriously.
“I’m meeting her for a drink tomorrow night. She’s an experienced investigator. Perhaps you should join us.” This would be perfect. He now had an opportunity to ask Denise out, using the smokescreen of advancement in the knowledge of the nation’s youth, while simultaneously arranging an innocent tryst with Jenny. Then, while buying them both drinks for an hour or two, he could decide, stress-free, which of them would be the more convenient bedmate.
“I’d love to,” Jenny said. “That would be so cool.”
“Give me your cellphone number,” Elias said, offhand. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow afternoon.”
Jenny Hingston tore a piece of paper off Elias’s pad and wrote her phone number down, with the name “Jenny” written underneath in large, swirling, feminine script. She handed it to him, and he took it with a faraway look, perhaps even gazing at the clock on the wall.
“I’ll call you,” he said distantly.
“How do you know this FBI agent?”
Good question. How do you answer that one? She showed up this morning to ask random questions about a felon who’s living in my house? “She’s just in town right now,” he said breezily.
“Wow. That’s so cool. I’ve never met an FBI agent before.” Jenny was wide-eyed, staring at him almost with adoration. He was the kind of guy who knew FBI agents, not just a dork who talked about the rise of National Socialism in pre-war Germany.
“Yeah, well, I’ll call you.”
“Talk to you tomorrow.” She pulled a $200 pair of sunglasses out of her Gucci handbag and put them on, giving him a little smile and wave as she let the door shut gently behind her.
Oh, he was so in.
For an hour or two after Denise had first visited, Elias had been in a sweat. He had taught a class just before lunch, and let the students go early because he had been so distracted. Over and over, he imagined the scene when he got home and told Dixon the FBI were in town, and every time he pictured the scene, Dixon would become unstable. Dixon would beat him to death in his kitchen with a rolling pin, screaming about how Elias must have said something to someone. Or Dixon would calmly turn around and stab him with a filet knife, saying “I knew I couldn’t trust you” as Elias slid quietly to the floor. As none of the scenarios ended with Elias alive, he came to the conclusion that it was best not to tell Dixon anything.
Which is why he was so surprised when a calm and conversational Dixon met him in the kitchen as he walked in with two shopping bags, and said, “The FBI are probably going to visit you soon.”
Careful of a trap, Elias asked innocently, “Why do you say that?”
“Figure that bitch has started spendin’ the money by now.”
Elias started taking the groceries out of the bag and putting them in the fridge, noting that Dixon seemed to have changed. He was obviously feeling better. Color had returned to his face, and the sweaters from Elias’s closet he had taken to wearing almost made him look like he could fit into polite society. Until he opened his mouth.
“But you told her not to,” Elias said. “I was there.”
Dixon laughed. “If she listened to that, she’d be the first bitch ever listened to me ’bout anything.” He peered into the shopping bag and found the six pack. He pulled one out and put the rest in the fridge, making a toast motion, thanking Elias, as he twisted the cap off and took the first swig. “Alls I’m sayin’ is, get your story straight. The money guys’ll come up if she starts spraying those bills around.”
“Money guys?”
“FBI’s got a department that tracks bills around. FBI, Treasury, I dunno. Some government fucks. They’ll be up here eventually.”
Elias had to respect the man. He really did know his trade. “Why do you think they’ll talk to me?”
“They might have some record you visited the nurse. Maybe surveillance cameras around the college, something like that. Maybe the nurse kept a log, who knows. Maybe they got nothin’. Fact is, you never know till they knock on your door. So be ready with some bullshit, just in case.”
Elias nodded. “Thanks for the advice.”
“That’s if they even get as far as the nurse. They’ll probably just notice the bills in town, at a post office or a bank or something. Sometimes they do random checks. The nurse seemed like a cool customer, though. I’m sure she’ll have some bullshit ready. Just make sure you do, too. You can’t be too careful.”
Elias nodded.
“Don’t talk too much if they start asking you questions. They look for that. Just be real easy and cool.”
“OK.” Elias tried to recreate the scene with Denise, wondered if he’d talked too much, or if he’d been easy and cool. He wondered if letting an FBI agent know you were attracted to her was a bad thing. “What if it’s a woman?”
Dixon froze. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if the FBI agent who . . .”
“You motherfucker,” said Dixon in awe, shaking his head.
“What?”
“They came today, didn’t they? It was a fuckin’ woman. And you tried to get into her pants.”
Elias said nothing. Was this guy psychic? He started to shake his head and Dixon stopped him, half concerned but also half amused.
“You fuckin’ little pussy hound, can’t you control yourself for five fuckin’ minutes? Do you know what they’re gonna do to you if they find me in your house? This is serious shit here. This ain’t like gettin’ a bad grade or something. You’re gonna do time. Hard time. A scrawny fucker like you is gonna get traded around the cell block for a pack of Newports, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“All right, calm down.”
“I’m calm.” He was, too. He was looking at Elias, now clearly amused. “Well, the FBI ain’t here, so obviously you did OK.”
“It wasn’t like that.” Elias said. “She just aske
d some questions.”
“I know what it was like.” Dixon took another swig of his beer. “If you fuck her, don’t bring her back here.”
“I have some common sense,” Elias said.
“No you don’t.”
Elias got red-faced, feeling a flush of anger and resentment, and Dixon noticed it and laughed.
“I’m just kiddin’, man. You’re all right.”
Elias angrily put the frying pan on the stove, turned on the gas, and Dixon said, “She had her keys, you know.”
“Who had her keys?”
“That kid next door. When she came over and told you she was locked out. I saw her let herself into her house with her keys. So she had ’em the whole time.”
Elias said nothing.
“Alls I’m sayin’ is, you gotta watch people. You gotta watch ’em the whole time.” He took another swig of beer, then grabbed the six pack from the fridge and opened the door to the basement. “I’d better stay away from the windows. Tell me when dinner’s ready.”
“Do you know how hard it is to quit the FBI?” Denise asked. They were in a bar called The Raven, chosen not for its atmosphere or drink specials, but because it was about a hundred yards from their motel. Kohl was looking absently around, trying not to let Denise notice he was scoping out two college girls chatting in a booth by the bathrooms. They had been eyeing him, too, but had given up hope he was going to approach them – probably because they figured he was with his mother, Denise decided. She smiled to herself at the thought, and watched the college girls act as though they were involved in deep conversation.
But for the four of them, and two professional drunks mumbling to each other at the far end of the bar, the place was deserted. In two or three hours, the bartender assured them, it would be packed to the door with college kids from Tiburn, the ones who wanted to get off campus and were “real” enough to hang out with the townies. Because The Raven was also frequented by Tiburn’s drunk and unemployed, the college kids considered it gritty, and becoming a regular there was a sign of maturity, demonstrating an ability to relate to people of all classes. The bartender told them that the novice drinkers, the freshmen with the fake IDs, rarely showed up here. How then, Denise wondered, to explain the acrid aroma of spilled beer and vomit which seemed permanently ingrained into the rough and aging woodwork?
“To quit? Why would I want to quit?” Kohl asked.
“I’m just asking if you know what is involved in the quitting process.”
“No.” Kohl looked confused. “Are you thinking of quitting?” He stared at her, and she realized that no answer she could give would surprise him. She wondered if there were behind-her-back conversations already going on in the office that Kohl might be privy to. Perhaps her resignation being tendered was an idea that had already been discussed.
“How long did it take you to get this job,” Denise asked. “I mean, how many interviews did you have to go through?”
Kohl shrugged. “A lot.”
“Did they send people to your house to interview your family and friends? Ask them whether you had used drugs in high school?”
“Well, yeah. That’s not all they asked.”
“No, of course not.” Denise tried to smile warmly, aware that she might not be pulling it off. “But they interviewed your high school friends, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. That’s what they do. It’s a government job. They do that to everybody.”
Denise nodded and picked up her vodka tonic, pulled the last of it out from under the ice with a gurgling sound which alerted the bartender. She motioned for another.
“Two weeks’ notice,” she said. “That’s all you have to give them.”
Kohl nodded. “I’d never looked into it. I just got here, I haven’t been planning to quit.”
“They make you think you’re special, that they need you. They act like you’re a part of some elite, because you jumped through all the hoops to get hired. But you only have to give them two weeks’ notice to leave. That’s what I had to give at my last job waiting tables, before I joined the Bureau.”
Kohl nodded again. He looked anxious, like he wanted her to stop talking, as if the conversation was making him doubt Denise’s sanity. She might as well have been discussing her abduction by aliens. She smiled at him again, and this time it did come off warmly.
“Why don’t you go chat with those two girls over there,” she said. “They were looking at your ass when you came back from the bathroom.”
Kohl looked over at the girls, then back at Denise, his face quizzically scrunched. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.” She was surprised to see that Kohl seemed genuinely worried about her. “Thanks for asking.”
“All this talk about quitting . . .”
“I’m just thinking out loud.” Kohl didn’t look satisfied with that explanation, and she laughed. “Look, Agent Kohl,” she began.
“Chris.”
“Look, Chris. I’m going to stay up here for the weekend. You can take the car back tomorrow and when you leave, drop me off at that car rental place.”
He looked more confused and worried than ever. “Carver’s not going to expense you up here for the weekend, and he’s definitely not going to expense a second car . . .”
Denise put her hand on his. “Look, honey,” she said. “I just want to stay up here for a few days by myself. I like the town. It’s like a vacation. I’m going to pay for it, OK?”
Kohl looked like his head was going to explode. What was wrong with him? Couldn’t a girl just take a vacation if she felt like it?
“Do you have some lead on Dixon?” he asked. “You want to collar him by yourself?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Denise groaned. She was about to smack him in the back of the head when her cellphone, which she had left sitting on the bar, rang.
“Hello?”
“Denise, it’s Dick Yancey. How are you?”
“Fine, Dick. Me and Wonder Boy . . .” – she gave him a wink – “are sitting in a local watering hole catching up. How’re your teeth?”
“My what? Oh, fine. Hey, I got that info you wanted.”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Elias White comes up clean. Nothing. Not even a parking ticket. And I couldn’t find anything to connect him with Dixon. He seems to have lived his whole life in Tiburn, New Hampshire.”
“His whole life?”
“Only one address. His address on his driver’s license now is the same as the one when his father registered his birth certificate. I don’t think he’s ever moved.”
“Wow. He sounds like quite an adventurer.”
“There is one thing, though. His mother, a Janet White, is listed as an unsolved homicide in LA County in 1981.”
“Unsolved homicide. That’s sad. What was she doing in LA?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” said Dick. “Anyway, that’s all I got.”
“Thanks for calling.”
“Sure thing. You have a good night.”
She put the cellphone back down on the counter, and noticed Kohl looking at her suspiciously. “Was that about Dixon?”
“About the professor I spoke to today.”
“You know where Dixon is, don’t you? You’re going to collar him yourself.”
Denise laughed. Even as she laughed, she knew that if she were a man, she wouldn’t be having this conversation. So much for being his mentor. Her male co-workers always viewed her with a measure of distrust, as if she was constantly planning something, always had an ulterior motive.
“Yeah, OK, you got me,” she said, the light humor gone and her voice now tinged with a trace of bitterness which made Kohl flinch. “I just broke the case wide open, sitting here drinking vodka tonics. And now I want to send you home so I can arrest an armed felon by myself.”
“We’re partners, right? You can tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything,” Denise cried, with exasperation. “I just asked Dick Yancey to check on that
professor I told you about, and he came up clean. That was all. I don’t think Dixon is even in this town.”
Kohl stared into his empty glass for a second. “I’m gonna go back to the motel,” he said, clearly unconvinced.
“You don’t want to talk to your girlies?”
Kohl shook his head as he walked out, not in response to the question, but to signify that Denise was a lost cause. “See ya tomorrow.”
“Bye.” Denise turned back to the bartender and pointed at her empty glass again.
An hour later, the place had filled up considerably, just as the bartender had promised. Most of the clientele were workmen who all seemed to know each other, and every one of them checked Denise out when they came to the bar to order drinks, but none spoke to her. Either way was fine with her. The vodka tonics were taking her on a cheerful ride through her own consciousness, at one point even convincing her that she was genuinely fond of Kohl. She had begun to ask herself probing questions about why she was even here; did she think there was any possibility Dixon might be in town, or had it just been a ruse to get back at the FBI, to force them to send her on a vacation because they obviously weren’t sending her to Quantico to train for the Profiler program?
Ah, who knew? Maybe Dixon was here. How else to explain the nurse’s disappearance and the bills showing up bloodstained at a travel agency? But maybe there were other ways to explain that. Even if the blood in the cars Dixon had stolen after the robbery matched the blood on the bills, what did that mean? All it really meant was that the bills had wound up here, and a nurse had left her boyfriend after acquiring them. She was getting lost in thought when she noticed a young man in a flannel shirt eyeing her across the bar. She looked away quickly, stared into her drink, as if suddenly fascinated by it.
He was in his late twenties, with friendly dark eyes and a pleasant smile, and he was next to Denise before she could decide how she was going to handle this. For a brief moment, she wished Kohl would come back in, begging forgiveness for his idiocy, but she knew from experience that waiting for her male co-workers to beg forgiveness for their idiocy was a long and thankless chore. Kohl was in bed and this guy was standing next to her now, waiting for the slight turn of her head which would mean she would have to acknowledge him.
