The Defenseless (Brandon Fisher FBI Series Book 3)

by Carolyn Arnold

  “No. I’m sorry.” As her eyes connected with mine, they crackled with revelation. “They’d go to a bar named Smitty’s and play pool.”

  Chapter 5

  Paige hated the jealousy that thrived beneath the surface. She’d never experienced any of these emotions prior to Brandon. She even remembered feeling lonely, years ago, when he had left the academy and returned to his wife. She should have known things would come full circle and she’d have to face the consequences of getting involved with a married agent in training. She just didn’t realize how cruel, and ironic, Karma could be in pairing them on the same team with the BAU. Her peace had come with convincing herself she didn’t need to worry about seeing him again. She was in New York, he lived in Florida. What were the chances their paths would ever cross again? But life wasn’t always fair. In fact, most times, reality was cruel. It had a way of serving notices that made most people stand back and analyze their life—where they were and where they were headed, what they regretted and how to make things better. It was one certainty she was convinced would never change.

  She and Zach were on their way to visit Gene Lyons’s wife, and even though her mind should have been on the case, it kept straying to the sidelines. Maybe she should resign? If she couldn’t gather her thoughts and focus, what good was she doing?

  She shuffled the internal monologue and told herself it wasn’t Brandon, it was the time of year.

  She glanced over at Zach’s profile. His attention was steadied on the road and the slippery conditions. The snow kept falling.

  “Is Christmas a big deal for you?” she asked.

  He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Not a huge deal. Maybe more so for my mom. You?”

  “Huge, and I love everything about it.”

  “You know it’s of pagan origins and dates back to three fifty-four AD?”

  “Please don’t take something beautiful and destroy it.”

  “I’m just telling you, it’s not the glitter and glam it’s made out to be.”

  She paused to smile wistfully, letting her mind wander. She conjured the smell of gingerbread, evergreen, and eggnog. She could hear the crackling of a fire in the fireplace. “But it brings people together. Everyone is different at this time of year.”

  “They are different all right, more consumed with commercialism.”

  “Zach.”

  He snuck in a quick glance and grinned at her. “I can’t help it sometimes.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You say you love everything?”

  “Getting gifts, giving gifts. The lights, how they sparkle.”

  “I noticed the order.”

  She laughed. “I’m still a woman, Zach.”

  “You’re sad you might miss it?”

  Faced with the direct question, it stirred up a lot of emotion. She hated that it centered on Brandon. She wanted him to be a part of the festivities this year, but she sensed that life would take another turn.

  “You know, even if we haven’t closed the case, we can celebrate here.”

  “What? In a local restaurant or our hotel?” She sulked.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be exactly the same, but you’d be with us. Just think, it will probably be a lot less drama than other years.”

  Her thoughts skipped to last Christmas. Her younger sister had gotten into a fight with their mother over what stuffing recipe to use. She thought about her uncle who was always too close to the family, not in a creepy sort of way, but still, he had never married and integrated himself as if he were an immediate relative.

  She bobbed her head side to side. “True.” She recognized her tone carried a playful edge, but inside she was torn. Part of her had wanted to invite Brandon to celebrate with the Dawson family. Would he even accept if she extended the offer?

  Zach pulled to the curb in front of a bungalow. The barrage of snow had been left to accumulate in the driveway and was nearing twenty inches deep. If it wasn’t for the mound in the shape of a car, and the lights on inside the house, Paige would have guessed no one was home.

  “You’re telling me we have to walk through all that—”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “Zach, I could beat you right now.”

  *****

  “I always told him, Karma’s a bitch and she will collect one day. He thought I was talking about myself.” Cathy Lyons sat in a sofa chair, her legs up on its matching ottoman, underneath a blanket. Her dog, Biscuit, a Pomeranian, snuggled tightly against her and shifted his position whenever she moved.

  The house was a disorganized mess. Empty alcohol bottles were in the front entry, as if soldiers lined up on the battlefield, only they had lost the fight. Dog hair was meshed together in clumps on the ceramic tile and blew as tumbleweeds in the wake of following her to the living room.

  When Paige took a seat on the sofa, the overwhelming scent of dog rushed up, tickling her nose. She didn’t have time to stop the sneeze. “Excuse me.” Tears whelmed in Paige’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “It’s safe to say you two didn’t exactly get along.”

  “Oh no, but we had an arrangement.”

  “An arrangement?”

  “He lived his life, I lived mine.”

  “It had always been that way?” Zach asked.

  Cathy angled her head and pulled back. “Most couples get married because they love each other, they can even stand each other. His gambling killed us.”

  “Why not get a divorce?”

  Cathy’s face contorted, mimicking a squished raisin. “That would be a sin.”

  Paige studied the woman. She never understood why people fought to hold a relationship together when it had run its course. Drawing comparison to her own situation, the thought turned her stomach.

  “You reported him missing five days ago.” Zach attempted to realign the direction of the conversation.

  “That I did. The cops didn’t even seem to care until that guy’s body showed up.” She tsked and shook her head. “Found in a back alley, poisoned to death. I read the paper.” For some reason, her latter statement carried pride.

  Paige’s thoughts went to Gene Lyons. Here, a man who’d been accused of animal neglect, still had the decency to remain married to and support his bride—a woman for whom he surely couldn’t have had any respect. Did he do it out of love, or out of obligation? Contrast that to what he was accused of doing—hurting an innocent animal—it wasn’t aligning.

  “Were you both free to see other people?” Paige asked.

  “Absolutely. We were just not allowed to live with anyone of the opposite sex. That would be a sin.”

  Cohabiting was a sin but conjugating wasn’t. Interesting. This woman had the ability to perverse the marital bonds and make it aesthetic.

  Zach crossed his leg, letting his ankle rest on the knee of the other. “The report says you filed a missing persons report when he didn’t show up to drop off your money.”

  “Yes.”

  “He typically did so reliably?”

  “Yes.”

  Zach turned to Paige. He must have sensed her amusement with this scenario. She couldn’t understand why the guy would have put up with this woman, married or not.

  “You were living together at the time he was charged with animal neglect?”

  “Yes.”

  Zach’s chest expanded. “Did you think he was guilty?”

  “Yes.”

  Zach dropped his leg. “Did you voice that at the time?”

  “What good would it have done?”

  Paige was happy that she’d responded with more than a fired-back Yes.

  “Your husband is missing and we suspect that he’s been targeted by the same person who killed Darren Simpson.”

  Her brows knit together.

  “The man found by the dumpster,” Zach led her.

  Recognition lit in her eyes. “Yes, I read that.”

  Paige covered her mouth to stifle the snicker but dropped her hand under Zach’s gaze.


  “You really believe he’s been kidnapped by a killer?” Excitement carried over each word and her posture had straightened, her legs were no longer crossed at the ankles.

  Biscuit let out an audible yawn and jumped down to the floor, where he sat for a few seconds before settling into a ball at the base of the ottoman.

  “Yes,” he said. “Do you know of anyone who hated your husband?”

  “You mean more than me, because I didn’t kill that man, or take Gene.”

  Paige admired Zach’s patience. She was caught up in the rapture of I-can’t-believe-this-is-my-life-right-now and was fighting off a case of the giggles. She had to get involved in the conversation or risk losing control of herself.

  “What about hate mail, or vicious things that may have happened after the abuse charges?”

  Cathy’s features relaxed. Her eyes went up and to the right, which indicated she was going to tell the truth. “I remember we received hateful letters after the charges first came up. When he got off, they included death threats. Our house was egged a few times, but as the months passed, so did the harassment.”

  “Those letters, do you still have them?”

  “Oh, heavens, I don’t know. Maybe. I can look.”

  “That would be great.”

  “So, you really think someone from way back then is coming after him now?”

  “Yes, we believe it’s possible.”

  “Oh my.” Tension squeezed on her vocal chords and made her voice shaky. “Gene was charged well over twenty years ago.”

  “We’ll need those letters if you can find them.”

  Cathy stared at them blankly, her eyes misted with tears. “Yeah, of course.”

  Chapter 6

  He knew he was going to die. The cramping pain that had ratcheted his stomach, faded to the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure if the physical ailment was gone or if he had grown accustomed to its presence.

  His vision had darkened, and he wasn’t sure if it was the deprivation of oxygen, or his body resigning itself to death.

  He had hours to think, but the stench of excrement in the water dish kept hitting him in periodic waves. They say the sensory perception of smell shuts off after a couple minutes. It wasn’t working for him. He did know one thing for certain though, he didn’t deserve to go down like this.

  His dead mother had called out to him, appearing as a vision and telling him it was okay to surrender. There was a spiritual realm he would be a part of.

  Lies.

  When he died, if he dared to believe in heaven and hell, he wasn’t going where the cherubs plucked on harp cords. He’d be on the fast route to the abyss, with its fiery caverns, and he’d be reporting to the creature with the pitchfork.

  Again, if he bought into all that.

  Nonetheless, his future was absolute. He would close his eyes, his last breath would exit his body, and in that instant, he hoped he would experience the warmth of forgiveness.

  Cathy entered his mind and he wondered where it had gone so wrong. At this moment, he would exchange anything for one more kiss, for the feel of her touch.

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple heaving against the constraint of the collar. His legs shook beneath him. He was losing strength.

  There was a bench, but it would provide no relief. To reach it would equate to asphyxiation by choker.

  Still, despite being nonreligious, he had called out, seeking divine intervention, for someone to hear his cries for help. He met with silence.

  The only one listening in was the man who put him here and he had gone silent.

  He was guilty of a lot of things, but killing Buick wasn’t one of them. If he thought hard enough, he could even remember the dog’s soft fur beneath his fingers. He had been a solid fixture, a source of unconditional love.

  He would take the knowledge of who ended his best friend’s life with him, knowing he hadn’t prevented it or had them held accountable.

  His captor was right. He deserved to die.

  With the absolution, he remembered Sunday school and something the Bible said about the wages of sin being death.

  For the first time in his life, he would be debt-free.

  He closed his eyes and sank to his knees. The choker tightened around his neck and had his eyes bulging open in panic for air, but any attempts to derive breath were futile.

  *****

  The Advocate sat back, his hands clasped behind his head in pride. He had seen another one through and his mission was accomplished, yet again. One less animal-abusing mongrel in the world. One less Offender.

  Yes, the earth would be a better planet for the Advocate’s sacrifice.

  The unfortunate part about his work in the winter was it was impossible to bury the past beneath the surface, and seal it, along with it its inevitable truth. But he had other means of keeping the body until the spring thaw. He had placed Simpson on display. He had no such intention with this one.

  The Defenseless would not go down without a voice. The crimes against them would have atonement.

  Watching the Offender’s body hanging there, twitching, was almost too much for him. It tapped at his moral compass, but he silenced it as a weakness. He was the one who carried out justice for those forgotten. He shut the lights off, his thoughts already on the next Offender.

  Chapter 7

  The onboard system rang, and while it was designed as a safe means of communicating when driving, I still wished that Jack would pull over. The snow continued to fall and I was starting to wonder if it ever stopped.

  “Harper and Fisher here.”

  “Jack, Zach and I just finished speaking with Cathy, Gene Lyons’s wife. She remembers getting hate mail, years ago, when all this happened.”

  “Get your hands on them.”

  “She’s searching now, but we’ll have to come back for them.”

  “Why?”

  “She lives in a rat’s nest. The entire place is upside down. She asked us to give her a day.”

  “Another twenty-four hours?”

  “I know, Jack, but if we push her, she won’t look.”

  “Fine. You wait on that woman to get her shit together.” Jack balanced his hold on the steering wheel with one hand and went searching in his coat pocket for his cigarettes. He tapped one out on a knee, temporarily driving with the tip of an elbow.

  My feet flattened to the floor, wishing for a set of pedals so I could at least slow the vehicle down.

  “How did you guys make out?” Paige asked.

  “Simpson’s wife was just as beautiful as it was hinted toward.”

  I smiled. Jack was a man after all.

  “But she’s a little young, and as it turns out, not the first Missus in Darren’s life.”

  “Did you call Nadia for a full background on her?”

  “Why don’t you do that and follow up on the one for Craig Bowen.”

  “The garbage man? Sure.”

  “Brandon and I are just about to head into a bar.”

  Paige laughed. “But it’s not even noon.”

  “The kid’s thirsty.” Jack smiled, the right side rising higher than the left. He put his window down and lit his cigarette.

  “Jenna—Simpson’s wife,” I began.

  “You’re on a first-name basis with her, Pending? Way to go. Who would have thought of you as a widow hunter?”

  “She told us her husband had a new friend in his life. They spent a lot of time shooting pool at a bar named Smitty’s.”

  “We’ll catch up on everything later. Get the name and address of Simpson’s first wife from Nadia. You go there, and hopefully by the time we’re all finished, Nadia will have the information we need on the garbage man.”

  Jack disconnected the call as the bar’s lit sign came into view.

  *****

  Inside Smitty’s, the smell of paint and wood spoke to its being recently renovated.

  Two pool tables were set up side by side near a sign that read Washrooms. Dining tables were on
the right behind a modest-sized dance floor, with everything else on the left. A long counter ran along the exterior wall as a place for patrons playing pool or dancing to have easy access to their drinks.

  The place was empty, except for a man behind the counter who was slicing lemons, or maybe they were limes. I only knew because I detected the aroma of citrus.

  He paused chopping. “Sit wherever you’d like.”

  “We’re Special Agents Harper and Fisher of the FBI. We’d like to talk to the manager.”

  The man set the knife down and wiped his hands on a towel. “FBI? What would you want here?” He threw the towel over a shoulder, snapped his fingers, and pulled out two shot glasses. “Probably something stronger than beer.”

  “We’re on duty,” I said.

  “Come on, I won’t tell your boss.”

  Jack prickled beside me. “I am the boss.”

  “Yeah, I figured that, but thought, what the hell? So, no drink then?” He shook his head as if we had offended him by refusing his booze, and returned the shot glasses behind the counter.

  He pulled the towel off his shoulder and bunched it in his hands. “I’m the manager. Name’s Neil Armstrong, and before you make a wisecrack, not the astronaut. What do you want?”

  “Do you know this man?” Jack gestured to me and I pulled up a recent picture of Darren Simpson.

  Armstrong didn’t take the phone from my hand, but passed it a cursory glance. “Course I do. The guy’s a regular.”

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  His face showed no emotion.

  “He was murdered and left behind in an alley,” Jack elaborated, taking the serve back.

  “I might have heard something about that.”

  “Might have?” I asked.

  “All right. Something happens to one of mine, I know.”

  “One of yours?”

  “It’s no Cheers, but we’re tight-knit.”

  “That’s great to hear because we think he came here with the man who killed him. Who did he play pool with?”

  The bartender laughed. When neither Jack nor I showed amusement, he ran a hand down his face to sober his expression.

  “Darren, play pool? He couldn’t to save his life.”