by Lee Winter
There was silence, and for a moment, Lauren wondered if she’d annoyed Ayers by mentioning her beloved former job. She looked around again to find Ayers assessing her.
“What?”
“A vote of confidence from Lauren King,” Ayers said casually. She dropped her eyes back to her page. “Sign of end times for sure. How unexpected.”
“Just a fact,” Lauren said and shrugged. “I know you’ll be bolting soon for somewhere better where you’ll be appreciated. You’re probably counting down the hours till you get out of the Sentinel.” Lauren fluttered her eyes closed at that weirdly depressing thought and warmed her face in the morning sun.
“I would have thought you couldn’t wait for me to be gone? Aren’t I your evil nemesis or something?”
Lauren laughed. “Now what good is a superhero without a supervillain? Everyone knows that.”
“Ah. So my working with you is all about balancing the universe? Yin and Yang?”
“Exactly.” Lauren drained the last of her coffee and put her cup on the sand.
“And what makes you think you’re holding your side up on this balanced, cosmic see-saw?”
“You know I am,” Lauren said and gave her a smirk. “Or you wouldn’t even be here with me. Don’t bother denying it.”
There was a silence.
“Nothing to say to that?” Lauren prompted and fidgeted as she waited for a reply.
“I was busy not denying it,” Ayers said with a regal sniff. “As instructed.”
Lauren was contemplating Ayers’s playful response when a black car roared up emblazoned with Douglas County Sheriff down the side. A fat black grill guard framed the front of the vehicle, making it seem especially obnoxious.
“Who the hell are you two?” an officer barked as he leaned out the window before he’d even killed the motor. He had a round face, a small, pale mustache, and slicked back, light-brown hair that poorly hid a bald patch.
“Reporters,” Ayers told him, and she casually set aside her papers and climbed out of the car. Lauren scrambled to her feet beside her.
“LA Daily Sentinel,” Lauren added. She examined his car. “Are you the sheriff?” She indicated the lettering on his door.
“All our vehicles have that,” he grunted and got out. “So no.”
He slammed the door and ambled over and took a closer look at them. He wore a dark-blue uniform; the Taser, walkie-talkie, and holstered gun accentuated the way his belt strained around his ample midriff. Above his right breast pocket was a small police-issue US flag pin, underneath which sat a bronzed badge declaring J.P. Frost.
Appraisal over, he walked to the edge of the taped-off area to examine the sand. It had no footprints, size nine or otherwise. Seemingly satisfied, he turned back to them.
“Show me your press passes.”
Lauren hauled out her Daily Sentinel ID from her wallet. Ayers passed hers over as well. Frost made a note of both their names and returned them.
“Ain’t you two a little far from home?”
“Jon Sands was working in LA when he went missing,” Ayers said. “We’re following his trail. It led here.”
“We never released a name,” Frost said. “What makes you think it’s him?”
“You’re denying that’s his car?” Lauren asked. She shot him her best incredulous look, daring him to respond.
He didn’t bite and offered her a stony stare. “Tell me why a pair of reporters would care about a missing man who works on fixing up computers?”
Before they could answer, a white SUV crunched across gravel and sand toward them and rolled to an easy stop. This vehicle had Mono County Sheriff down its side.
The driver, in a pale khaki police uniform, wore a laid-back, easy smile under his wide-brimmed hat. Next to him was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit, with a buzz cut and mirrored sunglasses. He immediately strode off toward the abandoned vehicle and began to circle it.
“Hey Pete.” Frost welcomed the uniformed officer. The sour look he’d reserved for the journalists evaporated. “What drags you out here so early? Who’s your friend over there?”
“Well,” the officer said and scratched his chin. “You know how we put out that locate message on NLETS for info on that vehicle? After we got a hit the driver was an MP, Detective Rankin here just showed up at my office yesterday.”
He pointed to the man lumbering around the car, making notes in a small pad. “He’s from LA missing persons. Wanted me to show him the case file and drive him out here to see the scene for himself. So, here we are.” He shrugged.
Deputy Frost digested that and flicked a glance at Lauren and Ayers, then drew his friend to one side. As they walked away, Lauren quickly looked up “MP” on her phone. Oh. Missing Person.
She tried “NLETS” next. National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System. Okay, so that had to be an interdepartmental alert service or something. She turned the phone’s screen to Ayers who examined it and nodded.
Frost was a distance away now and had lowered his voice, but the wind, whipping straight off the lake, wasn’t helping his discretion.
“That seems a bit much for an MP,” she heard him mutter. “Why bother about someone who’s gone and drowned himself all the way up here? Doesn’t he trust your report’ll be any good or something? Why is that feller actually here?”
The Mono County deputy shrugged. “Got me,” he said. “He’s not saying much, either. Just that he wants the case closed. Okay, Jake, you gonna tell me who your friends are?”
Detective Rankin had finished his saunter around the vehicle and came up behind the two officers. “Would like to know that one myself,” he said.
“We were just getting acquainted when you both showed up,” Frost told the detective. “Say they’re reporters. From your neck of the woods. Came hunting for more on the deceased.”
“Deceased? You found a body?” Rankin asked curiously. His eyes darted around as if expecting to see a body bag. “I thought the bureaucrats from Douglas County had their heads too far up their asses to authorize a lake search.” He gave Frost a hard look.
The deputy folded his arms. “Don’t look at me. Our boss likes to hang onto the department’s Benjamins. Expensive thing doing lake sweeps. He thinks calling out our diving team over just a vague possibility of a suicide isn’t smart. And even if he is dead, the feller could be bobbing around over the state line and not his financial concern.”
Rankin turned to the other officer. “And why can’t your side do the search if Nevada’s too cheap to?”
Pete shrugged nonchalantly. “We’re only small. No divers. And we use volunteers for any search and rescue ops. This kind of thing, bodies in a lake, it can put more persons at risk than’s worth it. Not to mention it ain’t pretty. Our Sheriff doesn’t want to involve civvies in that situation when Douglas County’s professional divers can do it. And they should do it. ‘Sides, for all we know your MP’s on Nevada’s side.”
“So that’s it?” Rankin asked. “We have to wait till Sands bloats up and scares the shit out of some poor old fisherman? How’s that gonna play out in the press?”
Three sets of eyes swung around to the reporters. Ayers, who’d been taking rapid notes, froze, while Lauren swallowed at the realization they’d been caught listening.
“Hey now,” Frost said, mood turning stormy. “Any and all information you just heard was off the record!” He stalked over to them, the other two men in his wake.
“Who are you two anyway?” Rankin said, glaring at them. “Specifically.”
“That’s Catherine Ayers, I’m Lauren K—”
“King,” he finished, staring at her. “Right?”
Lauren nodded.
“You were on the visitor records—the reporter who met with Sands at his work. I’d planned to talk to you. What did you two discuss anyway?”
>
“A party,” Lauren shrugged. “Nothing much else.”
“Party?” Rankin repeated. “That SmartPay thing?”
She gave him a nod. “Can I ask whether Della knows about his car being found?”
“Della?” Pete asked in confusion.
“The wife,” Frost told him.
“She is none of these reporters’ concern,” Rankin interrupted. He gave them a warning look. “And don’t you go bothering that poor woman.”
“Poor woman? Why are you so convinced he killed himself?” Ayers asked him. “No room for any other theories? No other possibilities at all?”
“No comment,” Rankin said; his lips twisted unpleasantly. “I’m not about to discuss his motives with journalists. Time for you two to move along now.”
“Would I be right in thinking you believe he killed himself because he was a little paranoid? That’s what you’re basing all this on?” Ayers evaluated him.
Rankin pulled off his mirrored sunglasses and took a step closer.
“You know, ma’am, I don’t think I appreciate your attitude. I’ve been working in missing persons for two decades. I can’t tell you how many cases go the same way. There’s a person, maybe got a few mental issues, and he disappears one day leaving behind a sad little note saying how much he loved his wife.
“You don’t need the dots too close together to know what comes next on this case. You can stand there all self-righteous and judge me for assuming things, but I’ve been here way more often than you.”
For a moment no one spoke.
Frost shook his head, pulled a notepad out, and began to flip through it. He stopped on a page.
“How’d you know about the paranoia?” he asked as he tapped it. “That detail wasn’t released. None of the specifics of the case were.”
“We know more than you think,” Ayers said smoothly. “Like the breaking and entering of his apartment.”
“Kids,” Rankin said dismissively. “Several other apartments got hit in the building that month too. Probably after drug money.”
“But they didn’t take any of the cash,” Ayers countered.
“How’d you know that?” Rankin demanded.
“We’re reporters. People tell us things. Sometimes we hear things even the police don’t. Now why don’t we compare notes? Off the record is fine, if you can’t say anything official yet.”
“Ah, excuse me,” Deputy Frost began in confusion, “What break-in? You saying the MP was targeted?”
Pete looked up, startled. “Uh, what now?”
Rankin lifted his hand. “No. That’s just claptrap being spread from the wife. It’s sad. The spouses never want to believe their loved ones have it in them to leave them. Happens all the time.”
He stared hard at Ayers. “As for you, this is a police matter. Go back to LA. Talk to police media relations, and maybe they’ll give you a statement down the line.”
Frost looked conflicted, as if debating whether his natural curiosity was worth contradicting a colleague’s order. Pete watched the standoff with only passing interest.
“Do you want to be charged? I’m sure I can think up something,” Rankin added when neither woman moved.
“We heard you,” Ayers said. She stepped back and glanced over to Lauren. They fell into step and headed back to the car.
“That was the laziest police work ever,” Lauren said in exasperation as they got in and shut the doors. “We could have had all these great leads for them—that smug asshole had no way of knowing. You could tell Frost was tempted to do an info swap though. You could see it in his eyes.”
“I can see why Della had so much trouble with Rankin,” Ayers agreed. “He appears to lack the most basic first requisite of a good police officer—an open mind.”
Lauren’s phone began to ring.
“King,” she answered.
“Hello? It’s Della. Della Sands. Jon’s wife? You gave me your card and said to call if anything came up.”
“Oh, right! Sure! Mrs. Sands, hi.”
Ayers leaned closer to listen in.
“Are you still in Carson City? Can you come by?”
“Of course. We’re a little out of town but we can be there soon. Is this about Jon’s car being found?”
“No. I’d like you to see something. Hurry.” The phone clicked off.
“What could the wife want to show us?” she asked.
Ayers shook her head. “We’re done here. Let’s find out.”
Della Sands snatched her screen door open the moment they approached her house. “Good, you’re here. Come and look at this!”
She watched them impatiently as they quickened their pace, and then she turned back inside.
Lauren and Ayers followed and looked around. The place had been tossed. Furniture and possessions were everywhere.
Della led them into a bedroom. The dresser drawers were opened.
“There!” she said, pointing at a small pile of cash and jewellery kicked to one side. “They weren’t after money.”
She took them to the adjacent door. “Fee’s room.” A plastic chest covered with cartoon characters had been opened, its contents everywhere. Toys littered the floor.
“Where is your daughter?” Ayers asked in concern.
“At my mom’s where I dropped her off on my way to work, like always. I usually come back here to have some coffee and pack my lunch before I start my shift. Instead I found this. I was only gone twenty minutes!”
“They did all this in that time?” Lauren frowned. “How’d they get in?”
“Forced the kitchen window open. Through here. See?”
Lauren examined the entry point. No broken glass. Not even a scuff mark.
Della led them into the living room. The rainbow of books had been tossed in every direction. The heavy wooden bookcase lay on its side.
“Jon would be so upset if he saw this,” Della said and dropped to her knees. Her eyes flashed with anger, but a deeper distress was evident in her trembling fingers as she grouped all the reds together into a pile.
Lauren righted the bookcase, easing it neatly against the wall.
“Did you call the police?” she asked.
Della snorted. “Of course. For all the good that did me. They’re busy right now. They will send someone when they get a chance since it isn’t life threatening. Not life threatening? Tell that to Jon. How can this not be connected?”
Ayers dropped to her haunches beside the distraught woman and pushed the green books into a stack, then moved on to the magazines. “So did they find it?” she asked as she worked.
“What?” Della looked up.
“Whatever they were obviously searching for. As you say, they weren’t interested in quick cash.”
“No they weren’t,” Della said. “They took his work computer.”
“Anything else?”
“Just some of those little USB thingies.” She slapped two books together particularly hard. “They won’t find anything on there but videos he made for Fee of him reading her some of her favorite bedtime stories. I guess they’ll get a surprise when they load those up.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “Fee won’t understand why he can’t do that anymore. Because, oh, that’s right, he apparently threw himself in a lake yesterday for no damn reason!”
“We saw the news last night,” Lauren said softly. “And we went to the lake this morning to see for ourselves. We’re sorry that—”
“Don’t. Don’t be sorry. It’s all a lie.” Della rubbed her eyes. “The cop they sent yesterday gave me the we’re-so-sorry-ma’am speech. I told him he was wasting his breath. Jon would never kill himself.”
“We did see his car abandoned—”
“I don’t care how it looks. He wouldn’t do that. He loves us too much.”
She wiped her ha
nds down her jeans and moved on to another pile of books. “Besides, when that cop showed me a copy of Jon’s suicide note, I knew I was right.”
“You’ve seen what the note says?” Ayers asked in surprise. “Do you have it?”
Della looked at her and then nodded. She disappeared for a few moments and returned with an eight by ten photo. She tossed it on the floor and returned to sorting her books.
She gave a head shake. “That cop said he couldn’t give me the real thing because it was evidence and was being kept with his car till some bureaucracy thing was sorted. But he had nothing to say about where my husband is.”
Her hands shook as she moved on to the yellows.
Lauren and Ayers bent over the photographed note.
Della, I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through. The pain will be over soon, I promise. With all my Love, Jonathan Sands.
“Is this his handwriting?” Lauren asked.
“It does look like it,” Della conceded with a sour look. “But that definitely wasn’t from his heart.”
“Why do you say that?”
“A man who loved his baby girl as much as Jon does would never forget to include her in a note if he really was going to kill himself. And who signs a note to their wife with their full name? Did he think I wouldn’t know which husband it was from?”
“That is odd.”
“Then, there’s the page it’s on—you can see it was just ripped out of an old tatty notepad.”
“And your husband liked neatness,” Ayers said slowly.
“Yes he does,” Della said firmly, correcting the verb tense. “At all times. Then there’s the last line. He’d never do that, either.” She stabbed the word Love with her finger. “The L is capitalized mid sentence!” Della exclaimed as if that explained everything. “Jon sticks by the rules. All the rules. He dots his Is and crosses his Ts. It’s practically in his DNA. I mean his whole family’s like this. His sister and father are both grammar nazis. Maybe you think I’m just clutching at straws, but none of this is my Jon. It’s all just off somehow.”
“Wait, his father?” Lauren blinked. “But he died in Vietnam.”
