by Leslie Wolfe
Tess felt her blood boil. How easy it was to slap a label on someone and make it their fault. She liked to party, hence she wasn’t deserving of a full investigation. She liked to party, so whatever happened was her fault.
“Did you follow up on this lead?”
“N—no,” he replied. “She didn’t go missing until three weeks later. It wasn’t really a lead.”
“Then what else did you do?”
“The usual. APB, credit card monitoring, press releases, the works. She’s too old for an Amber Alert, but short of that we did everything.”
“All right, but you, personally, what did you do? How did you investigate her case further?”
He stared at her, not sure how to react. He folded his arms on his chest.
“You know how busy we get. Our caseload—”
“I’ll tell you what you did, Detective Garcia. You sat on your ass doing nothing, while she was out there for five days, getting tortured and killed.”
Chapter Ten
The Promise
Rush hour had crept in while Tess was visiting with Detective Garcia, and now she had to crawl through traffic at an infuriating pace. Her car wasn’t equipped with a siren. It did have emergency lights built into her front grille, rearview mirrors, and sun visors, but she delayed the moment she’d have to engage those. The procedure was clear. She couldn’t use the emergency lights in the absence of a real emergency.
Yes, per the procedure manual, conducting an investigation into someone’s death was not considered an emergency, nor was the delivery of bad news to a victim’s family. It wasn’t all good at the FBI, nor was it all logical, but it was the career choice that still made sense for her. She inched along with the horrendous traffic on I-95, remembering the moment she’d decided to become an FBI agent.
She’d been a promising law student, acing her exams all the way through third year. That summer she interned for a big law firm in Fort Lauderdale, received the highest praise from one of the partners, and the invitation to get in touch when she passed her bar exam. She still recalled how thrilled she was that day. She thought she had everything figured out. Later that night, she joined her friends at a bar and shared the story of her achievement. One of her friends had said, “Whoa, you’re going to be so loaded! We won’t see you anymore, ’cause, you know, these hotshot lawyers work, like, a gazillion hours, but we’ll know who to call for money.” She recalled all of them laughing, the happy, carefree laughter of invincible youth, but she didn’t laugh with them. Was that all she wanted to do with her life? Be busy and loaded? Provide access to justice for whoever could afford it the most? It didn’t make sense. Not to her. She wanted her life to make a difference, beyond someone else’s bottom line.
She spent the entire night tossing and turning. By the next morning, she knew what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. She had probably chosen the most difficult way a young lawyer could rid herself of student loans, but she hadn’t looked back since; hadn’t regretted her choice for a second.
She turned onto the Weavers’ street, a quiet, upscale suburban setting featuring half-million dollar homes, each engulfed in its own private oasis. She pulled in front of the generous driveway and took a few seconds to run her fingers through her hair. Long, sleek, and a natural ash blonde, it ran shoulder length and was parted in the middle, the simple, unpretentious hairstyle of a busy professional. She walked the distance to the front door, straightening her shirt and jacket, then rang the doorbell, cringing inside.
A middle-aged woman with dark circles around her eyes opened the door without a word.
“Mrs. Weaver? I’m Special Agent Tess Winnett with the FBI. May I come in?”
The woman’s face lit up a little, as she showed Tess the way into a nicely furnished living room. Everything was dark, the shades lowered, not allowing much light to come in. She flipped a switch and turned on the ceiling light, two dozen or so candle-shaped lightbulbs in a crystal chandelier.
“Sorry… migraines,” Mrs. Weaver apologized.
Tess noted the aged elegance of everything in the room. The furniture, dark, sculpted oak, featured several bookcases filled with books. Armchairs flanked the fireplace with floor lamps next to them, the ideal setting for book lovers who enjoyed reading together. The marble mantle hosted several rare, geological artifacts. An amethyst cathedral and several other large crystals of fascinating colors that Tess couldn’t name. It was the peaceful home of affluent intellectuals.
Mr. Weaver appeared from the kitchen, shook her hand quietly, then sat on the sofa next to her wife. The two clasped hands together, holding their breaths.
“You found our little girl?” Mr. Weaver asked.
“I’m afraid I have terrible news, Mr. Weaver. We found Sonya’s body earlier today.”
“No… no…” Mrs. Weaver whispered between sobs. “Not my baby, no. Please, God, no.”
“Are you sure it’s her?” Mr. Weaver asked, his chin trembling badly.
“Unfortunately, we are positive.”
The man shielded his wife in his arms, nesting her face against his shoulder. She clung to him with agonizing fingers, grabbing and twisting at his shirt.
“Find him, Agent, promise me you’ll find him.”
Tess nodded, choked.
“Promise me,” the man insisted with a trembling voice. He suddenly seemed 10 years older, frail, and broken.
She looked him firmly in the eye as she spoke.
“I promise.”
Chapter Eleven
Media Luna
It was already dark when Tess left the Weaver residence. Weary and lightheaded, she climbed into the Suburban and let out a sigh of frustration. Not a single piece of actionable information gathered from Sonya’s parents. Nothing. Sonya was a good girl, honors student, recent graduate, nothing worth mentioning, not even a squabble with a neighbor.
She recalled hearing her cell phone buzz a number of times during the conversation with Sonya’s parents. She pulled it out and checked the screen. A couple of irritated voicemails from Michowsky, followed by two text messages. One read, “This is Michowsky, we’re still waiting for you to do the next of kin.” The second message, also from Michowsky, read, “Dawn Girl story broke on local TV at 7. Damn it, Winnett, where the hell are you?”
She sighed again and closed her eyes for a second. Then she texted him back, “Can’t talk now. See you in the morning.” There’d be hell to pay when they heard she visited the Weavers on her own. Yeah… better handle that one in the morning, after a big cup of coffee.
A pervasive, gnawing sensation in her stomach reminded her she hadn’t touched a bite to eat the entire day. She paid a virtual visit to her fridge back home and remembered it was almost empty. Too drained to go shopping for a microwave dinner, she decided in favor of a better, easier option. A few minutes later, she pulled in the side parking lot of a small bar named Media Luna. Crescent Moon wall lamps, backlit with a yellowish light, were the only element of décor on the exterior walls.
Tess entered the dimly lit bar and propped herself up at the counter, on a four-legged stool that had seen better days. The entire place had seen better days. The bar had been smoke free only for the past couple of years, but hadn’t been renovated. The walls still bore the patina of heavy smoking and low margins. The original paint, an undecided burgundy or reddish brown, was cracked in places, exposing here and there the white drywall underneath.
The liquor license was pretty much the only framed art on those walls, but there were dozens of pictures affixed with pushpins, all of them taken right there, at the bar. Over the years, the same patrons had grown older, lost some hair, added some pounds, all the usual markings of the merciless passing of time. But some of the same faces stayed loyal over the years, pinned against the wall behind the shiny, stained counter, in a testimony of good times and memorable evenings.
She leaned on her elbows, stuck firmly on the counter, and buried her forehead in her hands. Three stools over, a man had greeted her
with a smile and an idiotic pickup line. Then he kept his eyes fixated on the TV screen in the corner, as soon as he’d caught a glimpse of her badge. There was another guy seated toward the far end of the counter, staring despondently into the bottom of his almost-empty glass, mumbling something to himself. Not a whole lot of business for Media Luna that night. No surprise… It was a Wednesday, still too early in the week to start celebrating the approaching weekend.
The bartender looked at her and grinned. She winked and ventured a weak, crooked smile. He continued to rinse some tall glasses, keeping the occasional eye on the TV screen, where the latest news, sports, and weather took turns on the air. Tall and tan, the bartender looked good for his almost 60 years of age. He hadn’t shaved his salt-and-pepper beard in a few days, and his wavy, long hair looked more salt than pepper those days, but overall he looked good, in a Kenny Rogers kind of way, or even a younger Willie Nelson. What would have appeared as unkempt for others, just worked out well for that man.
He still wore his Hawaiian shirt with the top three buttons undone, and the tattoo on his chest caught everyone’s eye. A tribal design of a tiger with hypnotic, piercing eyes, embedded in a flame motif that expanded and transformed into the tiger’s stripes, the tattoo had earned the bartender the nickname by which everyone knew him, but only a few were allowed to call him.
He finished rinsing the glasses, then put one on the counter and started mixing a drink. Tess watched him work, feeling a little more relaxed, a little less haunted by the day’s horrors. She reached out to the peanut bowl and almost grabbed a few.
“Don’t touch that,” the bartender said. “That’s the yuckiest thing I got in this whole joint. Everyone’s dirty hands have been in there.” He took out a brand new pack of peanuts from his pantry, and a clean bowl, and opened it for her. “There.”
She didn’t reply, just munched absently, while he finished mixing the drink. Then he stuck two fine straws into the murky drink and placed it on a coaster in front of her.
“Just how you like it, kid.”
“Thanks much, Cat.”
She played with the straws a little, making the small ice cubes rattle against the glass, and pushing the herbs toward the bottom. Then she took a couple of sips, her eyes pinned on the TV screen, where the local news was about to hit.
It didn’t air first. A piece about a new sinkhole opening under a home in Tampa took the first slot. It came just after that, against a backdrop of poorly edited, remote shots that didn’t show much, and some voice-over commentary, equally bad.
She gestured toward the bartender, and he cranked up the volume on the TV.
“Her body was found early this morning, prompting the public to call her Dawn Girl. Her name hasn’t been disclosed yet, pending notifications. While we do not have a confirmed cause of death, it is most likely one of a violent nature, bringing the fear that Juno Beach has a serial killer on the loose.”
“Goddamn it,” she muttered, making a throat-cut gesture with her right hand, prompting Cat to mute the TV.
“Hey, I was watching that,” the man at the end of the counter protested, a little slurred. Cat didn’t bother to acknowledge him.
Then he pulled a stool and sat right next to her.
“That you?” he asked quietly. “You working that?”
She stared into the glass for a few seconds.
“Yep,” she eventually said, her words heavy, spoken through a shuddered sigh.
Cat looked at the man sitting a few seats to their left and made a gesture with his head, inviting him to leave. The man obeyed promptly, sprung to his feet, and gulped down the remnants of his drink on his way out, then dropped the empty glass on the door end of the counter. The other man though, the one at the far end of the counter, didn’t look up, no matter how intently Cat stared at him.
“’Excuse me for a second,” he said, then went to the end of the counter. “You need to call a cab,” he told the man. “Now.”
“You cuttin’ me off?”
“Yeah. Come back tomorrow. This one’s on me, but you need to leave.”
“A’ right, a’ right, I get it. I’m goin’,” he slurred, dragging his footsteps toward the exit. The moment he closed the door behind him, Cat locked it, and turned off the Open sign.
“You don’t have to close the joint every time I hit bottom, Cat,” she said, feeling tears choking her. She took another couple of sips, emptying her glass. He’d already started to fix her another one, and the familiar smells and sounds pulled her back, drowning her in memories she couldn’t erase. The first time she’d landed on Catman’s doorstep, on a dark night just like this one, a dark night that had engulfed her entire life, changing it forever. She’d come in there covered in blood, holding on to shreds of her clothing with trembling hands, still panting from the desperate run to save herself. Cat had done the same back then… sent all his customers away, locked the bar, and tended to her for as long as she needed. He was a complete stranger back then. He was a dear friend now.
“Here you go,” he said, putting another drink in front of her, this time in a larger glass. “I fixed you a double.”
She chuckled bitterly. “Thanks, Cat.”
He sat next to her, quietly, waiting. She nibbled at the peanuts every now and then, her brain flooded by a sludge of dark thoughts and painful memories.
“I made a promise today, Cat,” she eventually whispered. “I promised her parents I would catch her killer.”
“And you will. You always do, right?”
“No… not always. There’s one… one who got away. The one who never had a case number. You know who. And I tried, Cat. I still try. I still search for that stupid tattoo, ’cause that’s all I can remember. I still dream of the damn thing. A snake, curling up… how can someone only remember that, and nothing else?” She fell quiet for a while, frowning, scrunching her face in despair. “I’ve looked at thousands of snakes, from thousands of tattoo places. And I got nothing, with all my fancy FBI credentials, and all the databases I can search. For years, I’ve been looking for a white male with a snake tattoo on his arm. No chance in hell. Nothing, just like with this guy today. We got nothing. No trace elements, no prints, nothing. Just… what he did to her.”
“How long has it been?” he asked softly.
“We found her this morning.”
“Not her… you.”
“Oh…” she replied, and looked away briefly. “Ten years, seven months, and twelve days. Yep, still counting.”
“You never reported it?” he asked gently, touching her hand to offer comfort.
“To what end, Cat? I was days away from starting my FBI training. It would have ruined my career. It would have stayed on my record for the rest of my life and for what gain? I didn’t need law enforcement help. A few weeks later, I was law enforcement, with a gun and a badge, and I still couldn’t find him.”
She yanked the straws out of her glass and gulped a mouthful of her murky drink. Her hand trembled a little setting the glass down.
“I still have that spare room upstairs, kid. It’s yours for as long as you need it.”
She squeezed his hand, feeling a tear rolling on her cheek.
“Can’t. Not now. I made a promise today and I intend to keep it. You don’t know… this bastard’s really… we have to catch him, Cat. I have to catch him.”
“I’m sure you will. If anyone can, you can,” he replied, a little more emphasis in his voice. “I’m impressed you work these cases, kid, you know, all things considered.”
“With my history, you mean?”
He nodded.
“Yeah… It’s not like I only work serial killers or sex crimes. We get cases assigned, all kinds of cases. I just wrapped up a healthcare fraud case, all white collar. But I’ve worked a few of these bad ones over the years, and none of those threw me off like this one. This one’s different, Cat. Somehow this one’s different. The worst I’ve ever seen.”
She rubbed her nape repeatedly, ab
sentminded, introspective. Then she rubbed the left side of her neck, right under her ear, until the burning sensation faded away.
“Why?” he asked quietly. “Why is it different? Only you can answer that, kid.”
“It’s weird, it’s almost like… I don’t know, really. I go to the ME’s office without any idea of what he’s going to tell us, but when he gives us his findings I’m…” she paused for a long, loaded beat. “I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, Cat. This case just gets to me, that’s all. Triggered all kinds of shit in my mind. But I’ll be fine.”
She made an effort to restore some of her composure. There was no need to pull Cat into the depths of her own personal abyss.
He picked up on that and sprung to his feet.
“Since you last visited, I added this grill. Now we serve burgers and fries.” Then he leaned playfully against the counter. “Want some?”
“Love some!” she replied, feeling a bit of normality return to her life.
He threw a few patties on the grill, and they instantly sizzled. He took a couple of handfuls of frozen fries and dropped them in a deep fryer, then peeled the wrapping off some cheddar cheese, and warmed up the buns. It was so peaceful, so heartwarming to see Cat work. A simple world, contained, safe, where no harm could come her way.
“Have you seen Jim lately?” he asked, without turning his head.
“Oh, God, how I saw that coming,” Tess laughed. “He might be Jim to you, but he’s still Dr. Navarro to me, you know.”
“And?” he pressed on, still focused on his burgers.
“No, not recently.” She frowned, unable to find a serious reason why she’d stopped talking to her off-the-books shrink. “He was helping, but…”
Cat turned on his heels and put two large plates with burgers and fries on the counter, then swirled again and produced the mustard, ketchup, and mayo bottles. One more swirl, and they had pickles.
“But?” he pressed on.
“There’s only so much he can do, you know. We’re keeping it off-books, so no prescription drugs, just talk. I wouldn’t want any drugs, anyway. We talked and talked, but part of me will always struggle. He says I have PTSD. I don’t need a label; I know what I have. I’m… damaged, and, for the most part, it’s beyond fixing. Breathing exercises and talk will only get me so far.”
