by Dean Covin
The file read like a minor case—brutal, but a single homicide nonetheless. Vicki had a serial killing that required her focus. Then why was she so distracted by this one? The knot tightened in her belly.
The body was discovered in New Brighton. New Brighton? A wisp of memory tickled her mind but failed to materialize. Vicki had never been to the small town resting forty minutes south of her field office. While most had heard of it, and could guess where to look on the map, no one she knew had been there. Like many of those mysterious, myopic anomalies in life, she realized that there’s a part of the world nearby where life unfolded, but of which she was otherwise oblivious.
She rescanned the file with the quick vigor reserved for more savory cases, hoping to find that niggling detail that would let her rest it closed on her desk. Other than a young woman’s brutal murder, nothing screamed significance—to her or the FBI. So why couldn’t she put it down?
Vicki was even more surprised to find herself sitting across her boss’s desk with the file in hand—though less surprised than he was, because she had failed to announce her entrance.
Douglas Kempt carried more weight than normally afforded the Special Agent in Charge, including the wide berth he gave her actions. This time he was livid, realizing the interruption had nothing to do with the serial-killer case she had insisted he assign to her.
“Why the FBI?” she repeated, ignoring his rebukes.
His gaze lingered over his glasses for a moment before relieving a sigh. “It came from above. May involve someone of importance is my guess, but they won’t confirm or deny. When I pressed—don’t give me that look, Starr. I pressed—they insisted that knowing the reason is not material to solving the case.”
“That’s bullshit. If someone’s involved, we need to know.”
“And they haven’t confirmed that there is involvement—that’s just my guess.”
She knew he hated when she turned away.
“Pisses me off too, Vicki. I can only tell you what I know—and what I know is, it’s ours to handle and, apparently, anything else is above our respective pay grades.”
She pivoted around—watching his face.
He hesitated, suddenly aware of the budding situation. “What does it matter to you? It’s not your case.”
She stared at him, silent.
“It’s not yours,” he repeated. “You’re on the Sullivan case.”
Her silence lingered, as did her expectant stare.
“You’re not doing this, Vicki,” he insisted. “I won’t allow it.”
Four
Proximity to the big city aside, New Brighton was an unexpectedly insular Californian town. Vicki hated waiting at the best of times; sitting in a dusty small-town diner was worse.
A patron slapped down today’s, Tuesday, May 10, 2011, newspaper on the table beside her as he left, sending a torrent of dust twisting in a slice of morning sunshine. The headline caught her eye.
Should We Be Afraid of Lionel Starr? it asked. An oft-used photo of her father’s indignant face filled the front page.
She did a quick scan. In a rare show of solidarity between two megapapers, The New York Times and Los Angeles Times had rerun the article by former veteran journalist Howard Kane.
Referring to Lionel’s behemoth multinational Starr Enterprises, Kane wrote:
If big pharma has a puppet master, it’s Starr. If your tax dollars are being siphoned off into defense, you can bet Lionel Starr has a fat hand in the pie. If it’s energy, clean or dirty, Starr is conducting the orchestra.…
The scathing exposé measured the dangers of growing corporate power over our entire lives, with Vicki’s father painted as public enemy number one.
Wearisome waiting had kicked Vicki off the wagon. For sixteen months she had avoided any news relating to her father’s monstrous empire—it was a good run. The article broadly reflected her own mistrust.
An accompanying editorial espoused the daring move by both papers. But when asked why they wouldn’t rehire the former First Amendment legend, they had replied, “We’re angry, not stupid.”
When asked to comment, a spokesperson for Lionel Starr stated, “We have no interest in discussing this or any related topics. That is all.”
Charming as always, Daddy.
She tossed aside the paper and released a long breath, trying to shift her energy. Her phone read 11:11. She scowled. Vicki’s morning had grown from terrible to great as she, yet again, got what she wanted—even if she didn’t know why.
Kempt was not a man to yield, yet his muster fell to putty when it came to his star agent. Now, however, her morning hit a new low. Payback’s a bitch.
This is such bullshit. She heard the door jingle, and the agent she was now dreading entered the eclectic diner. Why him? She raised a hand. He acknowledged and approached, catching a passing waitress and pointing to Vicki’s booth.
Kempt had every right to be frustrated with her. He had pulled serious strings to get her the Sullivan case after she had insisted—but sending this guy?
“Agent Starr, I assume.” He extended a halfhearted hand as he slid into the bench opposite her.
She shook his hand briefly. “Yes, and you’re Agent Dashel.”
He offered a nod, looking equally unimpressed. She choked back her surprise at his disinterest. Vicki wasn’t accustomed to this response—especially from men.
She had been crazy to think that she would be allowed to fly solo on this one. Her partners on the Sullivan case would need to stay on for continuity—her absence alone would disrupt the high-profile investigation. Maybe she was crazy. Abandoning a premier case for a small-town murder made no sense. But her gut was rarely wrong; and with that realization, she shuddered.
“Thanks,” the disheveled man offered as an afterthought to the waitress who placed the hot cup of coffee in front of him. He hugged the mug with his hands as if it was cold outside—it wasn’t.
Perfect.
† † †
Hank Dashel scanned the cluttered diner. Beams of dusty flecks drifted in the sunlight, stretching from the street-front wall of windows to the graying black patterns on the faded red carpet. The smoke-free establishment continued to reek of ancient cigarette smoke and decades of spilled coffee.
Only two other tables were occupied. An old couple sat at the one nestled in the dark corner. They looked sourly at the breakfast they slowly sucked into their heavily aged mouths, neither speaking to the other.
A booth behind Agent Starr held an enormously fat young woman wedged into the seat. Her heavy breasts claimed a chunk of the table space while the large wheel of her belly supported the table from beneath. Even from here, Hank could see the inky film of finger smudges on her wire-rimmed glasses, which pressed into valleys of soft fat against the side of her bulbous head. A bright pink band pulled back her wiry brown perm tight against her skull. He turned away, revolted, as her mouth exposed a wide mash of masticated food with every grind of her jiggling jaw. Ever the charming place.
He brought his attention back to Agent Starr, trying not to notice how striking the twenty-seven-year-old prima donna was—especially in person. He had never been this close to her. “We meeting him here or at the station?”
“The station. At noon.”
Nodding vapidly he stirred the fourth cream into his coffee. Neither spoke. The awkward tension grew in the obvious silence. Their first words had been minimal, and already it was evident that neither was impressed.
† † †
Vicki had every reason to resent his assignment to her case, but what the hell was his problem? Her rapid rise to success was well documented and widely celebrated. She glanced at him sideways when he sighed, looking impatiently at his watch. She hated the jerk already.
His appearance didn’t disappoint her initial asse
ssment. As unkempt and insipid as she had expected, his dark hair, scarcely attended to—if at all—this morning, was starting to salt. He absently scuffed at the three-day growth on his chin, which was more ivory than ebony. The expensive clothes he wore beneath his open spring coat were equally neglected.
Why him, of all people? From the cut of him, he looked as if he could be a rugged sort of handsome if he bothered to give a shit. Resentment grew. What the hell were you thinking, Doug?
The disheveled man across from her stretched his arms out wildly, releasing a deep, yielding yawn. Foul coffee-breath washed over her side of the booth.
Attempting civility, she broke the painful silence. “Rough commute?” She caught his brief glace at her cleavage before he turned his attention to the street outside.
“I live on the north side. Takes about an hour to make it to the south end and then another half hour here.”
Probably not used to being up before noon. She would have thought that, after a year’s suspension, he’d be chomping at the bit to get back to work—do something that mattered again. She would be.
Her endeavor to curb the quiet failed. Time ticked slowly as they lingered in silence. Vicki’s flesh grew hot, incensed by his unprofessionalism. At least he could initiate small talk—ask her about previous cases, get to know his partner.
The uncomfortable silence bothered her more than she wanted it to. Worse, it didn’t bother him in the slightest.
What? She hated the way he watched her across the quiet. She was accustomed to being observed by men, but there was usually an attraction behind it—this was contempt. Was it for her? For the job? His reaction was putting her off balance; something that never happened.
“Excuse me a minute,” she said finally. “I need some air.”
“Sure.” He waved her off with indifference.
She stepped outside and dialed her boss.
“Kempt speaking.”
“Doug, what the hell are you doing to me?”
“Vicki, I told you—”
“Why would you pair me up with Hank Dashel?”
“I told you. Sugdan and Marcaos are sticking with the Sullivan matter, and you’re not working this New Brighton case alone. You came to me, remember? You wanted the case. He’s on it. So you get him.” There was a pause and then the distant clicks of a keyboard. “There’s nothing on file that you’ve worked together before. Do you know him?”
“I know of him.”
There was an acknowledging sigh on the other end. “So, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is he’s a mess. He looks as if he’s been on a twelve-month bender, rather than a twelve-month suspension.”
“Vicki, he’s had a tough go, but he’s good—you can learn a lot from him.”
A slap from a man whom she endlessly strove to impress. “I can learn a lot from—”
“Vicki, you’re exceptional, but experience counts. Give him a chance.”
She was furious. “I’m not going to—”
“You insisted on this case. I let you walk from Sullivan. I never do that, Agent Starr.”
She winced at the formality.
That was true. She knew he had to be taking heat. She could only imagine the speculations running rampant around the office. What she shared with no one, not even Doug, was that, this time, it wasn’t about ambition.
During the drive to New Brighton she had tried to avoid thinking about last night—but that had been futile. It had been more than a nightmare.
Holding the file this morning, she knew that she needed to be on this case—it was important somehow, beyond the obvious—and was yet another reason why also assigning lackadaisical Dashel to this murder had pissed her off so much.
“It’s a package deal—Dashel’s on the case. Come back to the office if you’re not satisfied with my decision.”
Once more Vicki had overstepped her bounds, while Doug had, yet again, put his neck out to make her happy at the risk of alienating a lot of his field staff.
“Doug, please don’t be mad at me.”
“Then don’t disappoint me, again.”
Ouch. “I won’t.” She slowly pressed the End button.
Now she was committed. She swallowed a sudden nervous rush.
† † †
Dashel watched her slide back into her seat. “Still stuck with me, huh?”
She flushed. “What are you talking about?”
“Kempt wouldn’t let you off.”
She feigned confusion. “I don’t—”
“Oh, please, Miss Starr.” He shot her a sardonic look. “I’m FBI—I deduce.” He waved his empty cup in the air.
Hank ignored Vicki’s scornful gaze. She was gorgeous—smart—with midnight hair, deep-chocolate eyes and melt-in-your-mouth lips. She was also a brat.
Bathed in accolades, she had no idea what this agent life could be like. She was an overachiever who was all too happy to use her sex appeal to leapfrog her competition to get ahead. Even the way she wore her professional attire oozed with seductive undertones.
Her contempt mirrored his own. He knew she didn’t know him—that was obvious the second they had met. She only knew the stories—so different from the tales that used to brandish his name.
But he knew her—every agent in the state did. Vicki Starr: top investigator from an überrich family and every cop’s secret dreamtime delight. If the bureau had a pinup girl, it’d be her. His open collar scratched at his neck. Even her porn-star name made him sick. If he didn’t know for sure it was her real name, he would have thought it a joke.
But the Starr family name was no joke, was it? And Vicki—shortened from Victoria—was no stretch. Did her name truly grate against him so badly, or was it the throbbing headache that wanted him to smash the table in two?
Was any of this her? How long had he stared at himself in the hallway mirror this morning—keys in hand? Twenty minutes? Thirty? The way his feet ached, it must have been forty-five. He didn’t want to be here. The eternity of twelve long months had suddenly passed and had caught him off guard.
God, his head hurt. He wanted to crawl back into the dark. Why did I answer Kempt’s call? He knew why. It’s why he was here. It was time—whether he was ready or not. Wanted to or not. The alternative—living his new normal—was no longer an option. This case … or oblivion.
He watched her stew as she stared out the window, noticing the soft curve of her cheek meeting her chin. She was beautiful—shallow as hell, but beautiful.
He glanced at his watch. “Well, look at the time,” he said, shaking her from her exasperated trance. “Time flies and all that bullshit.” He stood, flipping a ten onto the table. “Stop.” He held up a hand when she pulled open her purse. “Let’s go.” He walked out the door, leaving her to put away her wallet and follow.
“Ass,” she murmured.
He stopped walking toward his car when a chirp unlocked a glossy Corvette ZR1 beside him. “Yours?” He turned, looking impressed.
She nodded.
“Gift from Daddy?”
“From me,” she shot back, lashing him with a hot stare. “Shall we?” she insisted, eager to take the lead.
“Oh, by all means—let’s take the rich kid’s car.” He slipped into the seat, trying not to show how comfortable it felt to have the leather hug him.
The sports car pulled away with an aggressive growl, snarling when she drew a sharp turn in the opposite direction.
“Too good for the company issue?”
“I’m staying in town rather than commuting—I prefer my car.”
“Me too,” he mumbled as he popped three Advil, swallowing them dry. “We’ll have to swap sugar—Watch the light!”
“I’m a cop. I know how to drive.” Hank lurched forward
as the car made an abrupt stop, then she added, “And I know my car. I don’t have to brake from ten blocks away.”
“Technically you’re a Fed, not a cop.”
At a loss for words, she actually hissed at him.
“Fine. Just try not to hit the one horse in this town.”
It’s not that small, asshole.
She watched him take in the streets, the buildings, parks and trees with a keen interest. “You’ve been here before.”
He continued to scan his surroundings. “Grew up here.” He craned his neck back toward the passing city hall. He mumbled, “Long time ago,” but she caught it.
That must be why Doug assigned him. He’s a local. “How long?”
“Still a kid—just outta high school.” He looked ahead again. “Things have changed.”
She stared at him, detecting a hint of nostalgia; but that would make him a person, so she discounted it.
Five
Littered with posters, the small county sheriff’s office espoused everything from the merits of seat belts to admonishing drunk driving. An outdated sign promoting Cyber Safety Week 2009 barely clung to the wall—batting against the churning ceiling fan breeze. A slight woman, munching pungent microwave popcorn, sat behind the counter among cluttered papers, rapping her keyboard harder than necessary to capture the individual strokes. Otherwise the department appeared vacant.
Vicki approached the desk clerk first, but Hank beat her to the punch, just to piss her off. “Special Agents Dashel and Starr. We’re here to see Sheriff Roscoe.”
The uniformed woman scanned her screen, then nodded. “He’s waiting for you. His office is that one back there.” She pointed to a door that hung slightly ajar.
As the agents approached, Dashel stepped in front of Vicki and entered the office unannounced.
“You’re late,” the sheriff said, stuffing his mouth with a sloppy soft taco, spilling plenty of excess filling on the plate. He shot an annoyed glance at Hank as he took his seat and then stopped, midchew, as he watched Vicki step through the door. “Good God,” he mumbled through his taco. He wiped a greasy hand down his slacks and held it out to her as he swallowed his half-chewed bite down hard. “John Roscoe, town sheriff.”
