by Dean Covin
They said nothing as they entered the diner, which was nearly full this time. Table conversations were cut short when the two strangers walked in and then returned to their customary level.
As the agents passed a quiet table with an old couple—her munching, his eyes closed—a hand snatched Vicki’s wrist.
“You look familiar,” the older woman said. “Been through town before?”
Vicki hadn’t, but the occasional recognition occurred since the media exposé two years ago. The report had recounted how, fifteen years after a child kidnap victim had escaped her captor and had aided in his capture, she had graduated at the top of her class and was a rising star at the FBI. The newspeople had delved into the rumors of her promiscuity as being the source of her rapid ascent—assertions flatly rejected by those who knew the talented new agent. The biggest surprise to Vicki had been the great white elephant in the room—shot dead on the floor. No mention of her family had made it to screen. Lionel Starr’s powerful manipulation of the media amazed even his daughter.
“First time,” Vicki said. “Agent Dashel’s a former resident though.”
He scowled.
“Really?” The woman thought for a moment and then kicked her husband awake. “Ted, do you know any Dashels?”
“Dashels?”
“It was a long time ago,” Hank said.
The man blinked. “Ah, yes, you must be one of the Dashel boys—left back in the eighties, right? After all that messy business at the school.”
“Another time,” he whispered to Vicki and then nodded to the couple. “Enjoy your meal.”
“Likewise,” they said.
He followed Vicki’s lead, and they slipped into the same booth where they had met earlier today.
Hank got up again. “Get me a cheeseburger, fries and a beer … I mean a Coke—get me a Coke.”
She raised an affronted eyebrow.
“Look, I need to use the men’s room. If she comes—so we don’t have to wait—order my food.”
He stared at her stony face, her eyes piercing him.
“Please,” he finally added.
She nodded with sharp satisfaction without feeling better.
Her glare followed his stride until he vanished around the corner. She lingered in thought for a long moment before realizing she was making a meal of her inner lip—a telltale sign of her frustration. She drew her notepad from her jacket, pulling out her pen with a sharp snap.
She was poring over her notes when he returned. “Solve it yet, hotshot?”
She glowered at him. “I ordered your food.”
He nodded and took his seat, guzzling the first biting swallows of his icy Coke. She ignored him, opting to scan, and rescan, her notes. He shook his head in disbelief.
The waitress appeared behind him, holding an oversize bowl. “Who’s the mixed-greens, no dressing, with a chicken breast?”
Vicki grinned at Hank.
He glared at her face. Oh, no, you didn’t.
“It’s mine,” she finally admitted.
“You must be the burger and fries.”
He nodded. “Thanks. And can I get another Coke?” Dousing his fries in ketchup, he leaned in over his plate as Vicki forked her first bite of mixed greens. “Care to share?”
“Didn’t take you for a salad-eatin’ bitch, Dashel.” She pushed the leaves into her mouth, munching with a smirk.
“No,” he said, frustrated. “Care to share any of your astounding illuminations so far? You’ve been scouring those notes since we got here.”
She merely tapped her chewing grin, indicating that she was currently, and happily, occupied.
As the waitress set down his refill, Hank asked her, “Did you know Ivy Turner?”
Stunned by the question, she realized who they were. “You’re those two agents Johnny Roscoe mentioned.”
Hank nodded.
She set down her tray on their table and whispered, “Oh, that poor girl—sweet as can be. I can’t believe she’s dead.”
“How did you know her?”
“Just as a customer. But everyone knew Ivy—prettiest girl to hit New Brighton in almost thirty years.” She looked at Vicki then back to Hank. “But not stuck-up at all like you’d expect.”
“Sorry?” Vicki asked.
“Well, you know, the pretty ones are usually all full of themselves and stuck-up—no time for anyone who’s not their equal or better.” She glanced at Vicki again. “No offense.”
“None taken,” she replied, bemused.
“Did Ivy come in often?” Hank asked.
“Nah—bit of a health nut.” She pointed at Vicki’s meal. “You’re having the healthiest plate on the menu. And let’s just say it’s good you’re not having the dressing.” She pointed to Hank’s substantial burger. “You might as well order two of those.”
“So why would she come in?”
“With her friend Kyla—Kyla More. She’s a sucker for Murray’s Putin.”
“Excuse me? Murray’s Putin? That sounds offensive.” Hank gave their server a gentle shoulder bump to the rump.
The waitress giggled, twisting her full attention down toward him. “Oh, no. It’s this dish Murray brought back from his visit to Montreal—fries with gravy and cheese.”
Hank flashed a playful smile. “That hardly sounds Russian.”
“It’s not,” Vicki interrupted, annoyed by his obvious game. “The dish is French—and it’s poutine, not Putin.”
Looking embarrassed, the waitress leaned in close against Hank and whispered, “See what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do,” he nodded, shooting a triumphant grin at Vicki.
Vicki shook her head and sighed. “Anything else about Ivy?”
“I honestly don’t know much about her.” The waitress looked genuinely sad. “Wish I had.”
† † †
When she looked anxiously over at the counter, Hank noticed her boss’s stern look. In no hurry for the reasonably attractive—if not a little flighty—waitress to leave, Hank reached into his pocket, held up his badge and watched the perturbed man call over one of the other girls. “Take a seat.”
The woman slid in tight next to him, wiggling in closer than necessary. Hank couldn’t hide his smirk.
Vicki rolled her eyes. “People generally get along here?”
“Probably more than most—especially with John Roscoe in town,” she added with satisfaction.
Hank turned to face their waitress. “The sheriff’s a good guy?”
It was Vicki’s turn to smirk.
“You gotta watch his hands—and he’s got a mouth—but the town’s never felt safer. And his wife’s a total doll—smart as a whip.”
“Is there anyone in town you don’t trust?” Vicki asked.
“Not a lot of men out here that I’d want to walk me home without expecting to get my ass handled, but if I had to pick the worst, I guess—” She hesitated. “Look, I’m a good Catholic girl—I am—but I don’t like him. He gives me the creeps.”
“Who?”
“Father Reilly.”
Vicki gaped. “A priest?”
The waitress nodded.
Vicki asked with caution, “Has he ever?”
“No! No, never.” The waitress tried to compose herself. “I just don’t like the way he looks at me—looks at women. As if we’re something … filthy.”
Vicki glanced at Hank, but he looked distracted.
“Okay.” Hank handed her a card. “Thanks for your help—”
“Linda.”
“If anything else comes to mind, Linda, you can call me at that number.”
The waitress slipped the treasure into her bra, leaned in, placing her hand on Hank’s arm and purred, “
How long you in town for?”
The grumpy Hank Dashel was all smiles now.
Before he could answer, Vicki tossed out a twenty. “Thanks, miss—we have an assembly to get to.”
Nine
Sheriff Roscoe took Vicki by the arm. “Agent Starr, this is my wife, Rose. Rose, this is Special Agent Vicki Starr of the FBI.” He tried to ignore Agent Dashel, but the three expectant stares refused to wane. “Oh, and this is Hank Dash-something-or-other. He’s helpin’ out.”
Hank took Rose’s hand. “Hank Dashel.”
“Rose Roscoe. Nice to meet you both.” She glared at her husband, who looked on simply as these niceties were wrapping up, acting oblivious to his blatant professional slight.
Rose Roscoe was a curvy woman with generous hips, sporting a rotund ass pressed into faded jeans. Her ample bust stressed her navy shirt, buttoned down to relief by her tiny waist. Blessed with a winning stance of five eleven, Rose had a comic book figure that worked—and she owned it well. Even with the intense makeup, the woman in her late forties was far too attractive and intelligent looking for a rogue the likes of John Roscoe, but there she was.
There was no contest, but Vicki couldn’t help her habit of sizing up other women. Vicki’s looks were an asset that she guarded jealously, while her badge provided an extra layer of safety to flaunt her sex appeal. People didn’t generally fuck with FBI agents—figuratively speaking.
Coveting her sexual currency, Vicki was rarely interested in following through. But the insinuation of sex was a powerful motivator. While leading someone on came with a pinch of guilt—for the greater good, she’d convince herself—was it wrong to enjoy the thrill of being desired?
“Sensational case,” Rose said. “But I envy neither one of you. You’ve got your work cut out for you. While the details of the crime are grisly, there’s a distracting archetypical nature to this small town and its populace. Don’t let the obvious fool you—it’ll drag you off course.”
“You sound as if you know something about it,” Vicki said.
“I was a professor of criminology before this fella went and swept me off my feet.” She stroked Roscoe’s shoulder. “It was a pretty good gig, but my trucker mouth and accompanying attitude didn’t pair well with the California board. It lent itself dangerously close to a few too many career-limiting moves. I opted to play Suzy Homemaker for my big, strong man here.”
“Must’ve been some kind of love,” Vicki said in astonishment.
Her husband interjected, “Blackmail, actually.”
“Obviously,” Hank shot back.
The sheriff was about to return the volley when he heard his name. “Mayor calls—gotta run.” He kissed his wife tenderly on the cheek and stepped away—revealing for Vicki, once again, his freakish dichotomy.
Dashel looked from the cocky man striding toward the mayor to the intelligent woman beside them.
She answered the question behind his gaping jaw with a sly grin. “It’s the sex. He’s extremely good in bed”—she turned to Vicki with a wink—“and out. That’s why I keep him around.”
The sheriff’s voice came from behind his wife. “Did you miss me?”
“Speak of the devil.” She smiled. “That was fast.”
“Like my hands.” He stepped into the group, purposely cutting Dashel off from view. “Oh, sorry. Were you two ladies talking about me again? Trying to organize a threesome or something crazy like that?”
Rose rolled her eyes. “Of course, honey—that’s all we girls ever talk about.”
He was beaming.
Rose made Vicki smile. She liked this woman. “Let’s take our seats, Dashel.” She pulled him away from his disbelief.
† † †
The sheriff seated his wife next to him up on the center-left side of the stage.
Leaning into her husband, she whispered, “What’s the scoop on these two?” Rose motioned to the agents as they attempted to take their seats. The ever-nosy Mrs. Bradshaw intercepted them, and Rose felt a twinge of pity. She could practically see the back of Bradshaw’s wide throat as the hefty woman rolled her haughty eyes, going on and on loudly, no doubt about the impact this whole ordeal has had on her personally—blah, blah, blah—as if she had actually met the victim.
Rose was suddenly surprised to see the infamous Bernadette Bradshaw silenced with what took only a few direct words from Agent Starr. Agent Dashel wore an impressed grin. Rose would have to pry that secret from Vicki—bottle it if Rose could. A sense of wicked satisfaction filled her as she watched Berdy “the Bearded” Bradshaw huff down on her expansive behind—scowling, but uncharacteristically silent. Her exasperated state was not lost on the unfortunate souls around her, who fought to hide their own private delight.
“Come on, John. What’s their story?”
“Starr is one of Doug’s best agents. Dashel’s gotta be his worst.”
She studied her husband.
“Apparently she was top of her class—magna cum laude. Slingshots her way to the top, solving case after case, and within a couple years is decorated as one of the state’s top agents. Fueled a few resentments, sure, but you’ll struggle to find anyone who says she’s not tops at what she does. She even solved her own kidnapping when she was ten.”
“That was her?” Rose stared down at the stunning brunette in the front row. “Of course, that’s where I’ve heard the name before—she’s Victoria Starr.” Rose couldn’t believe she had forgotten. “So her father’s CEO of Starr Enterprises.”
Roscoe stroked his chin. “And just look at that tight little package—she’s coming up all aces, baby.”
“Down boy.”
“Then you have Hanky down there—”
“Agent Dashel,” she corrected.
“I’d use the term agent loosely, love. He’s back from a twelve-month suspension. The guy lost his shit over a case and assaulted some lawyer. People say he’s an abusive drunk who botches case after case. Apparently he used to be a hotshot, but now he’s a disgrace to the entire profession. Big-time loser who’s hardly worthy of working with a gal like Starr, let alone breathing in her same sweet air.”
“Sounds like you did a lot less digging on Agent Dashel than you did Agent Starr. Doug told you all this?”
“No, but I’ve heard enough from others to be satisfied.”
“Doug’s no dummy—why pair them up?”
“Damned if I know.”
“You’ve gotta be missing something.” She looked down at the scruffy agent. “I like him.”
“He’s an idiot.”
She grinned, knowing her man. “You think they’ll have sex before the murder’s solved?”
“Hell no!” he said a little too loud. “Why would she?” As usual people ignored his verbal slips—including the mayor, who approached the podium.
She whispered, “Don’t you go gettin’ jealous now, John Roscoe. She’s way outta your league.”
“Ouch, baby. That hurts.”
“Not as much as if I have to stuff that drooling tongue back down your throat.” She straightened with pride and added, “Besides, I’m way outta your league too, and you get to do me every night.”
He smiled, leaning into his wife. “I love you, sweetheart.”
She squeezed his hand and patted his thigh. “I know, baby. Now shut the fuck up and pay attention.”
Ten
Vicki looked up at the stage from their front-row seats. The hall bustled with loud murmurs and crowds shuffling to find an empty seat among the crammed-together chairs. Obviously Ivy’s murder had made an impact. The details of her death had not been released yet, but that didn’t mean the men who had discovered her didn’t talk. The pressure to share stories, especially horrific ones, was always immense.
The energy in the room shifted. Vicki saw cr
owds of heads turn as four families entered together—all dressed way too well for a small-town assembly. The women escorted their daughters, knowing all eyes were on them, gracing the crowd with their presence. The men walked together, laughing as if they were stepping into their domain rather than an assembly held for a heinous murder.
They rolled past the parting crowds, and the women glared at the front row. The people stood up and left to stand in the back. In the surprise commotion, Vicki and Hank also stood, and, though they sat back down, still in the front row, they had inexplicably moved farther to the right.
Vicki leaned over to one of the people seated behind her. “Who are they?”
“Oh, those are the town royalty,” the woman said in a mock-snooty tone.
“No, those are the town bitches,” the woman next to her corrected.
Vicki caught Rose rolling her eyes at the latecomers, who returned scalding stares.
Two of the women appraised Vicki. When she nodded in acknowledgment, they turned to each other, whispering.
“Who are they really?” Vicki murmured to the closest lady behind her.
The woman craned her neck and then leaned in between the agents. “The McQueens are at the far end. Malcolm McQueen is a city surgeon. He’s sitting with his wife, Brenda, and their daughter, Brianna. Next to them are Roy and Jennifer Boss—that’s their daughter, Jasmine. He’s some big-shot defense attorney.”
Roy Boss. Vicki had heard the name—nothing good was attached to it.
“Then you have the Luthers. He’s a businessman and political heavyweight.”
The agents’ eyebrows rose. They had both heard of Leon Luther.
“He’s Leon and that’s his wife, Angela, with their daughter, Alexis. And finally you have Jason and Michelle Oliver with their daughter, Morgan. Jason owns a big engineering firm in the city. He also has the contract for the town’s civil planning.”
“What do the wives do?”
The woman soured. “They look pretty and fuck their husbands.”
Her friend nodded. “Believing their own press like a religion, they consider themselves untouchable and above the great unwashed.”
