Shadow of the Moon: A Fantasy of Love, Murder and Werewolves

by Kwen Griffeth

  Dressed now, in the tailored business suit of deep blue that complemented her coloring and skin tone, Trakes stood and crossed the room. Thanks to the heels, the only flaw in the suit was the hem of the trousers being two inches too short. She casually headed toward the photos of the chain of command, a display of framed photos of the men who were her bosses in order from the President and descending to Hubbard. Trakes smiled. She didn’t want to see the photos. Her stroll would take her in front of the desk, and she could glance at the woman’s name plate.

  Taylor, Gladys Taylor. She smiled and nodded.

  “Excuse me,” Gladys Taylor said, and Trakes spun back to face the woman.

  “I’m sorry,” Trakes muttered.

  “Do you need something, Special Agent Trakes?” the woman asked again. She’d asked Trakes upon her arrival if she desired anything, and the agent had declined. Now, Trakes wished she had a cup of hot chocolate, but felt awkward changing her mind.

  “No, thank you, Gladys,” she smiled.

  The woman waggled a finger at Trakes as she gently chided, “Now, you know Mr. Hubbard does not approve of getting too friendly in the office spaces. He believes it reduces effectiveness. Please call me Mrs. Taylor.”

  Trakes blushed in response to the civilian’s mild rebuke. She dropped her gaze to the floor and then looked back at Mrs. Taylor.

  “Yes, of course, you are right. I remember that part of the welcome aboard speech the SAC gave when I first arrived.”

  “Oh, Special Agent Trakes, never let him hear you call him the SAC. It’s Mr. Hubbard or Special Agent in Charge, only.”

  At this rebuke, Trakes grinned, “Of course, Mrs. Taylor.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you a cup of hot chocolate? I keep some here.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. I try to learn what every agent in the field office likes to drink and keep it on hand.”

  “Well, I’d hate to be the cause of your efforts coming to naught. Yes, I’d love a cup.”

  Mrs. Taylor smiled her approval of the agent’s change of heart.

  “I’ll be right back, and I will bring it in, should you be called into your meeting before I return.”

  Mrs. Taylor turned and hurried to the kitchen area. Trakes stepped to the row of photos and stopped at the image of her direct supervisor. She stared at the photo.

  The image that stared back at her was incongruent and complex. The face was oblong and resembled the outline of a pear, with the cheeks fuller and rounder than might be expected. The chin was dimpled and the lips thin. The hair was uniformly dark, a color that could only be achieved with bottled help. It could have been the face of any number of professions that required quiet thoughtful concentration.

  Trakes felt the face would be at home in an accountant’s or a psychiatrist’s office. It might even be at ease in a library, except for the eyes. The eyes did not belong on this face. They carried a glint of impatience. They expressed little tolerance for people or actions that were lackadaisical or not focused on a goal. They conveyed a challenge.

  Trakes stood before the photo, and any one passing by might think she was conversing with it. She wasn’t; she was mentally comparing careers. Other than both being FBI, they had nothing in common. Graduating in the top 10 percent of her class, Trakes was given preference for her initial assignment. She chose Phoenix, Arizona. Her first six years in the Bureau were spent supporting joint operations with the DEA and the ATF. Over that time, she was awarded three commendations for superior investigative work, another one for bravery and the nickname of “Andee Oakley” from the team.

  While working a drug sting operation, a confidential informant tried to play both sides against each other. A shoot-out erupted, and two bad guys were killed, one of them the informant. One DEA agent was wounded. Trakes ran into the line of fire to drag the agent some ten feet to safety. The after-action investigation did not determine which agent or agent’s gunfire killed the bad guys, as several were shooting, and Trakes’ conduct earned her the commendation for bravery and the nickname. The work had been challenging, and she had excelled.

  But with the notoriety came increased media interest in the attractive and hard-charging agent. For almost six months, a story involving federal officers was not filed without Trakes’ image being shown. It was decided she needed to be assigned where she could keep a lower profile.

  She was transferred to the Indian Reservations in South Dakota, where she worked with the Tribal Police. A quieter or more out-of-the-way assignment would be hard to find. In a matter of weeks, she was forgotten.

  Hubbard also ranked high in his graduating class, not as high as Trakes, but respectable enough to be noticed by the upper command. Psychological evaluations are common while undergoing the training process, and soon it was determined Hubbard, unlike most applicants, had a talent for diplomacy. Before he even had the chance to chase a single bad guy, he was routed into the diplomatic support bureau. There, he remained, with assignments to diplomatic missions, postings to embassies, and finally as the man in charge of the FBI support section at the United Nations.

  Sitting at his desk, Hubbard forced his thoughts away from the killing in the park. It would do no good to allow the questions to gnaw at him. He needed information. In diplomatic circles, as in many aspects of life, information was the chief currency. He’d get that information from Special Agent Trakes. He’d demand it of her.

  He opened the lower drawer next to his right leg. In that drawer he kept his records of his staff. Each agent assigned to his command had a folder with his or her name on it. He kept the files for the sole purpose of giving him an advantage. He built an illusion he knew more and cared more for his agents than he actually did.

  He removed the file titled “Trakes, Andee” and scanned it. The file was thin. She had been with the UN division for less than a year, and she had not been involved in a serious or delicate situation since her arrival before now. Hubbard leaned back in his chair and looked at the New York skyline through the window. He sipped his cup of tea and wondered if he should remove her from the Ferreira investigation.

  As he perused her folder, Hubbard was reminded she had only been assigned to the South Dakota district for ten months. Her actions had almost reached legend status while in Phoenix, yet after such a short period of time and with no accounts of outstanding work, she was hustled away and dumped in his office. He didn’t know why she had been transferred, and it bothered him. Inquiries revealed nothing more than warnings he should stay out of it. Accept the agent, let her do her job and wait for her to be reassigned. Hubbard rose and walked to the window overlooking the city. He slowly shook his head. No, he didn’t like it at all.

  At eighteen minutes past the appointment time, the assistant to the SAC opened the outer door, smiled at Trakes and ushered her in, saying, “Go right in, Special Agent.”

  Trakes walked by her without comment, but allowed a curt nod as a thank-you for the chocolate.

  “Special Agent Trakes, sorry to keep you waiting. I understand you have been up the greater part of the night and you’re most likely tired.”

  Other than the “welcome aboard” introduction, Trakes had never conversed with Hubbard, but she smiled and extended her hand.

  She noticed the eyes were as watery, something his photo hadn’t reflected. Must be sensitive to light, she thought, or possibly allergies.

  “Good morning, Chief,” she replied.

  Hubbard stiffened, and his eyes hardened. The brief handshake over, he quickly removed his hand from hers.

  “Do you see a headdress on me, Agent Trakes?”

  “No, sir,” she replied hesitantly, and then remembered the briefing. Hubbard had made it clear that he chose not to be referred to by any nickname coined for his rank or station. He had spent five minutes explaining why he was to be called “Special Agent in Charge” or at minimum, “Special Agent.” Trakes thought back to the lecture when he had said, “I am not your boss, your chief,
your SAC or your old man. I am your Special Agent in Charge and thus will I be addressed.”

  Hubbard had returned to his seat, and his desk now acted as a barricade between them. The man did not offer her a chair.

  “I apologize, Special Agent,” she managed. “You are correct. It has been a long night and an upsetting one.”

  The two studied each other as she stood. His face was bland, not showing what he felt. After several moments, he motioned for her to sit in the side chair to his desk. She nodded and accepted the seat.

  “Let’s try to make this as short as possible. It’s early in the investigation, so there is still much to do. In addition, I know you are tired. Please, brief me on the happenings of last night and early this morning.”

  Trakes removed a small notebook from her inside suit coat pocket, flipped it open to the page she had secured with a paperclip and started the brief.

  Hubbard leaned into the back of his chair and closed his eyes.

  Trakes stopped the briefing, unsure if he was listening.

  “Is there something wrong, Agent Trakes?” He asked and opened his eyes. He saw she was staring at him, and asked again, “Is something wrong?”

  “No, sir,” she said.

  He made an impatient motion for her to continue with two fingers on his right hand.

  “Then continue the briefing, and don’t let my appearance unnerve you. I close my eyes in order to better mentally view the scene.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  He smiled and closed his eyes. She shook her head, and finished the brief.

  When she had finished, Hubbard opened his eyes and studied her. She sat still and awaited any questions. Hubbard sighed.

  “Do you have confidence in the detectives assigned to this incident?” he asked.

  She thought of Meeker.

  “You’re new to this post,” he interjected, “so you may not appreciate that the investigation must not only be solved in a timely manner, but it must also be conducted with a level of finesse.”

  She nodded understanding. Hubbard continued.

  “It often seems menial to newly assigned field agents, all the political and diplomatic hoops that must be jumped through during an incident like this, but they are a part of being stationed here.”

  Again, Trakes nodded her understanding, and then said, “Detective Gerald Meeker is the detective in charge of the investigation. I have known him for most of my life and in many ways, he is like an uncle to me. I don’t think there is a better detective on the NYPD.”

  Hubbard rose, walked to his credenza and poured himself a cup of tea. He did not offer Trakes a cup when he turned back to face her.

  “You found it necessary to share with me your personal connection to this Meeker? Why?”

  Trakes shrugged slightly and answered, “You asked my opinion of him. I thought it would be best if you knew my judgement would be tainted in Meeker’s favor because he was friends with my father. They served in the Navy together.”

  It was Hubbard’s turn to nod understanding, and as he did, he felt his opinion of the agent rise just slightly.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  Trakes’ question refocused Hubbard, and he started to dismiss her, but then stopped.

  “You are clear on your role during this incident?”

  She nodded, “I believe so.”

  “You are to assist only from the position of diplomatic interest. We do not investigate directly,” he cautioned. “We are present only from the standpoint of diplomatic assistance. Are you sure you are capable of conducting yourself so?”

  “Yes sir,” she said and stood. “I believe I am.”

  “Be sure that you are.”

  Hubbard’s face was stern and almost expressionless.

  “It may be difficult for an agent with your background to conduct herself according to United Nations protocol. Understand, I will not hesitate to remove you from this detail, if I feel your conduct is outside our mandate.”

  “Background?” she asked.

  Hubbard waved away her question.

  “Poor choice of words, on my part. I should have said an agent with your work experience.”

  “Again, sir, I’m not sure why you are concerned.”

  “Agent Trakes,” his voice grew tense, “I have read your personnel jacket. I’m aware of your accomplishments and your Andee Oakley nickname. I simply question whether or not an agent used to being in the spotlight can function in the shadows.”

  Trakes drew herself to her full height and looked at the sitting man.

  “Special Agent Hubbard,” she kept her voice modulated, “if you have read my jacket, you will observe I did my duty as best I could in every situation. What happened after the fact by fellow agents or news reporters, I had no control over. You cannot show me a single piece of evidence I did anything to foster such attention.”

  Hubbard showed her the palms of his hands, as if he wanted to push her from his office.

  “Don’t take such a tone with me. I am concerned your approach may be too aggressive for the mission we have here. I expressed so. Your attitude does nothing to minimize my concerns. I am your supervisor, and if I deem it necessary, I can and will remove you from this incident. If I choose to inform you as to my reasons, it is strictly out of courtesy. Is that clear?”

  Trakes was tired, and as she drew in a deep breath, a headache formed behind her eyes, a headache that she knew could only be cured with sleep. She nodded.

  “Yes, sir. Clear, sir. May I be dismissed, sir?”

  Hubbard glared at her for several moments as he mentally debated whether or not to challenge her attitude. He decided against.

  “Nothing further, Agent Trakes. You are dismissed.”

  She turned and left the office.

  She lived in the Flatbush neighborhood of Brooklyn, and the two-block walk from the subway platform to her apartment required the last of her reserves. Settled by the Dutch and once predominately populated by Caucasians, the Flatbush area was now a cultural salad of peoples. The effects of that salad teased her senses as she covered the distance to her home. Small family owned restaurants lined the avenues she walked and the odors of the many varieties of foods wafted through the air. Soul food, Chinese, Mexican, Puerto Rican, Italian and several others all competed for the dining out portion of a family’s budget. The smells pumped out of the kitchens by the air conditioners mixed on the street, and Trakes was hungry by the time she got home.

  Chapter 3

  Trakes lived in a third-floor apartment in a red brick building that, according to rumor, had once been the home of an extremely rich Dutch merchant. Fire destroyed much of it, and the current owner rebuilt it into apartments, six in total. Two were on each floor, from the half basement to the top floor, which was the third. A set of cement steps in the center of the building connected the entrance to the street for the top two floors. At each side of the main steps, smaller steps lowered into the half basement units.

  The apartments were small, with single bedrooms, and parking was non-existent. A small common yard in the rear of the place offered a communal patio and cookout pit. Originally, the roof was the traditional hip style favored by the Dutch, but the fire caused it to collapse. The remodeling and rebuilding changed the roof so that a portion of it was now flat and modified as a terrace. It was her favorite place. When she was home in the evenings, she’d take Kelsey and a beer to the roof. As she climbed the stairs, she was unable to resist singing the old Drifters hit “Up On The Roof” to herself. Simply singing the song put her in a better mood by the time she stepped into the evening. Once there, she’d let the little dog off his leash, recline in a yard chair, and allow the spirit of the neighborhood to soak into her soul as she sipped the beer and let the alcohol soak into her body. From the vantage of height, she could catch the music as it competed from the many radios and sound systems. She could hear the laughter of children who played along the streets. A block past her place was a small pa
rk with softball fields, and she could hear the sound of the bats making contact and hear the cheers that accompanied a solid hit. If the breeze was right, she could catch the scent of hotdogs and popcorn.

  Ramon, a skinny 20-something Puerto Rican chef who had given up his last name to follow the leads of Cher and Madonna, lived in the apartment across from Trakes. He was her closest friend, and today he met her on the steps.

  As he watched her approach, she noticed he held Kelsey in his arms. When she reached across the street from them, the little dog started to bark his welcome. Once Trakes was on the steps, Ramon released the Jack Russell, and the little guy leapt into her arms as she topped the porch.

  “Welcome home, hermanitia,” Ramon smiled, and when Trakes had Kelsey settled in her arms, hugged her. “You look tired.”

  Trakes smiled at her neighbor and friend and allowed him to hold her. She looked down on him and smiled.

  “Don’t you feel just a little strange referring to me as your little sister when I’m taller than you and outweigh you by several pounds?”

  Ramon stepped back.

  “I do not. You are new to the city and since you have no man, someone must look after you, and I elect me.”

  She slowly shook her head. “Ramon, did you forget, as an FBI agent I am allowed to carry a gun at all times? The last thing I need is a man to look after me.”

  She kissed Kelsey and then Ramon.

  “What is that?” he asked in mock shock? “You kiss the dog before me?”

  “Of course,” Trakes chuckled, “I love him more than you. But you realize I couldn’t have him, if not for you. I’d never be able to have a pet beyond a goldfish, if you weren’t here to step in for me when I work these crazy hours.”