by S. J. Harper
“So, what have you got, hotshot?”
“Nothing concrete so far. I’m going to put in a request for her cell records.”
I nod. “Good idea. I’ll dig deeper into her calendar, put together a more comprehensive background check tonight.”
“So, how often do cases like this end up on your desk? People disappearing with no overt signs of foul play, no enemies, no ransom request, no apparent motive . . . ?”
“You know the drill. It’s not a crime to go missing. There are fewer than two hundred reports filed in San Diego County each month. Seventy percent of those resolve with little to no effort within seventy-two hours. Run-of-the-mill cases barely get investigated by SDPD, never mind our unit.”
“So practically never?”
“Practically never.”
Zack climbs to his feet. “Well, I have to start someplace. Let’s hope this Amy Patterson doesn’t show up in two days with a hangover and a new husband.”
“And the blood in her apartment?”
He pauses. “Might not be a waste of time. . . .” He grabs up his mug. “Time for another cup of coffee. Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
Zack heads for the break room. I go back to perusing Amy’s Facebook page. It’s after six. I pull up the photo tab and stare at an image of Patterson’s smiling face. “Where are you?” I ask, wishing I could compel the all-knowing Internet to reveal the answer.
• • •
I live in a converted carriage house in one of the oldest sections of town. I use the term house loosely. At less than four hundred and fifty square feet, the tiny structure is smaller than the hotel room Liz and I stayed in when we went to Dana Point on her last birthday for a spa weekend. Over the years I’ve lived in many apartments this size in buildings that came with noisy and nosy neighbors.
The carriage house is in back of a larger estate in Mission Hills. The owners alternate between their homes in San Diego, Santa Fe, and Honolulu. When they’re absent, which is most of the time, I pick up their mail and water their plants. They love the idea that I’m a federal agent. It makes them feel as though they have personal security on the grounds. I put on a show of walking the perimeter once a day, checking the inside when they’re absent. They let me occupy the carriage house for free.
No neighbors, noisy or nosy.
It’s a sweet deal.
The first thing I do when I get home is fire up my laptop, which is currently on the dining room table. I have no designated workspace. I work anywhere and everywhere. The dining room, which is approximately ten by ten, is a stone’s throw to the kitchen, which is smaller. I make a beeline for the fridge, where there’s a cold bottle of chardonnay waiting. After pouring myself a glass, I call Expressly Gourmet. They’re a local delivery service that will pick up from more than a dozen restaurants. I have them on speed dial. Tonight Hector is taking orders. He recognizes my voice.
“Emma! What’s up?”
“Not much. What’s the wait time for China Express?”
“We can pick up in twenty, have it to you ten minutes after that. Things are slow tonight. Hey, did you hear about that artist who’s missing? Are you working the case?”
Hector started as a delivery boy a couple of years ago, fresh out of high school. His first day on the job, I answered the door with my gun still clipped to my belt and made the mistake of explaining what I did for a living. I don’t have to watch or read the news to keep up with the local crime scene. I just have to check in with Hector.
“Yes.”
“Really?” His voice goes up a notch. It occurs to me he always asks me if I’m involved in the story of the day and it’s the first time I’ve said yes. “That pendejo on Fox is saying it’s all probably some scam to make money. I guess artists fake their own death all the time so that the demand for their stuff skyrockets. What do you think?”
All the time? Quality journalism at its finest.
“I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, but I agree wholeheartedly the guy on Fox is a pendejo. I’ll take an order of spring rolls, pork fried rice, and the black pepper chicken.”
“Got it. Wait till I tell my mama you’re working on the case. She’s gonna flip. Talk to you later.”
“Talk to you later.” I always wonder if Hector ends every conversation that way, or if he reserves that close for customers who order practically every night, like me.
Like Amy.
A long shot but—“Hector?”
“Still here.”
“Amy Patterson wasn’t—”
He sighs. “A customer? No. I checked. Just out of curiosity.” He sounds disappointed.
“Okay, Hector. Thanks.”
I take my wine back to the dining room. French doors open onto a small deck where I have potted plants. I open them and take a moment to enjoy the evening’s breeze. My thoughts drift to Zack. And how much—or how little—I really know about him. A temporary assignment is one thing. Now that he’s my partner, the stakes are higher. Seconds later I’m in front of my laptop poking around in his past, using the multitude of resources at my disposal to find out what I can about the Were I’m going to be joined at the hip with for who knows how long.
There are the usual stats: he’s thirty-two years old, six foot three, two hundred and ten pounds. His most recent fitness scores are off the charts. Not surprising. While in the Academy he achieved a perfect marksmanship score. Nothing I didn’t already know. What I really want to know about is what he did before the Academy. He’d previously made reference to being a soldier. I’d been under the impression he’d served in the marines. But I can’t find a matching service record. Maybe it was the Army? I go back to check out his SF-86, knowing it will be there from when he applied to the FBI Academy. There isn’t one on record. There’s always an SF-86 on record. Something in it must be highly classified. But what?
Out of curiosity, I run his ex’s plate. Sarah Marie Louis. Also thirty-two. Born and raised in Hilton Head, South Carolina. No arrests. No warrants. Not even a traffic ticket. I check employment records and come up empty. The address on her driver’s license is the same today as it was when she first got her permit at fifteen. I pull up an image of the house on satellite. It’s a sprawling beachfront estate a stone’s throw from the Atlantic. A quick title search reveals it to be in the name of Charles Louis, the colorful and notoriously conservative Republican senator from South Carolina—Sarah’s father.
Just as I’m about to enter Zack’s last-known address into the satellite search, my doorbell rings. It’s time for dinner and time to get back to work on the other background check. The clock is ticking for Amy Patterson. She’s already been gone two weeks. The odds of finding her alive decrease with time, so the mystery of Zack Armstrong will have to wait for now.
I’ll unravel it eventually.
I always do.
CHAPTER 4
Day Two: Wednesday, April 11
I’m at the office early—but evidently not early enough. Zack has beaten me in. He is engrossed in what he’s reading but that doesn’t stop him from noticing my arrival.
“Morning, Monroe,” he says as I approach, not bothering to look up.
Pesky Were senses.
He lays down the folder he’d been studying and zeroes in on the file I’m carrying. He raises an eyebrow and holds out a hand. “Homework?”
I place it on his palm. “Amy Patterson in word and deed.”
He turns the folder around. “What’s this?” he asks, pointing to a stain on the cover.
I shrug. “Looks like the sweet red sauce that came with the spring rolls. Did you make coffee?”
Zack waves a hand toward the break room. “The pot’s fresh.”
I pick up his empty cup, then find my own buried under another stack of old cases and head for the break room.
I return w
ith two steaming mugs.
Zack accepts his and then holds up the page he’s been perusing. “Good work.” He takes a tentative sip. “You remembered how I take my coffee? I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I’m a trained observer. I remember lots of things.”
Zack grins and turns back to the file. “This was an excellent idea—listing Amy’s appointments for the last month. If we work backward—”
“We might be able to better pinpoint the exact time of her disappearance.”
The cell sitting on his desk rings. “Armstrong.” He listens intently, then scribbles something on a bright pink sticky note. When he hangs up, he looks at me, eyes shining. “Armstrong: two for two,” he says. “There was blood mixed in with the paint scrapings from the floor of the studio. It will take a little longer to determine whose, but it’s a good guess it will be Amy’s. And we have a hit on the fingerprint from the paintbrush.”
He sits down, and seconds later there’s an old arrest record on the screen.
I look over his shoulder. “Michael Dexter. He was arrested for a DUI five years ago. Anything since?”
Zack shakes his head. “Not even a parking ticket.” He turns to look at me. “What do you think?”
“I think we question him.” I make a mental note of his current address. “I’ll drive.”
• • •
Michael Dexter lives on Crown Point Drive in Pacific Beach. The street is wide and lined with palm trees. Every other house is a newly constructed two-story minimansion squeezed into a lot sized for the Craftsman bungalows originally built here. Most have been scrapped to pay homage to the god of greed. It breaks my heart because I remember what the neighborhood was like when it was new. In the nineteen thirties—I didn’t live here then, but I had a friend who did. That friend, like so many others, is long dead. I struggle for a moment, trying to remember the details of her face, the sound of her voice. They’re lost to me now. Peggy? Patsy? Penelope. I called her Penny. We met at the opening of the San Diego Yacht Club in ’twenty-eight and shared a love for sunset sails, bathtub gin, and a man named Jacob—in another life.
“Looks like Dexter’s place is up there on the left. The one with the red Prius in the driveway,” says Zack.
I pull in behind it. We both climb out of the Suburban and head for the front door. Turns out Dexter lives in one of the original cottages, a block away from Penny’s old place. The architecture is almost identical. Memories long buried threaten to stay my hand, but I push them down and ring the bell. After a short wait, I ring again. No one comes to answer.
Zack backs down the steps. “Sounds like there’s a compressor running in the back.”
I hadn’t noticed initially. Now I hear a low, rhythmic hum. We follow the brick walkway to the side of the house, where a wooden gate set in a stucco wall stands open.
“Hello?” I call out.
I see a man, his back to me, covered in a leather apron, welder’s mask down over his face, working on what looks like a free-form bronze sculpture. It’s while I watch him that I realize I recognize his work. I know who he is. I’ve seen his sculptures in galleries both downtown and in La Jolla, read about him in the Arts section of the local paper. Michael Dexter is a young artist of some local renown, his works commanding five and six figures.
I circle to approach him from the front. Don’t want to startle someone with a blowtorch in his hand. It takes a moment, but he does finally see me. The blowtorch is extinguished. The welder’s mask is pushed up and back.
“Can I help you?”
“Agent Emma Monroe.” I flash my badge and introduce myself. “This is my partner, Agent Armstrong. We have a few questions about Amy Patterson.”
“Amy? Why on earth would the FBI be interested in Amy?” he asks.
Zack doesn’t answer. Instead he asks another question. “We need to know about the last time you saw her in as much detail as you can remember.”
Dexter sets the blowtorch he’s been using on a stand, removes the mask, pulls off his gloves and apron. “That would have been a couple weeks ago.” He squints up at the sun. “It’s hot. Mind if we go inside?”
“I bet it’s even hotter under that mask,” I say.
He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. “Usually the climate is perfect for this kind of work. Today it’s been torture. Honestly, I wouldn’t be working this afternoon if I wasn’t under deadline.”
Dexter leads us through a pair of ornate wrought-iron doors. I finger the intricate pattern of leaves and vines. “Did you make these? They’re beautiful.”
He nods, pausing again to wipe his forehead before climbing the steps to the cottage. “I did. Thanks. Can I get either of you some iced tea? I could sure use some.”
“That would be terrific,” Zack says.
We follow as he crosses a living room and dining room complete with what looks like the original Craftsman sideboards, built-ins of mahogany against buttercream walls. The furnishings, elegant Arts and Crafts pieces, and even the artwork, watercolor landscapes, reflect the period.
“Who’s the Craftsman expert?” I ask Dexter.
He smiles. “Too much?”
“Not at all. I wish everyone who bought into this neighborhood appreciated the beauty of these bungalows the way you obviously do.”
Dexter frowns. “Yeah. You’ve noticed some of the monstrosities that have gone up.”
“Hard not to.”
He pushes through a door and it’s like being thrust from the past back into the twenty-first century. Granite countertops, slate flooring, and stainless steel, luxury appliances that would do a small restaurant proud.
He reads my expression and laughs. “Had to make some concessions to modern living.”
Dexter’s tall, over six feet, and thirty years old, according to the police report. On a better day I would have described him as handsome in a bohemian way—long, dark hair worn in a ponytail, full lips, eyes a pale blue, hooded and intense. But something seems off and I’m starting to realize it’s more than just the long hours and the warmth of the day. He runs cold water in the sink and cups his hands under the stream. They’re shaking.
He splashes his face, washes his hands, then leans on the counter. “Sorry. I’m feeling a little light-headed. Could I impose on one of you to serve the tea? There’s a pitcher in the fridge. Glasses in that cabinet.” He nods toward the one to the right of the sink.
“Maybe you should sit down,” suggests Zack, who moves with concern to Dexter’s side.
I pull the pitcher from the refrigerator and pour the tea. By that time Zack’s helped Dexter into the living room. I spy a tray on the counter and use it to carry in filled glasses. The two men are sitting next to each other on a well-worn overstuffed sofa, speaking in hushed tones. Their voices quiet the moment I enter.
“Do you mind switching on the ceiling fan?” He points to the controller on the far wall. I set the tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, then oblige. The hum of the fan’s motor and the thwack, thwack, thwack of its unbalanced blades fill the momentary silence. I take a chair opposite the sofa.
“Michael was just telling me this will likely be his last piece,” says Zack, his expression grave. “He’s extremely ill.”
“Liver failure,” he adds with a worn half smile. “I’ll tell you what I can about my visit to Amy’s. I’m afraid thoughts, details, well . . . they’re slipping my mind these days.”
“Do you recall what day it was that you last saw her?” I ask.
He pauses, thinks for a minute. “The twenty-eighth of March? Maybe the twenty-ninth. I think it was a Tuesday. We could probably check my phone. I rang her before going over. She didn’t answer at first, but then she returned the call. Left a voice mail. I went right over to her studio. Took a cab. I don’t drive myself anymore. I’d guess I was there within thirty, forty minute
s of getting her voice mail.”
Remembering that SDPD’s check of local taxi and car services showed no record of a pickup at Amy’s address, I follow up with “Did you return by taxi as well?”
Dexter nods. “I had the driver wait for me. We made a couple stops on the way back. The pharmacy. Then the corner market for some ice cream. I’m eating whatever I want for dinner these days. I figure I’m dying, so fuck it.” He pauses. “What’s this about?”
“Amy has been reported missing,” I reveal.
A shadow crosses his face but quickly passes. He shakes his head. “She has a showing in New York. I think it started two days ago. There’s an invitation on the desk over there.” He gestures toward an old rolltop in the corner. “Have you spoken with her manager?”
Obviously Dexter hasn’t seen the news in the last couple of days.
Before I have a chance to respond, Zack fires off another question. “Can you tell us what happened when you went to see Amy?”
Dexter leans forward, his expression earnest. “Sure. Sure. She said on the voice mail she’d be in the studio, to let myself in. So I did.”
“Did she often leave her apartment unlocked?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you. It was that day. Amy was trying to finish a major piece for the show. She’d been up all night working on it, and was running on pure adrenaline. Music was blaring in the studio. I’m afraid I scared the shit out of her. I wasn’t there long. There just wasn’t any way she could do what I asked. I understood. I left. Wished her luck with the show.”
As unlikely as it is that someone in Dexter’s condition would overpower a healthy woman on his own, get rid of the body, and tidy up a crime scene, that doesn’t explain how his fingerprints got on the brush.
“What is it you wanted?” Zack takes a sip of his tea.
I’ve finished mine and set the glass on the coffee table between us on a coaster.
“The piece I’m working on out back is for charity. I was hoping she might be able to donate something for the same auction. I’d contacted her gallery manager a week or so prior. Haskell suggested I speak with Amy directly. It was a few days before I felt up to calling her. It turned out everything in her studio was spoken for. We chatted for a few minutes.” He sits back, sinking into the sofa. “She was excited about some new techniques she was experimenting with. She was planning a series incorporating gouache.”
