A.K.A.

by TL Alexander

  Who am I? I’m your biggest fan.

  He turned the letter over. “That’s it.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What is there to not understand? Detective Lopez went through all the unsolved case files and found a woman, a Jane Doe, who resembled Tara. Then he simply changed the dates and put her name on it.”

  Peter sighed heavily as he ran his fingers through his thick, graying mop. “Okay, Ms. Steel. Let’s say I believe”—he picked up the bogus file and waved it—“this is some kind of cover-up. My question to you is why?”

  “I don’t have the answers to why or how Tara got involved with Terrance Thomas Caldwell.”

  “Do you think she was working on a story?”

  “That’s a possibility. That would help explain her bogus name.”

  “She used aliases?”

  “Not often, but yes.”

  He downed his scotch, poured another, and picked up the file of the unknown murdered women. “What’s your take on these photos?”

  “The graininess and the angles make it difficult to see much detail, but they all look healthy. I can’t see any evidence of drug abuse or malnutrition. Their clothing is designer or knockoff designer. The diamonds around—”

  He held up the photo.

  “That’s the one. Her necklace looks expensive, the diamonds real.”

  “Not prostitutes?”

  “High-priced escorts, maybe. Terrance Thomas was photographed with many women, most known socialites or models. But I did find a few photos where the identity of the women weren’t known, Terrance Thomas Caldwell with ‘friend.’” I air quoted.

  He continued to look them over. “I think they were all taken with the same camera.”

  “I’d say a smartphone camera.”

  “I agree.” He sat the file down, picked up Tara’s file, and looked at the photos again. He looked up at me. “What’s different about these?”

  “Besides the brutality?”

  He nodded.

  “It looks as if she’s staged. And it feels…”

  “Personal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So they did know each other.”

  “Maybe they did.”

  “Maybe they were engaged.”

  “It’s hard for me to believe they were engaged, but Tara could be impulsive. If they were engaged, she didn’t know who he really was. That I’m certain of.”

  He set down Tara’s file, picked up the bogus one, opened it, removed a photo and handed it me. “If this isn’t Tara, then who is she?”

  “Detective Rice looked into it. The woman’s identity remains unknown. Her body was discovered in 2012. It had been tossed into a dumpster at a Holiday Inn in Polk County. A maid taking out the trash found the body. It had been there for a couple of days.”

  He picked up the letter and read it again. “Do you have any idea as to who your ‘biggest fan’ is?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Someone close to Terrance Thomas or the Caldwells?”

  “I think the letter implies that, but…”

  “The implication could have been made to throw you off.”

  “Yes.”

  He sat the letter on the table, downed his scotch, poured himself another two fingers, and leaned back in the chair. “Who are these people?”

  “The devil’s helpers,” I told him, and that was the end of our conversation that day.

  Then two weeks later, Peter called me. “Where are you?”

  I put my coffee cup down. “I’m at the office. Cleaning off my desk, tying up loose ends. Why?”

  “Loose ends?”

  “I’m going on vacation tomorrow.”

  He sighed into the phone. “Perfect.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m going to hang up. After I do, take the memory card out of your phone, cut it up, and smash the phone. Then put the cut-up card and smashed phone into your handbag.”

  “What?”

  “Leave your office as you had planned. Are you excited about you vacation?”

  “Huh?”

  “Be yourself but make sure you tell a few coworkers how much you’re looking forward to your vacation.”

  “What?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “On my vacation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sailing.”

  “Make sure everyone knows about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it. On your way home, take a different route and make sure you’re not being followed.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Once you know you’re not being followed, stop and purchase a prepaid phone, then call me at this number…”

  I wrote the number down. “Peter, what the hell…?”

  He hung up.

  I sat and stared at my phone. Then everything kicked in, and I did everything he told me to. After I made sure I wasn’t followed, I stopped, purchased a phone, and then called him.

  He picked up on the fist ring. “Any problems?”

  “No.”

  “Did you do everything I told you to?”

  “Yes. Everyone who I’d normally tell about my vacation knows how excited I am.”

  “Good. On your way home, dump the smashed phone in three different receptacles.”

  “Peter, what the hell is going on?”

  “Do you have any evidence in your office or on your office computer that can tie you to Terrance Thomas or the Caldwells?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good girl. Dump the phone and come home.”

  “Okay. I’ll phone the gate and tell them to let you in.”

  “I’m already in.”

  “What? I just had a new security system installed.”

  “Well, the new one sucks too.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Where’s Hank?”

  “I dropped him off at the vet this morning. I was going to pick him up on the way home.”

  “Okay, stop and pick him up. Don’t do or say anything out of the ordinary.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Morgan?”

  “What?”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said and disconnected.

  An hour later, I walked into my house. Mr. Costa was waiting for me at the kitchen bar. Hank went at him for a lick or three. After he was done, I threw him several doggy treats to keep him occupied.

  I went to the fridge, took out a bottle of wine, and poured us each a glass. I handed one to Costa. “Okay, you’ve got my attention. What the hell is going on?”

  “They’re coming.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “The FBI.”

  “What?”

  “FBI. Former FBI. I have no friggin’ idea who they really are. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The senator’s henchmen.”

  “His henchmen?”

  “I was just one more pawn in their sick game.”

  “Pawn?”

  “They used me to find you.”

  “That makes no sense. They fired you?”

  “They must have figured out that I didn’t trust them. Maybe they suspected I was holding back information.”

  “Were you?”

  “Of course.”

  I frowned his way.

  “They’ve been steps behind me the entire time.”

  “How do you know they’re coming for me?”

  “An anonymous tip.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. I’m very serious.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you don’t know who the tip came from, how do you know it’s legit?”

  “My wife called me. She got a call from an office that’s in the same building as mine. They told her my office had been broken into and ransacked.”

  “And?”

  “She went to check it out, and w
hen she was there, she got a phone call.”

  “Go on.”

  “She said the voice was hard to understand.”

  “Hard to understand?”

  “It was distorted, but she thinks it was a man.”

  “What did the man say?”

  “He told her it was urgent that she reach me. He said to tell me that the senator had me followed and his men are on their way to kill Morgan Steel.”

  I frowned in disbelief before I sipped my wine.

  “He said he was your ‘biggest fan.’”

  I choked on my wine. “Oh my God.”

  Ding. Dong.

  Hank barked and took off for the door.

  “Grab him,” Peter yelled.

  I grabbed him by the collar and told him to sit. “It’s them, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said and removed his gun from its shoulder holster. “Stay here.”

  I nodded.

  He walked to a window in the front of the house and covertly looked toward my entry. He sighed and put his gun away. “It’s Don,” he said and opened the door.

  “Oh. Um,” Don said. “What was your name again?”

  “Peter.”

  He points to himself. “Don.”

  “I remember.”

  “You told me to tell you if anything or anyone—”

  “I remember, Don.”

  “The other guard working today—”

  “Gary.”

  “Yeah. You’re good with names.”

  “What about Gary, Don?”

  “Oh yeah. He’s one of those want-to-be cop types.”

  I interrupted. “He has a police scanner.”

  He waved. “Hi, Ms. Steel.”

  I nodded. “Don. What did Gary hear on his scanner?”

  “You’re not going to get him in trouble, are you?”

  “Don, I’ve known about Gary’s scanner for years. Have I said or done anything about it?”

  “No.”

  “Tell us,” Peter said.

  “An officer was sent to check your place out and report back.”

  “Okay,” Peter said.

  “We sent him to Ms. Wilson’s house. She’s in Italy. She told us she was going there to meet with the Pope.”

  “You lied to an officer of the law?” I asked.

  “Well, yeah. We figured—”

  “You did well,” Peter tells him.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “What about the officer?” I asked him.

  “He radioed dispatch and told them you weren’t home. He was told to park where he couldn’t be seen and to report back when you got home.”

  “You did good, Don.”

  “Thanks, Peter. Now what?”

  “Go back to the gate, and if you see anyone suspicious or hear further communication on the scanner, call this number,” Peter told him and handed him a card.

  “Will do,” he said and nodded toward me. “See you around, Ms. Steel.”

  “See you around, Don,” I said and shut the door. “How much time do you think I have?”

  “Hours. Maybe days, if we’re lucky.”

  “Damn.”

  “Morgan, I won’t let them harm you.”

  “What do you think they know? Do you think they know about Tara and my connect to her?”

  “I don’t know what they know. I thought I’d covered my tracks. Even if they haven’t connected all the dots, they don’t care.”

  “What do you mean, they don’t care?”

  “My PI friend in Miami, she…”

  “What?”

  “She said, several women fitting the description of the woman in the photo I’d sent her have turned up dead or missing.”

  “And when were you going to tell me this?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “When they find out who I am, that I’m an ADA. They’ll move on.”

  “You don’t seriously think that, do you? These are the same people who’ve been covering and cleaning up Terrance Thomas’s messes for probably decades.”

  “I’ll fight them in court.”

  “How are you going to disprove a murdered you’ve committed?”

  “I don’t’ know. But I will. They have no evidence.”

  “The senator is connected, Morgan.”

  “So am I.”

  “Not those kind of connections.”

  I knew he was right. I was in trouble, big trouble. “What am I going to do?”

  “Disappear.”

  “I can’t just disappear.”

  “Oh, yes you can.”

  I was reported missing when I didn’t show up for work two weeks later. I was a known and experienced sailor, having owned my own cruiser for years. The official story was that I’d capsized and vanished. After a three-week coastguard search, I was presumed dead. After my dad’s faked additional six months’ search, I was declared dead. Death by possible downing, body never recovered.

  I start when the phone rings, bringing me out of my head and back to the present.

  I press Accept.

  “Beautiful,” Peter says.

  “Hey.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t put up a fight.”

  “You know that I agree with him. It’s too soon to stay in one place.”

  “I need this. I’m going crazy.”

  “Okay, it’s your call. I’ll overnight you everything you need. Open up a bank account, then send me the number through the website in the packet. I’ll wire you all the money you should need. Once you locate a place to rent, find a safe place for your emergency money, emergency burners, and documents.”

  “I’ll need job references.”

  “Do you think this is my first parade?”

  Parade? “Okay, stupid me.”

  “I don’t want to go over the details on the phone. Everything you need will be in the packet. Just remember when you stay in one place, people will ask more questions and you’ll need to prepare for them.”

  “Got it.”

  “I know you’ll question some of the things I’m sending you, but I beg you to stay with the script. Improvise as little as possible.”

  “I’ll stick with it. I promise.” I hear a dog barking in the background. “Is that…?”

  “Yes. He misses you.”

  “He does not. I know you spoil him. I bet he weighs a ton.”

  “Maybe two,” he says and then laughs. “Okay, beautiful. You know the drill. Watch you back and trust your gut. I’ll connect with you in a few days; make sure you got everything.”

  “Thanks for everything. You can’t know what—”

  “I know.”

  “Talk to you soon,” I say and disconnect.

  A PAWN IS OFTEN OVERLOOKED

  I found one of those centuries-old cottages on Shoreline Drive to rent, Rocky End. Rocky End is located at the furthest end of the drive. Far enough away from town to feel secluded, yet within biking distance to my new job as a bartender slash server at Pine Rock Brewpub and Grill.

  My new alias is Brianna Richards, aka, Bri Richards. I have no middle name because my parents couldn’t agree on one. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old divorcée from Portland, Maine—a place I know well enough to pass as a former resident.

  Included in the packet from Peter was a script. I’m an abused wife who’s starting over in a place far from Maine and her abusive ex-husband, Eric Kemp. As a battered wife starting a new life, it would be considered normal to not be forthcoming about my past. And if anyone should feel the need to have me checked out, they’ll find all the records they need in Maine: a marriage certificate, police reports, and a divorce decree. If one should look further, they’ll find out I drive to Newport once a week to attend a support group for survivors of abuse.

  I hate my cover; it makes me feel weak and vulnerable, even knowing it isn’t real, it’s just a script. But I understand why Peter went with it. I know the role well. It’s a part I’ve seen
too many women play.

  The stories told at the meetings every Friday afternoon are the same as those I’d heard a thousand times as an ADA. The difference being, I’m now powerless to help. All I can do is listen and provide a shoulder to cry on while biting my tongue.

  I’ve been in Pine Rock for almost three months and working at the pub for two. As a woman who was married right out of high school, never went to college, and has only worked as a waitress, I didn’t have many employment opportunities in Pine Rock. It was either working at the pub or the local dinner.

  The owner of the pub is Michelle Lane. Everyone calls her Mich. Mich inherited the bar from her grandfather and has since turned it into a successful brewpub. She’s thirty-one, divorced thrice, and has four dogs who she confesses to love more than any of her ex-husbands. She spends most of her off time with her sister whose breast cancer has reared its ugly self twice.

  Being the newest employee at the pub, I work weekends and closings during the week. I don’t mind; in fact, I prefer it to being alone. Something I’ve spent two long years doing.

  I knew everything about my job and everyone else’s job within my first week. Mich caught on to this, despite my efforts to keep it hidden. After a month, she asked if I wanted to be the assistant manager. I turned her down, not wanting my fellow employees to think I was stepping on their toes. Come to find out, they don’t care. None of them wanted or wants the job, so I told Mich I’d take on a few extra duties, without the title, and she agreed.

  Peter had all my new coworkers checked out. There are times I feel guilty about knowing more than I should. But other times, I find it comforting to know that I’m not the only chameleon at the Pine Rock Brewpub and Grill.

  Kat Lake works many of the same shifts I do. I like her. She’s a twenty-nine-year-old divorcée from Southern California, with a dry sense of humor that gels well with mine. She moved to Oregon to go to college and decided she loved it and stayed. She surfs or sea kayaks most every morning. I join her for kayaking, but surfing in cold water has never been my thing. Another reason we gel, Kat doesn’t ask questions about my past. I know it’s because a few skeletons have haunted her closet. Kat was arrested twice for the possession of an illegal substance, once for trespassing, and once for shoplifting. All four arrests were made over a decade ago when she was married to a major looser who liked to use her face as a punching bag.

  As for the rest of the employees, Tim Brown is the cook. He doesn’t say much and keeps to himself. And that’s okay, because his mouth-watering salmon burger says volumes.