by R. T. Wolfe
He hoped Nickie had opened his email or at least the envelope with the copies of the pictures he sent her. His curiosity burned as to why the sketch of the man of Asian descent caused the reaction it did. He was sure she would have been online doing her own search regarding the picture. Researching and keeping her meticulous notes on whatever she did or did not find. He refrained from hacking into any of it.
His life had been one long, incredibly tiring string of secrets. His eidetic memory. The events of his childhood. His time in the Middle East. They were decades he spent basically alone, but this was the first time he could remember feeling truly lonely.
He'd experienced love. He'd experienced Nickie Savage. There was no going back.
The bumping of his tires as he crossed the bridge to Thurmond Moody's home woke him to the present. Emotions ran from fury to expectation, so much so that he purposely turned it all off and focused on taking pictures in his mind of the grounds. He'd already searched satellite photos of the property—several acres in the middle of an upscale neighborhood in the medium-sized town of Alabaster.
He approached an expansive wrought iron fence. It opened as soon as he came within ten yards of it. Cautiously, he scanned the area before continuing on the drive.
An enormous berm lined the inside of the fence with an array of evergreen and deciduous trees topping the acres-long hill like jewels in a king's crown. He remembered from the satellite photos, the home, if that's what you could call it, stood to the north, and four warehouses, possibly for storage, were to the south. A building that appeared to be a home for the help stood farther down the south trail.
The grounds contained rolling hills and was heavily forested in trees planted in rows like soldiers. Security cameras littered the drive, affixed to trees, fence posts and lampposts. He took mental note of each as he went. They weren't the latest models but were an excellent brand. He'd used the same in his previous home.
Coming to a fork in the road, he took the south direction. He could claim ignorance later. The first warehouse came to view on his right. The other three soon after. Each was identical—corrugated metal in a creamy green color. Each had two doors big enough for a large truck to clear the opening. He could see from the road a single window on each of the sides that were covered in horizontal blinds with a single visible door near the corner.
He assumed they held the mowers, tractors and equipment needed to maintain property of this magnitude. But four of them? Maybe Moody stored his extra vehicles in one or more. He wanted to pull over to check the doors, but with the cameras watching him, he wasn't sure how he would talk himself out of it.
Playing as if he were still searching for the main house, he kept driving to the last structure he remembered from the satellite image. He was surprised the road didn't turn to gravel, but continued as smooth asphalt all the way to the end. Two dogs came bounding toward him before he reached the house where the road stopped.
The house was a white, two-story Victorian with a fully lit parking lot on the far side. He slowed his car to a stop. The dogs circled, barking with lines of drool dripping from the corners of their mouths. One was a Doberman, one a Rottweiler. Cliché.
The house was dark, the blinds open. He supposed the help would be working at this time of day. He'd expected something a bit more modest for the employees of a man who likely was involved and had been involved for decades in the kidnapping and forced prostitution of young girls.
Right on time.
Between the barking, he heard the tires of a vehicle rolling along the drive as he executed a slow three-point turn. A man about his age exited an SUV wearing black pants, a white shirt, black tie and vest. He tossed the dogs something flimsy and red. Duncan put his car in neutral, pulled the emergency brake and rolled down his window.
"Mr. Reed?" the man questioned.
Duncan held out his hand through the window. The dogs ran to the food. "Yes, that's correct. Forgive me if I don't get out." He gestured to the dogs. "I seem to have taken a wrong turn."
The man didn't introduce himself, and awkwardly accepted Duncan's offer to shake. He'd been trained to fit the status of the help. Remain as invisible as possible and don't make eye contact. Such bullshit. "If you would follow me, sir. I can lead you to the manor. Mr. Moody is expecting you."
The Manor? Duncan would have laughed if that was something he did. They returned to their cars. He tried to hide the fact that he already knew how to get there.
Chapter 12
Nickie sat in the captain's guest chair, only half listening to him. Her back was straight and her ankles crossed under the chair. Her eyes were hazy from spending the last three days searching for something, anything about Jun Zheng.
Not a bite. How did a guy run this show for decades and not have a single piece of information on him anywhere? She'd taped the sketch of him right next to the copy of the bracelet on her monitor. Had he worn it? Is that where she recognized the thing? No, that wasn't it.
To have been so close. To have stood where he did only months before. She'd run Duncan's sketch through NCIC's facial recognition database, although she knew Duncan would have done that already. If he had any idea who Jun Zheng was, had found out anything about the sketch, Duncan would have brought it to her. Somehow, she knew that. Her eyes closed hard. This is why people shouldn't fall in love. It screws with everything.
"Do you want me to put Lynx on this one?"
She opened her eyes and recognized the concern in Dave's. "No. No, I was just thinking."
"You haven't been yourself lately. You can talk to me."
I can't talk to anyone. "I'm on it, Captain. Give me the address." She held out her hand, waiting for him to pull off one of the many yellow sticky notes from his desk and give it to her.
As she said her good-byes to Dave, she thought of her foster mother. It wasn't that she didn't have anyone to talk to. She was wallowing. Sulking. And it pissed her off more than anything.
She headed to her office to gather her things. Eddy stepped out of his and into her path. She smiled up at his blue eyes.
"You look like hell." His eyes told her it was said in jest, cop to cop.
"Back at you, buddy." She put her hands on her hips. "Is there a reason you're not letting me through?"
"Food."
"Excuse me?"
"Food. It's nearly lunchtime, and I have a feeling you haven't had any."
"I never miss breakfast."
"Yogurt covered in birdseed doesn't count as food."
She held up her telltale sticky note and waved it at him. "I've got a call. Rain check?"
He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, nodded and answered, "Rain check."
She gathered her coat and checked her gear, giving Zheng one more glance before she left. She would check out the assignment from her captain, stop by to see her foster mother if she had time, then see if she could find some minutes to search a little deeper for Zheng.
After flicking the sketch between the eyes, she flipped her light switch and left.
* * *
Duncan sat in one of the heavy black chairs adorning Moody's four seasons room.
He thought he'd prepared for his reaction to sitting in the same room with him. After all, masking his emotions was Duncan's specialty. But he'd never sat face-to-face with a man involved in kidnappings before. Involved in the kidnappings of preteens. Involved somehow with Nickie. He hoped his face was blank, because it took everything in him not to sprint from his chair and take Moody down where he sat. Images of beating Moody's head against the hardwood floor helped to keep his cover intact.
The room was floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides. It was big, bigger than the entire third floor of Duncan's home. A white couch sat between a matching love seat and chairs, all with white cushions and throw pillows. The floor and end tables were sandalwood beige, white candles centered on each.
The glass looked out over a layered brick patio, which was home to a number of wrought iron tables a
nd chairs. The dogs must not be allowed this far. Everything was covered with an inch of untouched white that made the room seem to melt into the outside. Beyond were pockets of landscaping plots containing dead ornamental grasses that whipped in the breeze. The force of the wind complemented Duncan's needs.
Next to him was his large portfolio case containing examples of his work.
"I have to say, Duncan, I was surprised when you called." Moody sipped his tomato juice. Duncan was sure he smelled vodka. "Reviewing your credentials, it doesn't seem you need to make phone calls."
Slowly, Duncan crossed his legs and tilted his head. "I'm a New York native, Mr. Moody. I'd like to move my business closer to home. And I have a great admiration for your work." Bile threatened his esophagus.
An honest hint of surprise crossed Moody's face. It was followed by an air of suspicion. "Is that so?"
"Anyone who can cross political lines and remain bi-partisan enough to serve as the personal assistant to a number of governors in this state is someone worthy of admiration."
Obviously, Moody agreed. Sick bastard.
Duncan pulled his portfolio closer to him. Untying the top, he selected a photo and slid it from the case. "This is a piece that will adorn the landscaping portion of my next art show. It is a rendering of the estate of the mayor of Las Vegas." Not knowing what Moody would be interested in, he added, "The mayor in particular had requested images of his grandchildren acting naturally in and around his grounds. The grounds here on your property are spectacular. The multitude of towering evergreens creates quite a sense of power. With the dusting of snow, I see the power turning omnipotent."
What Duncan didn't see was the help. Other than the man who escorted him to the manor, he hadn't seen a single maid, butler or grounds crew.
He pulled out another example. This one was more of a formal pose, including two of Hollywood's latest and greatest as they stood in front of their flaming, wood-burning fireplace. The portraits in Moody's manor were contemporary abstracts. Duncan didn't draw abstracts. He didn't have high hopes for landing a contract with him, making this appointment all the more important.
"Let's retire to the den, Duncan. I've ordered some canapés." Moody stood and gestured to Duncan's glass. "Are you sure you wouldn't like something more... substantial?"
Duncan nodded once. "I'm driving, thank you."
Duncan liked big, generally the bigger the better. However, Moody's den was so exaggerated, it swallowed them up. He assumed that was what Moody was hoping for.
A photo of him and the governor sat on a desk made completely of ebony. The desk must be worth tens of thousands. In the photo, Moody wore the bracelet that matched the one found in the abandoned home in Henderson, Nevada.
His mind reacted as it often did, more so in the absence of a certain detective. Without warning. Without permission. The sand stuck to every inch of his body, whipping around in the air as the Chinook spun toward Earth. No.
"What do you think about a portrait of you with the governor?" he asked, sweat lining his back. "Or one of you in front of this manor you've created and embellished. I could draw the three governors you've assisted in hazy outlines behind you." Working Moody's vain side seemed to be taking him in the right direction as the pedophile lifted his brows and nodded.
The same man who'd escorted Duncan to the manor served the food. Moody spent time between drinks casually drilling him for information about his past, his present and his clients. He was fishing, but Duncan had played with fish before. And playing with tipsy fish could be simple.
"I can draw up some preliminary samples. Shall we take a drive so I can get a lay of the land?"
"Fine, fine. I'll call—"
"I'd be pleased to do the honors, Mr. Moody."
Duncan drove them in his Audi R-8 to the enormous circle drive in front of the house. He had Moody in his car. How easy it would be to choose a spot between surveillance cameras, backhand him in the face, beat him unconscious, and dump him in Seneca Lake.
Moody brought his drink, refreshed by the single escort/chef/butler/maid. In the confined quarters of the vehicle, the alcohol was rank.
"This is an excellent angle," Duncan said as he took a few photographs with his phone. As if he needed pictures.
Shifting, he veered down the drive. "I imagine it's just as lovely in the spring, but the dusting of snow sets off the house and powerful trees as they tower in the crisp sun. Do you have many visitors?" It was the first non-business topic Duncan had dared.
It was hard to disguise reactions when you'd had a few Bloody Marys. Moody wasn't pleased with the semi-personal question and snapped to attention. The overreaction didn't go unnoticed. Duncan changed the subject.
"I leave for L.A. in a few days. Then, the holidays will be here. I'm free the following week."
"The holidays." Moody rested his head on the headrest. "There was a time when I participated in the events at Times Square." He lifted his brow as if it were an annoyance. "I avoid crowds whenever possible these days. Follow the road to the west." He ordered Duncan with his finger.
Pretending to misunderstand, Duncan took a road he hadn't noticed in the satellite images.
"Not this way," Moody slurred.
Duncan slowed, but Moody shook his finger. "Never mind. It won't matter."
Avoided crowds? Like the Indy 500, the X Games and the World Series? The pictures Duncan found of him weren't old.
The missing road turned out to be a back way to the white house. Duncan pulled in front of it. "This is where the help found me. I'm embarrassed to say it's so beautiful I'd thought for a moment it was your home."
"Phssst," Moody growled. "I didn't tell you to stop here."
Duncan didn't ask about the house but didn't make the same mistake when they came to the row of cloudy, green warehouses. "Do you keep your cars here?"
"Cars? No. This is for equipment and quarters for the help."
He had his help stay in metal warehouses? Why was Duncan surprised? "Surely you have a favorite. Mine is a '72 Barracuda. I only take her out in warm weather."
"I'm not into the classics. Mine is a Jaguar c-x75."
"Ah yes," Duncan crooned. "Zero to sixty in under three seconds. To one hundred in six."
"That's the ticket," Moody snapped. "You've sold me. I see me in a tuxedo, standing in front of my Jaguar with The Manor behind me." He used the term The Manor like the place could be found in Wikipedia. "Here's my personal number." He scribbled it on the back of a business card.
* * *
Pulling up the short drive, Nickie felt better already. The small, square house was the closest thing to a home she'd known. Why hadn't she thought of coming here before now? The drive had been shoveled from edge to edge. It made her roll her eyes before she smiled and wondered who Gloria had do the chore of clearing a drive in upstate New York of a dusting of snow.
As usual, the front door was open. The storm door was covered in steam, or maybe it was frost. She couldn't tell as she rounded her car.
She came from an interview with a college student who had been raped at a school party. It made her feel sorry for herself, something she also didn't allow. The last several days had messed with her head. For a short second, she thought her captain might have been right and should have given the case to Eddy. This was all Duncan's fault. Or at least her fault for letting herself have these feelings for him. For anyone.
Gloria would clear things up for her. Gloria always cleared things up for her. She would help her focus, and then Nickie could get back to work. She didn't mind being alone, but life after Duncan seemed... off.
"Hello!" she called as she walked in the front door.
"Child." Nickie heard Gloria call from the kitchen. "Come back and see me."
She followed Gloria's directions and found her standing at the sink, draining whole grain rice. Covering the dish with a large towel, she set it aside and dried her hands. The house was empty, a rarity. It made the kitchen seem bigger somehow.
>
"I love surprise visits from my Nickie." Gloria gave her a bear hug and told her to sit. Nickie obeyed as Gloria took two mismatched mugs that hung from hooks beneath a cabinet. She poured herself a cup of coffee before taking a can of Diet Coke from her fridge.
Nickie nearly salivated at the sound of the tab releasing pent up carbonation. It was like a symbol of the entire scene.
"What brings you home?"
Home. It sent a blanket of calm over her. The thick, ancient plastic counters, the mismatched chairs around the small table in the middle of the kitchen. The larger table on the other side of the sink, and the enormous one in the dining room next to them.
"I was in the neighborhood." She smiled wide and poured her soda in her coffee mug.
Gloria did little more than lift her brows, holding the steaming mug with both hands, her long, glossy hair falling over her shoulders.
"I was in the neighborhood, and I decided to break things off with Duncan."
Expertly, the expression on Gloria's face was unreadable.
"He lied to me."
Still no expression.
"Well, he didn't exactly lie to me, but he withheld things from me. Something. Things that had to do with me personally. He does that—keeps things from people. Or he just doesn't talk about shi—stuff," she corrected.
"I wonder why that is?" Gloria asked.
Gloria didn't know about Duncan's eidetic memory, but she did know about the events of his childhood. "He doesn't want to remember any more than he has to," Nickie continued. Why was she defending him? "He had a gun dug in his temple at the age of eight. Watched his aunt blindsided with a baseball bat. So, he doesn't talk about it. Hides it from everyone, really. He had just kept something from me. A big something. I told him not to do that ever again. So, it's the same as lying, don't you think?"
Gloria smiled at her and brought the mug to her lips.
Nickie stood and walked to the freezer, taking a handful of ice cubes from the tray. "He digs into my business, my personal business, and doesn't tell me. It's the same thing as lying," she convinced herself as she plopped the ice cubes into the mug one at a time for emphasis.
