by Denise Wells
I compile several printouts of Tremblay’s face and six other guys who look like him. They aren’t mug shots obviously, but if she positively IDs him; it gets us to the next step. It’s not uncommon for us to do a photo lineup as one of the first steps in gathering information to narrow down a suspect. Logically, it seems out of order, but until we have enough evidence to charge someone, we can’t move forward. Which makes sketch confirmed identity invaluable in situations such as this.
“Paula Nelson can’t come by until after four this afternoon, cool?” Reed is holding the phone receiver in one hand and has his finger of the other hand on the hold button.
“Yeah. Ask her about her shoes.”
“What about them?”
“They picked her up barefoot, but she didn’t go on the date that way, and it hasn’t come up in questioning. I want to know what happened to the shoes.”
“How did that not come up?”
I shrug.
He returns to his call and relays what I’ve asked.
We bring Paula into one of the smaller meeting rooms. “Would you like some water or coffee before we begin?” I ask her.
She shakes her head no, and Reed sets seven photos out in front of her, all with a corresponding number. Two is Tremblay; one, three, four, five, six, and seven are all other men who look similar.
She sets aside three and five immediately, choosing to focus on one, two, four, six, and seven. Which, to me, is good—anytime they can rule suspect photos out at once it’s a good thing. She pushes number two away, then pulls it back in without lifting her finger. As though she’s playing a card game where her turn isn’t complete unless her hand lifts from the table.
I’m hopeful she will pick the right one.
“It’s so hard, they look so much alike.”
“Take your time,” Reed tells her. “It’s more important for you to be accurate over quick.”
She nods and removes number one, leaving numbers two, four, six and seven. Reed stiffens behind her. I’m glad she can’t see him. I know he wouldn’t want to influence her choice, but his actions might do so unintentionally.
We kind of switch roles now, Reed and I, as victims feel more comfortable with me next to them, on their side, when dealing more closely with the actual suspect. To them, the picture becomes the actual suspect. And so, while Reed stands behind her, I sit next to her at the small table. I liken it to when they hide behind me in times of danger, not that that happens often. I’m viewed as more of a shield for them, while Reed is more of a comfort. It makes us good partners.
Paula lets out a long sigh. “I want to say it’s a toss-up between these two,” she says of numbers two and six. “But I can’t be certain which one is him.” She ponders for a few added moments, picking the pictures up, then putting them down, re-arranging their placement on the table. She stills and closes her eyes for a moment. Making a choice once she opens them, after close to twenty minutes of careful considering.
“It’s number four.” She pulls four off the table and hands it to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Reed visibly sags in relief, yet still keeping his poker face.
“Are you certain this is the man?” I ask her.
“Yes. That is the man I went on the date with and who drugged me and took me to that house.”
I nod.
“Am I right?” she asks.
“There is no wrong or right here, Paula.” Reed steps back into her line of sight. “There is only what you saw and what you remember.”
“I get that, but am I remembering the right guy?”
“Are you certain about your choice?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then you picked the right guy.”
“Okay, but is that the guy you thought it would be?”
“We don’t come into this with any preconceived notions,” Reed says. “We just follow where the evidence takes us.”
“So, what will happen to that guy?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Reed says. “But we will call you with questions.”
“What do I do now?”
“Go home, get some rest, beware of getting into cars with strangers.” I smile as I say it, but receive a dirty look from her anyway.
Problem is, number four is a computer-generated image and not an identifiable person. Reed doesn’t know that yet. All he knows is that wasn’t David’s photo.
I thank Paula for her time and let Reed walk her to the front of the building. She turns back to me before she’s all the way out the door. “Oh, about my shoes?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what happened to them. But I do have a picture of them I can text to you.”
“You have a picture of your shoes?” I ask.
“Yeah. They were brand new, first time I’d worn them. I take pictures of all my shoes and purses once I get them home, just in case something ever happens and I need to put a claim in to insurance or something. I have a lot of both.” She smiles.
I take her phone and send the picture to myself. “Thank you.” I hand it back to her when I’m through. I don’t know what will come of the missing shoes but it helps to know exactly what we’re looking for if we stumble across a random pair in this case.
On a whim, I pull out the burner phone and send off a quick text to Daria to ask her about the shoes, if she’s heard of them.
D: Why? Are you planning on buying women’s shoes?
M: No. It’s for a case.
D: I have some shoes by that maker, but not that pair.
M: They popular?
D: Everyone loves them, but not everyone can afford them.
M: How much?
D: $300 and up
M: For some straps and a heel?
D: The cost of beauty.
M: Thx.
D: No prob.
Unfortunately, much of our communication consists of a couple questions followed by a few answers, usually instigated by me, because I miss her.
Reed flops down in his chair. “You think she picked the wrong one, don’t you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think they all looked way too much like him for it not to be him. But I’m also afraid I’m just being influenced by you now.” He looks at me, his eyes searching, as though he thinks I’ll set him straight somehow or give him a definite answer.
So, I tell him what I know he doesn’t want to hear. “She picked the CGI.”
“Fuck.” He runs both hands over his face and scrubs at it.
“You wanna recuse yourself?”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
“Okay, then let’s figure out how we’re gonna catch this guy.”
7
Quinn
I’m still amped from seeing Reed, especially since he talked to me. We practically flirted, and I totally caught him checking out my boobs. If I were just a bit creepier, I think I could legit become his stalker. But I have a modicum of self-respect left. Once that bit goes though, all bets are off. If Daria really trains me in some badassery. I’m betting I’d be a good stalker. But not if I have to train for three hours a day.
I finish wiping down all the tables from after the lunch crowd and head to the back, where I find Daria in a corner texting on a phone I don’t think is hers.
“Did you get a new phone?”
“No, this is one of my burners,” she answers.
“Oh, are you sending out a kill order?” I rush to peek over her shoulder.
“Keep your voice down, and no. I’m just telling Mack about these shoes.” She holds the phone out so I can see the photo he sent.
“Oh, those are so cute. God, I can’t wait to have money again so I can buy some shoes.”
“You can’t wear shoes like that here.”
“I know, but I can wear them on my date with Reed.”
“Ohmigod, did he ask you out? Did I miss it?”
“No. But I’m certain he will soon. He looked at my boobs today. And I’m fairly sure we
flirted.”
“Oh, that’s great, honey. Real progress.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I pull her by the arm into her office and close the door. Then I push her back into her chair, and stand straighter, crossing my arms over my chest, doing my best to look authoritative. “Speak,” I command.
“It’s just the same old shit, Q. I tire of it sometimes.”
“Assassin shit or Mack shit?”
“Mack shit.” She sighs.
I lean over and give her a hug. “Why don’t you just get back together but be careful or something?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“Well, it can’t be that this is the answer, Dar. I mean, Mack is your one. And when you find the one, that’s it, you get the happily ever after, the end, close the book.”
“Apparently not.” She sulks. She’s always like this after Mack leaves. Or after she talks to him. Or thinks about him. In fact, she’s like this a lot.
“Daria, this is no way to live your life. You can’t just be perpetually unhappy.”
“I also can’t put Mack or his career in danger.”
“Shouldn’t he be the one to decide that?”
“You sound like him.”
“Great minds think alike.”
“Pretty sure he’s thinking with his dick.”
“He doesn’t just want you for sex. He loves you. You’re his one. The great sex is just a perk,” I argue.
She sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. In fact, you can leave if you want to. There won’t be much more for you to do today, anyway.”
“Want to go do something?”
“No, I’ve got to head upstairs. Alyssa will be here soon; we’ve got to pull some info on D—”
I look at her, waiting for her to finish her sentence. “On? Dead guys? Dangerous dudes? Damsels in distress?” I throw a couple of suggestions out, knowing that none of them are right, it’s more to make her laugh than anything else.
It works.
“It’s not important,” she says. “I can use you tomorrow during lunch and we can go over a few more things, get you familiar with back of the house.”
“Look at you, pulling out the restaurant lingo, luckily I know what that is.” I give her a hug and kiss her on the cheek. “Call me if you need anything.” I take a step back, but keep my hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eye so she knows I’m serious.
“I will,” she says.
“Okay. Love you!”
“Love you.”
I think about it on my way home and realize I’m excited about the prospect of working my way up at Daria’s bar. I know the waitresses make good money in tips, and since my other two jobs are barely there, I could use an income that is more regular than that. I do a little dog walking by day and on-call answering service support by night. Neither of which are consistent nor pay well.
But the answering service almost pays my bills and dog walking keeps me in shape, so I can’t complain. Plus, I love dogs and my apartment doesn’t allow them. So, when I walk them, it’s almost like having one of my own. This isn’t at all where I thought my life would end up though. I was the president of the drama club throughout high school and really thought I’d be an actor after graduation. But I quickly realized I’d have to move to Los Angeles or New York if I wanted to take it seriously. And I have no desire to leave our little coastal town in the Pacific Northwest. It may be small, but it has everything I need.
And love.
(Read: Reed Roberts.)
My phone alarm dings—it’s time for me to walk my neighbor’s dog. I head next door to Mrs. Sawyer’s house to walk Fifi; her poodle mix. Who hates going for walks and spends the entire time alternating between sitting and refusing to move, or biting the leash as we go.
I spend the rest of the night watching how-to videos on the internet for being more badass. Believe it or not, there are videos and articles on badassery and how to achieve it. Though, none are as simple as I would have liked. Apparently, most badassery comprises being able to do something spectacular really well. Considering I have to hold the handrail when descending a staircase or I’ll fall, I’m guessing general badassedness is not in my wheelhouse.
I remember watching old movies with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire when I was younger and being amazed that not only could they go down the stairs without holding onto the railing, but most times there was no railing and they’d be dancing as they went.
I tried it once.
I’ve been holding onto the handrail ever since. They are there for a reason—a damn good reason.
When I tire of the internet, I spend the next hour selecting outfits for my fictitious date with Reed. This is not the first time I’ve entertained myself for an entire evening this way. I figure I’ll have a ton of options for consideration once it finally happens, thus taking the pressure off myself then to find something.
There are times, like tonight, when I wish I had a pet or a roommate or a spouse. It gets lonely being by myself, but I get a decent deal on my apartment—a studio style above a detached garage and the owners are a genuinely nice, middle-aged couple. It allows me to live in a nice neighborhood I could never afford otherwise. And there are a few neighbors with dogs needing walks, win-win.
As I get ready for bed, I wish for the millionth time that Reed had social media accounts so I could go online and see what he’s doing or where he’s been. There is literally no way to cyber-stalk the man, it’s frustrating. But it gives me another reason to want to stalk him in person. And then I have to wonder about my sanity, since one, I’m so preoccupied with this guy. Two, I really want to stalk him online or in person, I don’t care which. Three, I can’t imagine either numbers one or two are healthy behaviors.
I’d ask my therapist about it except I don’t go to therapy anymore. I’d ask Daria about it, but she’d probably give me some kind of blanket statement encouragement about him and me. That’s mostly because she doesn’t get it. Daria has never been on the unrequited end of love. Anytime that she’s wanted someone they’ve either wanted her first or wanted her back.
She’s exquisitely beautiful, like for real—thick, dark hair, porcelain skin, and dark eyes. She doesn’t even need makeup. I look at her sometimes and wonder what it would be like to have that face looking back at me in a mirror. Not that I’m insecure. Much. If I didn’t love her dearly, I’d have to hate her. I mean, men fall for her all the time, especially guys that come into the bar. If Reed liked her, Daria and I would have to stop being friends. For real.
I’d miss her though.
Also for real.
8
Daria
I’m almost afraid to let Mack know what information we got on David Tremblay. Partly because he will lose it when I do. I’m even keeled, mostly, and I almost lost it. One of my girls, Alyssa, and I did some digging, she hacked his email. The idiot deleted stuff all the time, but never emptied the trash in his email, so she easily retrieved a ton of stuff. Including email exchanges from a few of the fake profiles he used on the dating apps.
I’m willing to bet if we cross-referenced some of these names with missing persons, we’d find multiple matches. This is the part I hate about working with Mack. When I find out information like this, that points to someone’s guilt, my first instinct is to kill. But I can’t do that when the FBI is on the case. I have to play nice, for Mack’s sake, rather his career’s sake.
As we wade through more of David’s crap, it’s clear he’s being coerced into luring, drugging, and handing off these girls. What we can’t find is what he doesn’t want exposed and why or who is holding it over his head. I wonder if it would make a difference to me either way. It doesn’t change the fact that’s he’s guilty with what he’s done, but maybe it would help me understand his rationale better. I mean, this is a guy that my best friend dated.
Of course, we find nothing to indica
te where the girls are being held. If the email trail is any sign, he’s been doing this for over a year. In the beginning he used his real name, but then started changing it a few dates in. Still uses his real picture though. He must just be the luckiest guy in the world that they haven’t caught him yet. This plan of his is not foolproof by any means.
What stops me though, forcing me to go back downstairs just to keep my fury intact and let Alyssa give me a report later, is when we find that one of his initial targets was Quinn. I look at emails from David where he references Quinn. Where he plans to meet her, what she looks like, the approximate time the drop off will be.
Quinn’s original purpose was as a delivery and not a date. I think back to when they first met, trying to recall as many specifics as possible. But he just didn’t make that much of an impact on me. He’s one of those guys that looks like every other guy.
I remember they didn’t date for a long time, a few months at the most, definitely less than a year. Their very first date ended early with Quinn falling and spraining her ankle. She’s not exactly the epitome of grace. David took her to the emergency room. I believe she brought him to a BBQ some mutual friends were having for their second date, maybe? Or else I’ve got that reversed. This would have been back when Mack and I were still together. She was so excited at the prospect of double dating. What I don’t remember is why they stopped seeing one another.
Shortly after Quinn, David met the woman he’s marrying. From the looks of it, she was never one of his targets. I only know who she is from the wedding announcement that turned up in our search. She’s from a very wealthy family, so it behooves him to marry her, instead of kidnapping her, if he’s going in for the long con. Who knows, maybe he loves her.
