by A K August
He kissed me good-bye in the entry but paused before leaving, searching my eyes. "Don't worry. Everything is going to be okay."
I tried to smile, but don't think I was too convincing.
"I won't let anything hurt you, Katie."
I nodded, and then he was gone. I sat at my desk for ten minutes before giving up and set out to find something I could organize, settling on the shoe closet in the entryway. It wasn't disorganized by any means; all his shoes sat in pairs on the shelves; however, there was no rhyme or reason for the footwear. The dress shoes should be clumped together, the running and workout shoes together, and the walking shoes and beach sandals together. I started rearranging the footwear when I heard a key in the lock and a muffled voice on the other side. I quickly shut off the light to the closet and closed the door. If the killer found me, I'd let him enter the house. He'd assume I was further in and probably overlook the shoe closet, so after he passed, I could sneak out and call Anthony.
When the door opened, I held my breath, releasing it, relieved as Anthony spoke, clearly on a call. "Mark, hey, it's Anthony… I need to see you… Today… Yeah, it's important… I need to find Dwyer... He'll take your call…. Don't hand me that. I know Scott's been here. I got a picture of him on the street…………… Okay. Yeah, I can do..."
Anthony grabbed something while on the call and closed the door, locking it behind him, his voice fading as he walked away from the door.
I slumped to the floor. Scott Dwyer. That was the name of the killer, and Anthony knew it. He knew it, and he didn't tell me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ANTHONY
When Katie showed me that picture, I recognized him instantly. Fucking Scott Dwyer. I knew that bastard was going to be trouble, but Mark said he could handle him. Mark was great at getting what he wanted. He had all the professor's wrapped around his finger at Georgetown and had dreams of taking that to the top. After we graduated, Mark wanted me to join him. Said I had a face people trusted and with my pedigree, Dad was a policy advisor under several administrations, and Mark's tenacity, they'd own DC in ten years.
It didn't appeal to me, selling a product, an agenda. I would be selling myself a little at a time. The FBI was a good fit. I used my law degree and military service background to make the world better; at least I hoped I did and watched as Mark Tennyson conquered the city as CEO of Criterion Partners. A privately held, huge communication firm, Criterion had their fingers in everybody's pot. They did lobbying, public relations, advertising, and Mark had recently told me they were jumping into private equity.
He was so excited. He'd been pushing his board to leverage their clients into investing and spent years lining up the right opportunities and clients to match together. When I'd last seen Mark over a month ago he'd been celebrating, and although he whined about his CFO not being on board, it didn't seem to worry him. The board had finally voted with him to move forward.
Mark agreed to meet and talk about Dwyer at the Riverside Grille. As I got closer to the restaurant, a feeling of dread came over me.
I should never have believed Mark could straighten Dwyer out. Scott Dwyer had been in the platoon I was assigned to when I deployed to Afghanistan on my first tour. He was a weird guy, full of highs and lows. If he wasn't cracking jokes to the guys, he was brooding about something. Outside of sleep and food, between missions, that's all I can recall him doing. He always seemed upset about something, a girl back home, our lieutenant, insurgents. I thought it was odd, but assumed voicing it released stress; we all had coping mechanisms to keep ourselves from going crazy.
Dwyer was a crack shot, and practiced a lot, but turned down sniper school. Said he didn't think he was cut out to be on Overwatch, positioned away from the rest of the unit. After a few critical missions caught the eye of the brass, Dwyer and I were offered DELTA Force training and took it. The training was forty days and started with nineteen guys and one woman. After the first week, ten guys washed out. More dropped the program until it was just four: Caplan, Dwyer, me, and Missy Harlow.
Missy Harlow. Wow. I hadn't thought about her in almost ten years. She was the perfect woman if you liked a fifties pinup girl who swore like a sailor and could bench press over 150 pounds with the ability to rip your throat out before you could pull your gun. Missy had another ace up her sleeve. She had no problem burying the badass she was to put on a show, a show that portrayed her as weak, vulnerable, naïve, and sometimes stupid, which she was far from. Missy had graduated valedictorian of her high school and spoke three languages when I knew her, said she wanted to learn more. She had a full ride to almost any college waiting for her. When I asked why she joined the military and trained explicitly for DELTA, she said her goal was Director of the CIA. She needed the combat training while her body was young enough to withstand the pressures, then she'd balance staying in the military while going to college, hopefully, West Point. Missy and Caplan were assigned to DELTA Squadron G, clandestine operations, while Dwyer and I joined Squadron B, assault, reconnaissance, and surveillance. Last I heard, Eric Caplan was injured on assignment and honorably discharged before going into private security. Missy graduated West Point then took an operative position with the CIA after fulfilling her military service commitments.
Dwyer was with DELTA Squadron B for six months before the incident that got a dozen civilians killed and Dwyer discharged. He was lucky he didn't get court-martialed. A year later, while I was on leave, Dwyer sought me out and apologized, said he wasn't right on the head, had been seeing a shrink to help work it out, and deal with the PTSD. He wanted to make amends, just needed to get back on his feet.
Mark's company had taken off, expanding quickly. He hired a lot of ex-military. Said his veterans were able to open more doors, simply because people had a hard time ignoring them, wanting to thank the veteran for their service, felt they owed the veteran respect and a bit of their time. I was sickened at the concept that Mark was using vets just to further his agenda, reminded me why I didn't take the job he'd offered way back when. But he assured me that wasn't it. He wanted to give back however he could, and believed they were the right people for the job, did excellent work. And he thought he could do the same for Dwyer; give him consistency, a decent paycheck, and sense of belonging that would help him.
Even though the mission was confidential, I told Mark what I could about Dwyer's actions, how he reacted to his superior officer when questioned about the missing money and supplies, how he picked a fight with a colleague while we were en route on a mission. This distraction caused unrest with the team. He seemed to own up to his mistakes, but there were deeper, darker issues that may take years to work through. I didn't want to blindside Mark.
Mark said he could handle it, wasn't worried, could read people. He would keep a close eye on Dwyer; besides, it wasn't like Mark had a lot of physical assets Dwyer would be tempted by, even if he was looking for a quick score. Mark would keep his access low and help the guy atone.
Where had Mark gone wrong? What was Dwyer doing? How was he mixed up in this? Questions swirled as I exited the Whitehurst Freeway, pulled into a parking garage under the restaurant, and found Mark sitting on the patio.
"Where's Dwyer, Mark?"
Mark finished his email and set the phone aside. "I don't know, Tony."
"What do you have him working on?"
Mark hesitated and his jaw tightened before taking a sip of his drink. It was only a moment, barely recognizable, what they call a micro expression. A reaction most people can't control; it could represent happiness, sadness, desire, anger. In this case, it was telling. Mark didn't like the question, which means he would most likely lie to me when he answered.
"Scott isn't working for Criterion. Hasn't been for over a year."
I leaned back in my chair to watch Mark. He was a master manipulator. Couldn't build a multimillion-dollar company in DC doing PR and lobbying work without it. You had to be able to sell your story to whoever sat down across from you. Ever
ything in his answer seemed truthful. If he hadn't paused before the drink, I might be inclined to believe him. I took a chance. "He's still on your payroll, Mark. Your company cut him a check last week. It was cashed." I calculated the bluff as 70/30. A 30% chance Mark would call me on it. But he'd have to make several assumptions; that I knew he lied, that I had a warrant for Criterion records and that I that believed he was clean and not up to his eyeballs in whatever Dwyer was doing. I could be wrong, Mark could be telling me the truth, I wasn't an expert in reading micro-expressions, but he thought I was a straight arrow, there's no way I'd be emotionally involved with a witness or out on a limb without the full support of the FBI.
Before seeing Mark, I assumed Dwyer was off the reservation, taking side contracts to kill, having got a taste for that in Afghanistan, or maybe worse, and that Mark was clueless. But then Mark lied. He'd have no reason to try and wipe his hands of Dwyer unless he was covering for him. So he knew, at least some of what Dwyer was up to, enough that he needed to distance himself as only a shrewd businessman would.
Mark was smart, I knew that back in college, but he weighed his options quickly, and without so much as a twitch, he walked back the lie with a much bigger one. "Sorry, Anthony. You're right, he's still on payroll, but he's dropped off the grid. I should have called you when security flagged it."
"What do you mean dropped off the grid? Not coming into work? Wouldn't you stop paying him?" I had to see how far Mark would string this along. Sometimes the lie was more telling than the truth.
"He went on vacation about a month ago. Two weeks, long overdue. Said he was going to the Caribbean or Bahamas, I don't remember. Someplace with white sands and umbrella drinks. He wanted to lay on the beach and watch bikini-clad women all day, maybe get lucky."
Watching women was in line with the Scott Dwyer I remembered; the rest was bullshit. Dwyer hadn't been without access to a gun in all the time I knew him. After the service, his favorite thing was going to the range. He had a rifle, was waiting on the gun permit to get a handgun. That was years ago; I expected Dwyer had collected a few more by now. No way would he travel somewhere that he couldn't take his weapon or at least have access to one. I'd more easily believe he went on a survivalist holiday adventure, camping, and backpacking, shooting your dinner, living off the land.
"He didn't return after the two weeks were up."
"When was this?"
Mark picked up his phone, and I choked back a smile; he was selling this hard.
"Security sent me the dates. He was due back in the office on the twenty-first."
That was almost three weeks ago. I needed to play the concerned friend of Mark's. Mark was throwing Dwyer under the bus, so any loyalty I exude to Dwyer would put a wall up between Mark and I. If this involved Mark, he'd want to present as helpful and search out what I knew while steering me away from him and Criterion. "Did you think something happened? Did you call him or his emergency contact?"
"Yes, we called but got no answer. What did Scott do?"
Here we go. Mark was fishing, seeing what I knew. "Right now, we just want to question him. He was in the vicinity of a crime, and with his training probably saw something that could help. With his past, I hope he's not involved deeper, but that's all I can say."
I paused and kept Mark's eye as he took in the information and nodded. He opened his mouth, probably to ask another question, but I cut him off.
"Okay, walk me through everything you know, starting with the morning Dwyer didn't come into work after his holiday. When did you notice he hadn't shown up?"
Mark had the details I asked for, said he had security compile it for him since he wasn't Scott's direct supervisor. Either he was telling the truth, or he'd anticipated how this conversation would go and had a plausible backstory crafted. I went with the latter option, assuming he probably had a few variations ready, depending on what I asked.
They clocked Dwyer as missing the afternoon of the twenty-first when he didn't show for a team meeting. He didn't answer any calls, and no one had seen or talked to him since he'd gone on holiday. When he didn't show the second day, they called his emergency contact, some aunt he had in Colorado. The aunt hadn't heard from Dwyer in months. They had someone knock on his apartment door on the third day, no answer. They checked the lot around his building but didn't see his car.
By the fourth day, they reassigned his duties.
When I asked, Mark was ready with contact information for the aunt in Colorado as well as Dwyer's address and make, model and license for his car, reading it off his phone.
"So by the end of the first week, Dwyer's workload was shifted, and the team moved forward." I let the statement linger, almost like it was a question, and Mark fell for the ploy.
"Yeah, we have to keep the ship going. You know how it goes, things move quickly in DC."
"But you didn't suspend his payroll? What about the police? Did you report him as a missing person?"
Mark shook his head, looking contrite. "Looking back, we should have done both those things. I just assumed Scott would show up with some explanation, apologize for the disappearing act, and want to get back to work. It would have been a lot of work to terminate him then bring him back."
"Has he done this before? Disappeared then shown up with a good story?"
Mark realized his mistake, and I caught another micro expression when his eyes darted quickly up and to the right, trying to pull a plausible reply out of his ass.
"About a year ago he missed two days of work without a word. Said he met a beautiful lady and followed her to Vegas for the weekend. They got drunk and stayed drunk for three days before he surfaced. Made sure he was sober before coming into work. Apologized and said he'd work harder to make up for leaving everyone in the lurch."'
"When was this?"
"I don't remember exactly, I'd have to pull his file—but I can call you with the dates."
Yeah, more likely, he'll pull the file to add in the note. "Sure, that would be great."
"So after the second week, when Dwyer hadn't surfaced, why didn't you report him missing?" I needed to get Mark's story on the record so it would be harder to change later.
"Honestly? I feel bad, but it slipped my mind. I didn't see Scott every day, hell most weeks I didn't see him at all. His supervisor had his tasks covered, so it wasn't a topic we kept raising, like 'has anyone heard from Scott?' I was busy and forgot about it until you called then I realized how much time had passed."
I told Mark he needed to file a report and give all this information to the police so they could open a file. The FBI would see what we could find as well, but our focus was different. We couldn't take on a missing person case unless it crossed state lines or linked to other cases.
I sat in my car for ten minutes after I met with Mark, going over everything and trying to figure my next steps. I couldn't search for Dwyer through FBI channels. Hopefully, Mark would file the missing persons with DC police, looking at it as an opportunity to strengthen his story, better late than never scenario. Once he did, I could reach out and ask my contact in Metro to keep me informed, unofficially.
In the meantime, I needed help outside the FBI. I scrolled through my contacts sent a text message.
Me: Can you meet Wahoo?
Topher: Buy us a beer. 8 pm.
It was four o'clock now. I needed to leave shortly if I was going to make the meeting. I sent myself an email, letting Katie know I was following up a lead and would be home late. I thought about swinging by the house, but if I delayed, I'd get caught up in rush hour, and Topher did not like to be kept waiting. I hoped Katie would check the email, the thought of worrying her ate at me, but I couldn't call her without risking someone connecting the dots.
I navigated to the Rock Creek Parkway, merged on to Hwy 66, and headed south. I was excited and scared to see my old Sergeant Major and could hear him now, shaking his head…. Wahoo, Wahoo, Wahoo. Didn't I teach you nothin'?"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
> KATIE
I went through the five stages of grief in about a minute before circling back around to anger. First, I couldn't believe what I heard. Why wouldn't Anthony tell me he recognized the killer? Could he be involved somehow? That idea snowballed in my head. How deep was he in? Had he been from the start? Was he trying to keep me away? I fell for his crap, and he was just using me, distracting me. I started pacing in my anger. Was he really protecting Dwyer? Now he wanted to get in touch with Dwyer, what—to warn him?
I had to be rational, see it from Anthony's side. "If I was Anthony and I knew Dwyer and wanted to protect him, yet I was also assigned to protect me, I had to be conflicted, right? I would be looking for a way to keep my buddy from getting caught, but find a way for Dwyer not to want to kill me." It was all going well until Dwyer's face was caught on camera.
The thought depressed me as I looked around the living room, dining room, kitchen. I got comfortable here. I helped pick out the paint colors, combed through website pages of furniture with Anthony to find the ideal sofa in a soft burnt caramel that hugged you perfectly when two people snuggled on the chaise end to watch TV. It was a sham, this life. The idea I'd let myself warm up to, this relationship could be real outside of the bubble of protection detail.
I shook off the loss, wiped the tears that trickled down my face, and assessed my new reality. I was on my own. I thought about calling Desk Boy, Anthony's boss at the FBI, but I believed Anthony when he told me there was a leak, I just didn't know Anthony was the leak. If I called Desk Boy, he'd not believe me, or try to get Anthony arrested; either way, that would tip my hand.
I went to my desk and googled Scott Dwyer, thirteen million results. I add Anthony Reece to the search, nothing.
Think, Katie. Think.
Okay, thinking... I'm good at research but not the best. Annie is the best. And she's not as emotionally vested. She'll have the most logical way through. But did I want to get her involved? It could put her at risk too.
