No Good Options

by Alex Ander

  Randall turned to his port side, toward Harker. “You said the victim’s time of death was around 10:30 on the night of the seventh, right?”

  The detective nodded.

  Randall pivoted back and pointed at the monitor. “That matches with the time the cameras went out.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “We’re saying,” Devlin interjected, “that whoever did this could have disabled the cameras while they slipped out of the building...with my sister.”

  Harker frowned. “Kind of high-tech, isn’t it...for thugs? I mean if you’re going to knock out surveillance, then why not just smash the cameras?”

  “Because,” Randall leveled a finger at the screen, “judging from the viewing angle, whoever did that would have been captured on video first.”

  Harker nodded. “And we’d have a suspect to go after.”

  “Exactly. My guess is they used some sort of device to interfere with the signals.” Randall tapped Spalding on the shoulder. “Are the cameras in the back-stairwell wireless?”

  “They are.”

  “What about the ones in the lobby and the elevator?”

  “The elevator is wireless, but the lobby is,” Spalding pointed toward a grouping of wires coming through the wall in a corner, “hardwired.”

  Randall nodded. “That would explain why only the elevator and the back stairs showed those blackouts.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Harker held up a hand. “Based on the footage from the lobby, my people have accounted for every individual who entered the apartment from before noon on the seventh through the early morning hours of the eighth. Everyone coming and going either lived here or had legitimate business here.”

  Randall eyed Devlin.

  She shook her head at him, “I don’t know,” before nudging Spalding and rolling a finger. “Play it again...from the start. There must be something we’re missing. With the back door always locked, whoever took Faith would’ve had to have accessed the building via the front doors.”

  *******

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER...

  Randall dropped a heavy hand onto Spalding’s shoulder. “Stop.”

  The assistant manager complied with the directive.

  “Back it up a few seconds.”

  The recording wound backwards.

  “Stop it there. Hit ‘play’ and get ready to pause it.”

  The recording played out.

  “Freeze it!”

  Leaning closer to the monitor, Harker, Randall, and Devlin pressed in on Spalding.

  Harker: “What am I looking at? I don’t see anything.”

  Randall tapped the glass. “Right there. See that guy in the dark suit and sunglasses...through the lobby’s window?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch carefully. Run it, Mr. Spalding.”

  The video started up again, showing a throng of young people coming in through the door while playfully pushing and shoving one another.

  Randall gestured. “There. The guy in the suit ducks down behind those teens, slips behind that big potted plant, and disappears.”

  Spalding wagged his finger. “Now that I see this...I remember there’s a blind spot that runs along that wall. The camera’s viewing angle isn’t wide enough to capture the whole lobby. Whoever set this system up had to make some sacrifices when it came to coverage.”

  “And, if those kids hadn’t all come in at the same time,” Harker shook his head, “we’d have noticed this guy.” A beat. “But an image through the windows isn’t much to go on.”

  “But it’s something.” Devlin pointed at the monitor while facing Spalding. “Can you get me a copy of this footage?”

  “Sure thing. I might even be able to print you off some stills if you’d like.”

  “As many as you can...thank you.” She regarded her partner and shed a partial grin. “Good eye.”

  “That’s why you pay me the big bucks, Jessica...to pick up on the things most people miss.” Frowning, “Hey,” he stood taller and plopped hands onto his hips a moment later, “what is my salary, anyway? We haven’t discussed that, yet.”

  *******

  8:28 P.M.

  Their bellies on Virginia time, Devlin and Randall had not eaten anything in several hours. Periodically rubbing their foreheads, the two agents had spent an hour squinting at the same stretch of video and scowling at a still image of the mystery man in black.

  Noticing their struggle to focus, Harker had inquired about the last time they had had anything to eat or drink. When Devlin and Randall had exchanged puzzled glances, the detective then placed a takeout order with a nearby restaurant specializing in authentic Mexican cuisine.

  Twenty minutes later, two soft drinks, two burritos, four tacos, and a container of chips and salsa had been delivered to the apartment building. Fifteen minutes after that, the burritos had been eaten, and Randall was on the last of his tacos.

  Randall spied Devlin while shaking a cardboard vessel; the few broken chips that remained inside slid around. “You want these?”

  She glimpsed the remnants and shook her head.

  He went to work on them.

  “There’s something familiar about this guy, but,” she flipped the photo of the man from the surveillance video onto the table, “I just can’t put my finger on what it is.” Sitting in the apartment lobby, in a straight-back chair with a padded seat, she hung her head over the back of the chair and covered her eyes and forehead with both hands before dragging them down her face and sighing.

  Randall popped the last chip into his mouth and picked up the picture. “I know what you mean. Something about him is gnawing at me, too.” After gathering the empty containers, wrappers, and paper bags, he stuffed everything into a nearby trash receptacle and sat in the cushioned chair across from her.

  Slouching, arms folded over her stomach, Devlin gawked at the floor.

  For the next minute, he regarded his lost-in-thought partner. Thirty feet behind him, he heard Harker talking on the phone with someone from his precinct.

  Devlin stroked her chin, made a face, and massaged her temple.

  “From what you’ve told me about her, she’s a fighter, Jessica. She’ll hang in there until we get to her. You have to hang in there, too.”

  Devlin stared at him for a couple moments and nodded. “I know she is. I was just thinking about the last time we saw each other.” She chuckled. “Faith was playing with Cassie...some made-up game with foam dart guns that she had bought for Cassie.” Devlin grinned. “Cassie was having a ball shooting Faith in the butt. Faith would squeal each time a dart hit her, and Cassie would giggle her head off.”

  Imagining the scene playing out in his mind, Randall smiled.

  “I wasn’t too pleased she had gotten my little girl dart guns in the first place, but...what can you do? Pick your battles, right?”

  Randall frowned. “What’s wrong with dart guns?”

  “I don’t know.” A few seconds passed. “My father got Faith and me into real guns when we were young and,” Devlin shrugged, “I guess I just didn’t want to start Cassie on that this early in her life. I mean her father was a cop. Her mother’s a deputy mar—a marshal.”

  Randall grinned at the slip-up.

  “Her aunt is a detective. And her stepfather is FBI.”

  “Worried she’s headed in the same direction?”

  “It’s like,” Devlin hunched her shoulders, “it’s like she’s destined for law enforcement.” Devlin shook her head. “I guess I saw something different for her.”

  “Something different? Or something safer?”

  She half squinted at him. “Are you using your CIA tradecraft to psychoanalyze me again?”

  Harker: “Okay. Keep me posted.”

  Randall crossed his legs at the knee and snickered. “No. Everyone knows it’s human nature for parents to want to keep their kids close, safe. And I know,” he poked a finger at her, “you’re a damn good mother, Jessica.”

  Hark
er ended his call and strolled up to the out-of-town agents.

  “Thanks.” Devlin leaned forward, picked up the image of the man in the black suit, and exhaled through flared nostrils. “Let’s just hope I’m a damn good sister, too...and can save Faith.”

  Harker stowed his phone. “I have my people working on trying to identify,” he gestured at the photo Devlin held, “our man there. Unsure on how long that will take, though.” He gave each person a quick look. “Did we come up with anything new while I was away?”

  “Only that,” Randall picked up his beverage, “someone here has a vendetta against dart guns.” He sucked on the straw while curling up one corner of his mouth.

  She rolled her eyes at her partner.

  Harker snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. I don’t think I told you, but...I have Faith’s gun.”

  Devlin gaped at him. “I guess I just assumed the people who took her would’ve taken that as well.”

  “Nope. We found it in that small table just inside the front door. We also found two full mags in pouches...still attached to her pants. I had to log everything as evidence, but,” he wagged his finger at the marshal, “I know how much that pistol meant to your sister. And I didn’t want to see it banged up in storage—or worse. So I’ve taken personal custody of it. It’s in my gun safe at home.”

  “Thank you, Detective.” Devlin envisioned Faith’s Colt 1911, a 45 ACP identical to Devlin’s forty-five with one distinction. After the girls’ mother had died, Devlin’s father had bought three guns. He then had the eventual owner’s name engraved on the slide of each weapon before storing the guns for when his daughters turned twenty-one. The third matching Colt was used on family trips to the shooting range. “You’re right. That gun means a lot to her. I appreciate you looking after it.”

  “I’m happy to do it.” He paused. “Until I hear back from my people, we’re out of leads, so how about I set you two up with hotel rooms?”

  “How did you find my sister’s Colt...in what condition I mean?”

  “It was still in its holster and unfired.”

  “And her phone was on the floor two feet away?”

  Harker nodded.

  Sitting on the edge of her chair, elbows on knees, her forehead wrinkled, Devlin tapped the photo of the man in the black suit while staring at nothing specific off to her right.

  Randall rocked toward her in his seat. “I see the wheels spinning. What is it?”

  “I think I may have,” she stood and headed for the elevator, “missed something.”

  He rose to his feet. “Where are you going?”

  “To go through Faith’s apartment one more time.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 7

  Spies and Secret Agents

  8:41 P.M.

  Having scurried around the apartment for the last five minutes inspecting objects and places, Devlin stopped just inside her sister’s bedroom, dropped hands onto hips, and gave the area the once-over.

  Harker trailing him, Randall strolled up on her six and mimicked her stance. “Why are you searching all these random spots, Jessica?”

  “Downstairs,” she pivoted to face him, “I was thinking. Faith’s gun and phone were found near the door, near the body.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And we’re fairly sure she had sex with the guy and then showered. Well, what if while she was in the bathroom, her lover was kill—” adding an image to the word ‘lover,’ Devlin made a face, “what if the guy was killed while she was showering? She comes out of the bathroom, sees what’s going on, realizes she’s cut off from her gun and phone, and locks herself in the bedroom.”

  Randall nodded. “That would at least buy her some time to figure out what to do next...which was,” he extended a flat hand toward the other side of the room, “to grab a makeshift weapon and prepare to defend herself. We’ve been over this.”

  “I know, but,” Devlin opened dresser drawers and felt around under each drawer, “she would also want the perpetrators to face justice for their crime. She would want to leave a note telling someone who they were.”

  Harker: “We’ve been over this place a dozen times. I think we would have found something by now.”

  “Not if you were looking in,” retrieving a Pelican 1970 flashlight, “the wrong places,” Devlin shined the beam at the gap behind the wall mirror above the dresser while peeking at the narrow vertical line.

  “So let me get this straight.” Randall rubbed his forehead. “In a life and death situation, your sister’s worried about making sure her attackers go to jail?”

  Devlin suspended her search to face him. “You don’t know her. I do. We grew up together. And let me tell you. Faith’s big on justice...fairness.” She wagged the Pelican at him. “That story I told you about me getting my Colt first, before her?”

  He nodded.

  “She was pissed at our dad—and me—because it wasn’t fair that she didn’t get one, too. Never mind that she wasn’t old enough to own a handgun.” Devlin ambled to a far corner, her eyes scanning her surroundings. “In her mind, everything always had to be even between us. If I got a cookie, then she had to have a cookie...and that cookie had damn well better be the same size, too.”

  His mind building on the Faith Mahoney persona he had been forming, Randall sniggered. “Something tells me your dad had his hands full with you girls, didn’t he?”

  Devlin came back to the foot of the bed. “This should answer that question for you. One time we begged dad for a can of pop...it was right before bedtime. He told us ‘no,’ of course. But we sweet-talked him into letting us split a can.”

  Randall envisioned a smiling seven-year-old Jessica Devlin, her hair in pigtails, her hands clasped in front of her chest, batting her eyes, and pleading with her father for a treat. “And I’ll bet you were quite the sweet-talker when you were a kid.”

  “A kid, a teen,” she lifted a shoulder, “an adult.”

  He huffed and tapped his temple with a forefinger. “I’ll remember that the next time you’re asking something of me.”

  She smiled. “Anyway, after dad poured our glasses, Faith got out a ruler and measured the height of the liquid in each glass...to make sure it was equal in both.”

  He snickered while shaking his head at the floor. “Well, that just makes me want to meet your sister even more now.”

  “Yeah,” Harker grinned, “I can’t wait to bring up that story in my next conversation with her.”

  Glancing down, Devlin cocked her head and took a knee a second later.

  Randall followed her gaze and noticed a half circle of matted carpeting peeking out from under the bedpost.

  She smiled, Of course, before curling fingers under the bed frame, lifting, and feeling around under the post.

  He squatted and relieved her of the weight.

  “Thanks.” She poked her finger into a recessed area under the post on the right and came up empty. Sliding left, and going to both knees, she inspected the left post, rotated her head toward her partner, and beamed at him.

  He returned the gesture. “Pay dirt?”

  She stood while flattening a balled-up piece of paper.

  He lowered the bed to the floor and joined her, standing on her port side.

  Harker approached the agents. “What did you find?”

  Staring at five lines crisscrossing each other to form a crooked star—a curved line at the twelve o’clock position, the word ‘MARS’ scribbled at the six o’clock position—Randall screwed up his face. “Beats the heck out of me.” Pivoting his torso toward his partner, his right pectoral muscle grazing her left shoulder, he eyed the side of Devlin’s face. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  After a few more seconds of gaping at the note, “Sadly,” she let out a long sigh, “it doesn’t.”

  The detective held out his hand. “Let me see that.”

  She took out her mobile and snapped a photo of the wrinkled
white fragment before relinquishing it.

  “It’s Detective Mahoney’s chicken scratch, all right. She has the worst handwriting in the department. I’ll,” turning to leave the room, he retrieved his phone, “take a picture of this and get it over to our investigators.”

  After working her phone for a few seconds, Devlin faced her fellow agent. “I just sent Deputy Director Thorn—and you—a copy of that pic. I also requested she have some of our tech agents analyze it...see what they can come up with.”

  Randall nodded. “So,” he scratched his chin, “how did you know where your sister would leave a clue?”

  Devlin sat on the end of the bed. “When we were kids, we watched this documentary on spies and secret agents. We were especially intrigued at how they communicated with their contacts, specifically dead drops. So we...”

  Randall sat down on her three o’clock.

  “...came up with all these places around the house where we would leave each other notes. We even had a special signal for when a note was waiting...like,” she hesitated, “like placing a certain magnet in a certain spot on the refrigerator.”

  He grinned.

  She noticed. “Like I said, we were kids. Kids do crazy stuff. And it’s not like we were hiding cigarettes or nudie magazines between the mattresses.”

  His face turned stoic. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She regarded him for a moment. “With a poker face like that, how in the world did you ever make it through CIA training?”

  He jerked his head to the right. “I cheated off the guy next to me.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that wasn’t the case. Anyway, the one hiding place Faith and I loved the best was,” she bobbed her head downward, “under the bedpost. We were pretty proud of ourselves for coming up with that spot.”

  “I’ll bet.” He gawked at the image on her cell, at the clue left by the missing woman.

  After a full minute of studying the digital photo, she shook her head. “What are you trying to tell us, Faith?”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .