by Jette Harris
He gave Byron his most charming smile, but it disappeared when he realized the young man was still gazing forlornly at the map. Rhodes took the opportunity to glance over the files Byron had pulled from his drawer: PHOENIX, SFO—2002, PHOENIX, DTW—1997.
Smugness washed over him. (He’s about to learn all my dirty little secrets.)
“Hey…” Rhodes batted Byron’s arm with the back of his hand. His bicep was thick and hard, the way he liked it. “Let me know if you want a ride-along or anything. We can go check out those houses together.”
He peeled off a sheet from Byron’s stack of Post-its and scribbled the number for his new burn phone. Pausing, he wracked his brain to remember the first name he chose, then scribbled DEMETRIUS THRACE underneath. He stood tall, shoulders back, hips cocked, as he handed it to him.
“Yeah, man, thanks.” Byron accepted the Post-it. This time when Rhodes smiled at him, he paid attention.
50
Byron took his Post-it and the folders and hurried back out the door. He paused outside to speak to someone, piquing Rhodes’s curiosity by sliding the folders behind his back. Byron nodded inside, said his goodbyes, and descended the front steps.
Lauri Shatterthwaith pushed the door open. Rhodes regretted not having anything in his hands anymore.
Lauri Shatterthwaith was an Amazonian queen. If Rhodes had not made his decision so quickly—or if he did not have a firm rule against the parents of small children—he would have chosen Lauri rather than Monica. Even now, as she entered the precinct with drawn face and red nose, she looked like she could give him a run for his money.
And he had lots of money.
Rhodes stood and pulled on his hat as Lauri went to the front desk and said something in a low voice. The officer there turned and looked at the glass-walled office and nodded.
“Mrs. Shatterthwaith,” Rhodes said, tapping the bill of his hat.
She and the officer focused on him. He nodded to the officer like they knew one another, and the officer said, “Go on back.”
Rhodes’s heart hammered as he stepped into Lauri’s path. He half-expected her to punch him in the throat. “I was sorry to hear about your eldest. How are the children holding up?”
Lauri paused, gazing distractedly toward the federal agents beyond the glass wall. “As well as can be considered. Thank you.”
“That’s a relief to hear. Would you like some coffee?” He drew her attention with a sweep of his arm toward the coffee station. She glanced over at it, then looked him in the eye for the first time. His heart almost stopped. This was taking fucking around a bit too far.
“No, thank you.”
“Good thinkin’; It’s terrible stuff.”
Her mouth twitched and her shoulders lurched with a chuckle. Rhodes blinked, impressed with himself; He had made her laugh. Her eyes brightened a bit as her focus returned. She turned to him and put on her mom voice: “I’m actually here to see Agent Steyer. Could you please let them know I’m here?”
Rhodes’s mouth went dry and his heart lodged in his throat. “Of course,” he squeezed out. His body felt numb as he turned toward the office.
****
A sharp wrap on the door made both agents turn away from the map. A deputy opened it and leaned in. He licked his lips nervously before speaking.
“Uh… Mrs. Shatterthwaith is here to speak with y’all.” A few feet behind him, Lauri Shatterthwaith waited, wringing her hands.
“I’ll leave y’all to it.” Young exited the office and gave Lauri’s hand a squeeze as she passed by.
Both agents scanned their desks for sensitive material, anything that might upset her. Remington stuffed some photographs into a manila envelope, and Steyer shoveled his entire collection of Post-its into a drawer. The deputy waited in the doorway, watching with interest.
“Thank you,” Steyer said, glancing up at him. “That will be all, Deputy…”
“Thrace.” He put a finger to the bill of his hat and nodded before ducking out.
Steyer and Remington stood to greet Lauri as she entered. When Steyer shook her hand, he held it as he asked, “How are you holding up? How is your family?”
“N-not well,” she admitted. “They want their sister back.”
“We’re working on that.” Steyer led her to a seat and sat next to her.
“I have some questions,” she said. “Well, a question…”
“Of course. Ask us anything. If we can answer it, we will.”
Lauri placed her purse under her seat, rearranging its position at her feet a few times. She shifted repeatedly with nervous energy. Instead of going back to his seat—although he wanted to—Remington leaned on the edge of his desk.
“I… um…” Lauri faltered. “Is it possible… at all… Monica isn’t actually involved in this case?” The agents exchanged a glance. In their minds, this was beyond possibility. Lauri could see that in their faces. “Is it possible she just… just ran away?”
“Ran away?” Steyer played with the possibility, but dismissed it again. “What led you to consider this might be the case?”
“Some of her things are missing.” Lauri appeared palpably relieved he had asked. “Like her shampoo.”
“Her shampoo?” Remington found it difficult to find this interesting.
“Yes, her shampoo,” Lauri repeated. “I went into her room this morning, and I noticed it was missing.”
“Mrs. Shatterthwaith, are you sure one of her siblings didn’t borrow it?” Steyer asked. “Her sister, perhaps?”
Lauri shook her head. Steyer could see their skepticism was making her withdraw. “No, they—uh—they can all use different shampoo. Only Monica and I use coconut oil, rather than shampoo. And I didn’t borrow it.”
Steyer landed on an explanation. “Mrs. Shatterthwaith, had anyone visited your house lately, since Monica went missing?”
Lauri shook her head. “No, only… only police.”
“Police,” he repeated.
Remington had cocked his head like a confused dog, drawing Steyer’s attention. Police? he mouthed.
“Police,” Steyer repeated again, realizing what his partner was wondering. “When was this? How recently?”
“Oh, it…” She thought for a moment. “It had to have been some time over the past few days. But the kids, they said… they…” She trailed off, realizing where Steyer’s questions were leading.
“How many?”
“One, I think.” She shook her head, dismissing the possibility. When she spoke again, she spoke quickly in an attempt to reassure herself. “They said an officer came by the house to check a few things. Sean was out back, and they didn’t want to bother him.”
She refused to look at Steyer. When she glanced at him, he shook his head.
“Police are no longer conducting this investigation,” he told her in a low voice. “Officers should not be coming to your house unless called. Did anyone call the police to your house?”
“No,” she replied in a small voice. “So, you’re saying… that man… the one who has my daughter… who… who rapes and murders people… was at my house? Alone? With my children?” Her voice cracked.
“I am not saying that,” Steyer said. “But it is a possibility.”
All of Lauri’s strength, the mask she donned to reassure her children, melted with a sob. Continuing to keep his mouth shut, Remington offered her a box of tissues. She took a handful and buried her face in them.
“Are any of your other children missing?” Steyer asked in earnest.
“No,” she sobbed, shaking her head.
“Are they hurt?”
“No!” Dropping her hand, she glared through her tears, demanding he make his point.
“Bear with me,” Steyer said, “but this could be a good thing.”
“What?”
“First, let me make this clear: I don’t believe your children are in any danger. The Phoenix has no history of harming children, although he’s had ample opportunity.”
Lauri glared at him.
“Furthermore,” he continued, “if he went to the house specifically to get toiletries, Monica’s ‘special’ shampoo, this means your daughter is alive, and—to some extent—cared for.”
Lauri let this sink in, then took a deep breath.
“It also means,” Remington added, “your children can tell us what he looks like.”
Lauri turned to stare at the younger agent. When she turned back to Steyer, he was smiling.
“It is very possible,” he said, “and it might be more than what we have now.”
Although she was still crying when Steyer and Remington opened the door to escort her out, Lauri Shatterthwaith had a strange smile on her face. Remington led her through the bustle of the station as Steyer hung back to make sure the door was secured. He juggled his phone from one ear to the other as he pulled his keys from his pocket.
“This is Special Agent Steyer,” he said into the phone. “I need a sketch artist.”
He locked the door and turned to leave. He was too distracted by his excitement to notice Deputy Thrace, leaning on a desk nearby, put his hand to his hat in farewell.
51
Remington experienced a vague sense of déjà vu standing in the Shatterthwaiths’ living room. Sterling, Xavier, and David were once again arranged on the couch in order of height. Now they were in front of him again, he understood what Lauri meant about the different hair treatments: The younger children had straight, copper-colored hair as opposed to Lauri’s and Monica’s thick, curly hair.
The composite artist would be arriving from the DeKalb FBI office soon. As they waited, Steyer jogged the children’s memory by asking them questions, trying to be funny. Relieved he didn’t have to interact with the children again, Remington leaned against the mantle on the opposite side of the room, scribbling notes.
“He was big,” Xavier said.
“Big? Fat?” Steyer puffed out his cheeks and held out his arms.
“No, tall,” Xavier said flatly. He didn’t seem amused by these antics, but David giggled, and Sterling bit her lip—most likely at how stupid the old man seemed.
“Was he as tall as I am?” Steyer stood straight and rolled his shoulders back. He didn’t seem so old now, but like the soldier he had once been.
Sterling’s smile disappeared. She shook her head. “No, taller.”
Steyer raised his brow with mild surprise. He swept his hand to present Remington to them. “As tall as him?”
Remington put his foot down and stood tall. He towered about three inches over Steyer. Sterling and Xavier made faces as they compared the men mentally. Eventually, they both nodded.
David looked from his siblings to Remington and bit his lip. “Taller,” he said in a small voice, afraid to dissent.
Steyer’s eyebrows rose higher. “What was he wearing?”
“A police uniform,” Sterling said, her tone smacking of Duh. Lauri shot her a look, but it was most likely Steyer’s unamused, measured stare that put her attitude in check.
“He said he wasn’t a cop,” David said quietly.
“No, he didn’t,” Xavier snapped.
“Uh-huh, before you ran over! I asked him, ‘Are you a cop?’ and he said, ‘No, I’m just wearing the… the suit.’”
Steyer stared at David, stunned. Remington snorted and covered it with a cough. They exchanged a glance. If they hadn’t verified it was the Phoenix, that comment alone would have cemented their suspicion.
“What color was the uniform?” Steyer continued.
“Brown,” they all agreed.
Steyer and Remington exchanged another glance. The Phoenix had kept Beaumont’s uniform.
“Was he wearing a duty belt? With a radio and gun?”
“Yes,” David said, louder this time.
“Did he ever touch his gun?”
“No…”
“We asked him to show it to us, but he said no,” Xavier said.
Steyer smoothed his tie. “What color was he? What race?”
“White.”
“Did he have a tan?”
“No,” David said.
“Yes, he did!” Sterling replied. “He had a dark tan, almost like an Indian.” She nodded at Remington. “Kinda like him.”
Remington’s face went flat at yet another comparison, but Steyer’s brows went up again. They had reports the Phoenix was dark-haired and dark-eyed, but never anything other than Caucasian.
“What color was his hair?”
“Brown.” Xavier looked at the others for consensus, and they nodded.
“What color were his eyes?”
“He was wearing sunglasses,” Sterling said.
“Like mirrors,” David added, holding his fingers over his eyes, indicating large lenses.
Steyer pulled a pair of tortoiseshell aviators from his inside pocket. “Like these?” He pulled them on and shot them a Fonz-like smile.
Xavier nodded. “But black.”
“With wire frames.” Sterling traced the shape of frames in the air with a finger.
The youngest Shatterthwaith, Devin, came up behind his mother and clung to her legs, peering around to see what was going on in his living room. Recognizing Remington, his face lit up, and he ran to hug the agent’s legs. Remington had to spread his arms and balance himself on the wall to keep from toppling over on the child.
Devin released him and ran to do the same to Steyer. Sterling’s eyes grew as large as saucers, but Steyer smiled down at the toddler. He put an affectionate hand on the boy’s head. Devin gave him a huge grin.
“He did that too,” David whispered.
“Who did what?” Steyer’s smile faded.
David nodded down at his innocent little brother. Lauri buried her face in her hands. Oblivious, Devin ran to the couch and pulled himself up to sit in his spot at the end.
“How did the officer respond to that?” Steyer asked.
“Just like that,” Sterling said, nodding at him.
Xavier took a deep breath. “He put his hand on his head and gave him a big smile.” He paused, then added, “He smiled, but he looked… looked almost…” He lips curled as he doubted his words.
“Sad,” Sterling helped. “He was smiling real big, but he looked sad.”
52
The incident with Lauri and the agents loosened Rhodes's courage. When they exited the office, the old, familiar thrill rose back up in his chest and travelled down into his belly. He grew jittery—too jittery to drive—filled a second cup of nasty coffee, and leaned back on Byron’s desk, one leg braced against the side.
“I’m here to meet Agent Steyer.”
Rhodes looked around and realized he was the only person there. The officer behind the front desk had stepped away. The man speaking stood on the opposite side of the partition. He was tall, wearing thick glasses, a short-sleeved button-up, and khakis. The card hanging from his shirt pocket read DOVALE, MICHAEL above a humiliating photo. Under one arm, he carried a collapsible easel.
“They’re on site,” Rhodes said. “I think they were expecting you to meet them there.” He tossed his second coffee cup into the trash can and crossed into the lobby.
“I guess they assume everyone has a fancy GPS nowadays,” Dovale said.
“I’m ’bout to pass by there.” Rhodes lit up his most charming smile. “You can ride with me.”
Dovale didn’t seem put-off by Thrace’s lack of a patrol vehicle. In the short distance between the police station and Rhodes’s Jeep, he complained about the heat and the bugs. He asked to stop for coffee, and complained about how Starbucks over-roasts their beans. After the slag at the station, Rhodes was willing to argue for any amount of improvement. He sipped his coffee, grateful to have something to do with his mouth, although he wished that something had to do with Byron or Remington.
Rhodes took the long way, waiting for the road to clear of other cars. He stopped hearing Dovale’s words, and instead focused on the sound of his voice. Rho
des could hear a familiar rounding in some of Dovale’s words.
“And anyone who sells Sumatra and claims—”
“Where’re you from, originally? Utah?”
Dovale switched gears with a blink. “Close: Wyoming… Laramie.”
“I’m a Colorado boy myself. Not far from you.”
“Is that so?” Dovale narrowed his eyes. “You don’t sound like it.”
Rhodes barked a laugh and cleared his throat. “Oh, it’s fake,” he replied, shaking off the drawl.
“Fake?” Dovale looked around as if searching for the candid camera. Rhodes loved that expression.
“Oh, yeah,” Rhodes assured him, “so everyone believes I’m some redneck from Rockdale, when I’m really just here to fuck shit up.”
“Oh.” Dovale snapped his mouth shut. His face fell, not sure of what to do with this revelation. He was silent for the first time since he walked into the station. His brow furrowed and his frown deepened. Turning back to the faux deputy, he opened his mouth, but he did not get a chance to respond.
Rhodes swung his arm, burying the blade of a hunting knife up to the hilt in the man’s throat. Dovale flailed in a pathetic attempt to slap then hand away. Twisting the blade, Rhodes yanked it back out. Blood spewed across the windshield and passenger window. Dovale gargled, opening his mouth to speak, or scream, but only blood came out. He coughed, splattering the dash. His shoulders shook as if he were about to heave. His face grew pale, a soft shade of blue, and he slumped forward.
“Fuck,” Rhodes muttered as a car turned onto the street. He slid the knife back into its sheath and pulled onto the grassy shoulder. There were only a few feet before it fell off into a steep ditch. Rhodes unbuckled, blocking the body from view as he leaned over and popped the passenger door open. He unbuckled the passenger seatbelt and kicked the body out of the Jeep. It hit the ground and hung on the edge of the ditch.
