Past Deeds

by Carolyn Arnold

  “Tired?” he asked.

  She applied more pressure to the gas. They were on the way to speak with Wise’s widow, and the sooner they got there, the better. “Like you wouldn’t believe. You?”

  “You bet. I usually prefer a little more than a few hours’ sleep.”

  Their flight had landed in Albuquerque at sixty thirty local time that morning, and they had picked up an SUV at the local FBI office. When they called Jack to confirm their arrival in New Mexico, he had filled them in about his and Kelly’s visit to Spencer’s Sport Bar. After that, they’d checked into a hotel and grabbed a few hours’ sleep before hitting the road about ten. It was now almost half-past. It felt like they’d packed a day’s worth of activity in already.

  “In one hundred meters, your destination will be on the right.”

  Paige canceled the route on the GPS and stopped in front of a modest-size, beige stucco bungalow with a clay-tile roof, packed close to neighboring houses. The front lot was wood chips and stone with a rather sad-looking tree growing in the middle.

  “You have reached our destination.” Paige mocked what the GPS would have said if it were still on. She got out, led the way to the front door, and knocked.

  Footsteps came toward the door, and it opened to reveal a beautiful woman all of maybe five-foot-four with a blond bob. “Yes?”

  Paige held up her badge; so did Brandon.

  “We’re agents with the FBI.” Paige introduced them, then asked, “Are you Sonia Wise?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions—”

  “About Robert, let me guess,” she cut in and crossed her arms. “That man best be happy he’s six feet under, or I’d put him there myself.”

  Small yet powerful. And feisty!

  Paige stepped back. “Can we come inside for a minute or two?”

  “Why not? Nothing better to do than talk about that good-for-nothing son of a bitch.” Obvious sarcasm—every word—but she swung the door wide open.

  Paige gestured for Brandon to go in first.

  “I talked with the police. Many times. I don’t know what more I can tell you.” Sonia reached around them and latched the door. “Certainly can’t give you anything new. But honestly, I don’t even care if his killer is caught.”

  “You do—” Paige choked on her own saliva. “Ahem, you don’t—”

  “Nope, don’t care. You catch ’im, I’d like to thank ’im, actually.”

  Brandon glanced at Paige, back at Sonia. “Do you have someplace we could sit and talk?”

  “Yeah, this way.” She took them to a living room where she dropped onto a couch and gestured for Brandon and Paige to sit in matching chairs. They took her up on the offer.

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” Paige offered, expecting the condolence to be poorly received.

  “Nah, don’t be. I’m happier now.”

  Yep, just as I thought… “Did you and your husband have a rocky marriage?”

  Sonia scoffed laughter. “That’s putting it mildly. You probably know that we were in marriage counseling?”

  Paige nodded. It was the pent-up hostility they hadn’t been aware of.

  “It wasn’t working,” Sonia stamped out. “Well, obviously.”

  Paige glanced at Brandon briefly, then turned her focus back on Sonia. “Obviously? I think Agent Fisher and I might be missing something.”

  “You must be. That man was a cheating bastard ’til the day he died.”

  Sherman’s widow in Tennessee—the shooting from a month ago—had received photographs of her husband with another woman. Had Sonia come into possession of her own? “How do you know he’d cheated on you?”

  Sonia sat back in the couch, and her feet dangled a few inches above the floor. “I’d find lipstick on his collar, and his shirts would smell like perfume—not mine.”

  Paige deflated. It was too much to hope she’d received compromising photos that might advance the case.

  Sonia went on. “I’d asked him about it, and he’d always come up with a story to explain it away.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “To even think I ever thought that he wanted to make the marriage work…”

  Brandon broke into her thoughts. “Was marriage counseling his idea?”

  “Sure was. He even swore to me—said he would on a stack of Bibles—that he wanted to make things right between us.”

  “As you said, it didn’t do any good?” Brandon asked.

  “I thought it was helping at first.” Color touched Sonia’s cheeks. “But apparently it wasn’t. I got pictures… You know of him in…” She flailed her hands around. “In situations…with other women.”

  Paige sat up straighter. Sonia had pictures. “Nothing was said about this in the investigation files.”

  “I received them a bit after everyone lost interest. Besides, it’s embarrassing enough to have your husband cheat on you, but to advertise it all over? No thanks. I’d look like a complete dope.”

  Paige understood Sonia’s bitterness now. It had been seeing her husband in action and the hit to her pride. “You said you got them after everyone lost interest. When was that?”

  “Ah, say a few weeks after his death.”

  “And how did you come into possession of them?” Brandon asked.

  “They were in my mailbox.” Stated rather bluntly and matter-of-factly.

  Paige shuffled to the edge of the cushion. They could have a chance at finding out where they were mailed from and, even more importantly, by whom. “Do you still have them? And the envelope they came in?”

  Sonia’s eyes flickered, and she shifted her gaze briefly to Brandon. “What am I missing?”

  “We believe that the same person who killed your husband may have killed three other men,” Brandon laid out.

  Sonia’s face was stoic, then her mouth twitched, and she laughed.

  “Sonia?” Paige wasn’t sure what to make of her reaction.

  Sonia waved at the air. “Just like Robert. It’s not even funny, actually, but look at me.” Tears were streaming down her cheeks from laughter.

  Watching Sonia’s display was unsettling. “What’s like Robert?”

  “He always loved the spotlight.”

  Paige would hardly call being the target of a serial killer the spotlight anyone would want.

  “And he had a golden touch,” Sonia added, sniffling and starting to calm down.

  Wise’s so-called “golden touch” had some lackluster magic. Murdered and he’d worked as a plumber when he was alive—and he was married to this “treat” of a woman in front of them.

  “Ah, I know what you’re thinking. Some golden touch—am I right?”

  Pretty much, yep.

  Sonia went on. “Well, we might not have been rolling in dough, but he’d get things handed to him all the time. Rob first met Cecil—that’s the owner of Star Plumbing where he’d worked—when he pulled over to help him and his wife at the side of the road. We’d just moved into the area. We came from Walker, California. Anyway, he was still looking for work. I had a little part-time gig at a dentist’s office. Manned the desk, answered the phones, scheduled appointments. Real mind-numbing stuff.” Sonia pointed a finger-gun to her ear and pulled the trigger. “Anyway, Robert gets to talking with Cecil and his wife, and he mentions that he’s looking for work. Cecil took an instant liking to Robert, asked him if he knew anything about plumbing. Robert knew nada. Made no difference to Cecil in the end. He took Robert under his wing, taught him everything he knew, helped him get licensed—all while paying him a decent salary.”

  Sonia had given them everything and a song and dance, but Paige still failed to understand the full scope of “golden touch” as applying to her husband. But how to phrase her confusion… “That’s wonderful, but I guess I’m missing how your husband coul
d have had a golden touch when it comes to him being the target of a serial killer.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that the way he went out didn’t already draw media attention—and now the FBI thinks there was a serial killer behind his death. The press will have a field day. He’ll be famous.” She shook her head, frowning, and anger was setting into her eyes. “Just like him to get the limelight without working for it. It just came to him.”

  If being murdered is how one attains fame, count me out!

  “Do you still have those photos?” Paige realized Sonia had never answered that.

  “I do.” Sonia made no move to get up and looked at Brandon. “The other men you mentioned…Were they all married and cheating scumbags like my Robert?”

  Brandon visibly swallowed roughly.

  Paige stepped in. “We believe it’s possible, yes.”

  Sonia slapped her knee. “Well, isn’t that something. Whoever’s pulling the trigger, bravo! Eliminating one more cheating—”

  “Murder is against the law, Mrs. Wise,” Brandon said firmly.

  “You know what? Just call me Sonia. I’m going to revert back to my maiden name. Should’ve gotten the process started already.”

  “It doesn’t matter who the victim is or what they did or supposedly did,” Brandon put out with venom. “Killing people is illegal. In some states, worthy of the death penalty.”

  Paige faced Brandon and widened her eyes, silently asking that he cool it.

  “Yeah, ah, I’ll get you those pictures and that envelope. Then I think it’s time you be going.” Sonia left the room.

  Paige turned on Brandon. “What the hell are—”

  He turned to face her, his stark expression said it all: just leave it alone. But to hell with that. If Brandon wanted to keep things professional between them, then it was about time he realized she was the senior agent and he the subordinate. She was just about to point this out to him when Sonia returned and put the envelope in Paige’s face.

  “Now, if you’d leave.”

  Paige took the envelope and frowned upon noticing there wasn’t a postmark, just a simple label with Sonia’s name printed on it from a computer. It would have just been dropped off and placed it in her mailbox. “Thank you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sonia crossed her arms, and Paige and Brandon saw themselves out.

  Paige was the first to hit the front door, and her angry steps took her to the SUV in a few strides. She waited until she pulled out onto the street. “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you—”

  “It’s none of your—”

  “Right, I get that. Our relationship is professional, and trust me, I’m completely fine with that,” she snapped. “But as professionals, you’re the junior agent in this car. You can’t talk to people the way you did in there. It’s completely unprofessional and unacceptable.”

  Brandon didn’t say a word and kept facing out the passenger window.

  “Did you hear me?” she barked.

  “I heard you.”

  “Good. Then let’s get on with it.” She might have put her foot down on the gas a little heavier than intended.

  -

  Twenty-Nine

  Arlington Police Station

  Friday, October 25th, 12:30 PM Eastern Standard Time

  Kelly was able to get some sleep, but only because she’d been able to connect with her friend Brianna before tucking in. Brianna was a defense attorney who kept hours like a vampire and got by on five hours’ or less of slumber each night. Kelly had caught Brianna drinking a scotch at By the Drink, a play on the saying “by the book”—something lawyer types seemed to appreciate.

  Brianna didn’t even need to ask how Kelly was; her astute nature aided her in life more than just in the courtroom. All it took was for Kelly to say, “Hi, how are you?” and Brianna had known something was up with her friend. Kelly went on to share how Jack was treating her, and how ridiculous and small she felt at times as a result.

  “He’s just applying pressure, seeing if you have what it takes to stick it out.”

  “I’m starting to wonder if I do.”

  “Now who’s being ridiculous? You don’t know the meaning of giving up.”

  Brianna would know that to be true. She’d seen Kelly’s struggle over the years as she tried to come to terms with the fact her mother didn’t want to be found.

  “But you could have been a lawyer,” Brianna said in a singsong voice, as if practicing law was all rose petals.

  Kelly had seriously considered that career path—briefly. After all, if her mother had had a better lawyer, she wouldn’t have served twenty-five years for a murder she’d made in self-defense. Then maybe everything would be different. But Kelly had decided to be more proactive in her line of work and chose a profession that made it possible to ensure charges were only levied against the guilty.

  “I just don’t know if I’m cut out for—”

  “You are.”

  Two words, and they might as well have been jackhammered into concrete the way her friend had said them.

  “Just give the job time. You’ve wanted to be FBI for how many years?”

  “Oh, let’s not dwell on that.” She was thirty-three now, but some days, she felt much older. Her twenties felt lightyears behind her.

  Brianna laughed her terrific laugh that made a person feel like they’d dipped into a cool spring on a warm day.

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, love.” With that, Brianna hung up, leaving Kelly feeling better, if not a bit conflicted. Maybe she’d just raised the idea of becoming an FBI agent to impractical standards.

  But that pessimism belonged to hours ago, before she got some shut-eye and put in some hours at Arlington PD with Jack. She even managed to keep that enthusiasm when Jack returned from having a smoke break and walked back into the conference room with his phone in his hand and a scowl on his face. Her stomach sank.

  “What is it? Paige and Bran—”

  “They’re fine. Got a call from Bert Pryce, though. We’ve got to head over to the Reids’ place immediately.”

  She jumped from her chair, then glanced at the coffee left in her mug and briefly wished it was in a to-go cup. “What’s happened?”

  “Arlene Reid received a package on her doorstep,” Jack said as they hurried through the station hallways for the parking lot.

  Kelly thought about the previous cases and drew a conclusion. “Did she receive pictures of her husband with another woman?”

  He regarded her like she was clairvoyant. “That’s right, and from the description of the woman in the photo, it could be the woman from Spencer’s Sports Bar.”

  Bert Pryce answered the door for Kelly and Jack.

  “She’s not coping with this very well.” Bert led them toward the study where they’d last talked yesterday.

  There was no sign of other family members milling about, and the driveway had been empty.

  “Are you any closer to figuring out who killed Darrell? Not that I care personally, but…”

  Sobs could be heard from behind the door to the den.

  Bert knocked.

  “Ah…come in.” There was a series of sniffles, and when Bert opened the door, Arlene was dabbing her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, similar to the one from yesterday.

  On the coffee table in front of her was a manila envelope and a spread of photographs.

  “I can’t even bring myself to look at them, but at the same time, I can’t look away. I just can’t believe Darrell would do such a thing. Someone must have doctored these. He was a powerful man. He had enemies.”

  Was Arlene really that obtuse to believe Darrell had been “husband of the year”? She had been with them at Wilson Place yesterday, when the clerk mentioned Darrell going there with a woman. Still, Kelly said, “We will
have the authenticity of the photos examined.” She gestured toward them. “Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead.” Arlene sighed.

  Kelly gloved up, and she shuffled through them slowly, studying each one and holding them so Jack could see them, too. There was a total of three. One had been taken from the outside looking in at presumably Pryce’s condo and showed a couple having sex against the window. Reid’s face was easy enough to make out. Not too smart for a prosecutor to be so blatant; anyone could have seen him. The angle of the shot would indicate it was taken from somewhere higher than the tenth floor; it could have been taken from a higher level in the Colonial Hotel.

  Another photo showed Reid and the woman outside a brick building, again it could be Wilson Place. They were sharing a passionate kiss and an intimate embrace. The third showed Reid and the woman nuzzled into a booth at a bar. The glass shelves and layout were familiar. Kelly pointed the photo out to Jack and would tell him back in the car, but this picture had been taken at Spencer’s Sports Bar, without a doubt in her mind.

  Kelly slipped the photos into a plastic evidence bag when she finished, along with the envelope they’d been delivered in. She noted that the envelope was absent any markings from the postal service and had only a simple printed label that read ARLENE REID.

  Arlene leaned into the arm of the couch and angled her body toward Kelly. “Do you think they were forged?”

  Kelly could appreciate Arlene wanting to know, but at the same time, her refusal to entertain the evidence before her was either pathetic and naive on her part or a good act. “It’s not my realm of expertise,” was all Kelly said. But if she were to go by her gut, she’d say the photos were legit.

  “Mrs. Reid, your father said these photos were at your door when you woke up,” Jack started. “Had anyone knocked?”

  Arlene gripped at the hem of her sweater and shook her head. “I used to get the paper off the stoop in the morning for Darrell, but forgot today with everything that happened. And Dad just found it when he was going to step out for some groceries.” Her voice cracked, and she pinched her nose, sniffled, dropped her hand.