Already dead, p.10
Already Dead, page 10
Chase looked at Floyd to make sure that he was getting all of this.
“Just a few more questions, Mr. Saburra. Did Roger have any enemies? Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt him?”
“The cops said that this was random. You don’t—you don’t think that someone purposefully targeted him, do you?”
“No,” Chase said quickly. “We are just trying to get an accurate picture of exactly what happened to your partner, that’s all.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed.
“But you’re the FBI. Why is the FBI—”
“Please,” Chase interrupted. “I understand that you want answers, and we will give them to you, but let us ask the questions.”
Henry looked upset but, in the end, acquiesced with a nod.
“So, did Roger have enemies?”
“No. Everyone loved Roger.”
Chase once again looked at Floyd. If he hadn’t been there, she probably would have just thanked Henry and gone on her way. But she needed to show him.
“Floyd, your phone?”
Floyd appeared confused but started to hand it over. Chase refused.
“Show him the photo.”
The photo—the photo of the murderer.
Floyd’s hands started to shake as he scrolled through his images. They were trembling even more strongly as she watched him pinch and zoom.
“Show him,” Chase urged.
Floyd shot daggers at her as he slowly turned the phone around.
“Oh, oh, Jesus,” Henry grunted, partially turning his head away from the phone. Chase was pleased to see that Floyd didn’t lower it—he held it up until Henry looked down. “Is that—is that who killed Roger?”
Chase’s attention was on Henry again. She ignored his query.
“Have you ever seen this person before?”
The corners of Henry’s lips pulled downward.
“No. I don’t think so. What’s wrong with—”
“Thank you for your time, Henry.”
Chase indicated for Floyd to head back to the car. He started to turn, then stopped.
“Do you know a Wayne Griffith? A Dr. Wayne Griffith III?” Floyd asked suddenly, surprising both Chase and Henry.
“Wh-who?”
“Dr. Wayne Griffith III,” Floyd repeated.
“No. Is he involved in this? In Roger’s murder?”
Floyd shook his head.
“No. Thanks again.”
Back in the car, Chase asked, “What was that about?”
Floyd shrugged.
“I’m not sure. It just kinda came out.”
Chase’s first instinct was to chastise him, but she stopped herself. Who was she to condemn someone for acting on instinct?
“But did you—did you see his face when I mentioned Griffith’s name?”
“I wasn’t—I didn’t see.”
I was looking at you, Floyd. Trying to figure out if you were okay, if you were going to break.
“He looked… I dunno. He looked surprised to me.”
“Surprised?”
“Yeah. But why? I mean, just a random name to him, right?”
“He’s grieving.” She raised one shoulder. “Grief can make you act strange.”
“Maybe,” Floyd hesitated. “What was their relationship, anyway? Roger and Henry’s?”
“Business partners.”
“You think maybe—”
A knock on Chase’s window startled them both. It was the police officer, their loyal chaperone.
“Yeah?”
The officer looked embarrassed for some reason.
“Are you guys—you guys done here?”
Chase glanced at the house then back at the officer.
“Here? Yeah.”
“In town, I mean?”
“What’s this about?” Chase demanded.
“There’s something I need to do, something personal. If you don’t mind—”
“We’ll be fine on our own.”
Chase actually preferred it this way. The less interference on a case, the better.
Case… this isn’t even a fucking case, she thought. This is a crime. The killer’s dead—definitely dead. If there was something more than dead, then that’s what she is.
Under other circumstances, Chase would have wrapped things up right here and driven back to Quantico or New York or wherever.
But she’d been here for less than a day.
And she still had four more to kill.
“Officer?”
He’d already started to make his way back to his car.
“Yeah?”
“Do you have the keys to Roger’s house? And the electronic store?”
Instead of answering, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a chain with about a half-dozen keys on it. He handed them over.
“I brought ‘em from the station just in case.”
“Thanks.”
“Just make sure we get ‘em back before you leave.”
“Not a problem.”
The officer stayed a moment longer.
“Any idea how long you’ll be in town for?”
It’s none of your damn business.
Chase didn’t even try to make her smile look genuine.
“Three days.”
Even Floyd was surprised by the specificity of her answer.
But she wasn’t.
I’m going to stay three days, even if I spend ninety percent of my time in a bar. And then I’m going back to Tennessee.
Chapter 21
“See?” Chase said. “A house you can afford!”
In stark contrast to Henry Saburra’s house, Roger Evans lived in what could only be described as a glorified trailer. It was also much further from the city center, and while not quite in the suburbs, it was teetering on the edge.
“But would I want to live here?” Floyd asked.
They strode up the walk, their shoes crunching loudly as if the ground beneath their feet were made of bubble wrap instead of gravel.
“See that?” she said, indicating the torn screen door.
“I see it. Not sure it’s out of place, though. What exactly are you expecting to find here, Chase?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
Maybe. Or maybe I’m just killing time.
Out of habit, Chase knocked on the door. She didn’t expect an answer—the file indicated that Roger lived alone—and didn’t get one. The door was locked, so she started the annoying task of trying to find the correct key to the lock.
And, predictably, it was the last on the chain.
Chase pushed the door open and was struck by a smell. If it hadn’t been for her most recent exposure, she would have thought Roger’s home smelt vile. Now, it just smelled like a toilet hadn’t been flushed in some time.
“What is it with this case and the fucking smells?” Floyd said under his breath.
Roger’s house was more in a state of disarray than it was dirty. The counter wasn’t covered in a layer of dust, there weren’t dirty dishes piled in the sink. But there were magazines, posters, tchotchkes, ornamental spoons, and elaborate beer steins all over the place. It was not quite hoarder level, but if Roger had had a few more years on this earth, it may have transitioned. Of note were several envelopes that contained overdue bills. She showed them to Floyd, who was busy searching for the source of the smell.
They found it in the corner of the family room. In the corner stood a worn cat tree and at the bottom was a full litter box.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” Floyd said. “Heeeere, kitty.”
While Floyd attempted to find the cat, Chase continued her search of the trailer. The bathroom was relatively normal, and perhaps the least cluttered room in the house, but it was in the bedroom that she found something interesting.
Face down on the dresser was a frame with a photograph in it.
Chase held it up to the light.
It was taken outside, probably Henry Saburra’s backyard, if she had to guess, and featured three people: a younger Henry Saburra, Roger Evans, and a girl who was about thirteen or fourteen years old.
They were all smiling.
“Looks like one happy family,” Floyd said as he peered over her shoulder.
Chase was inclined to agree. It did indeed look like a family shot, which made her wonder if the relationship between Roger and Henry had been more than just business. But even though the girl was smiling, she looked sad.
“Who is that?” Chase asked, pointing at the girl.
Floyd shrugged.
“Don’t know.”
“Could she be their adopted daughter, maybe?” Chase asked. “Could this actually be a family?”
“I—” Floyd held his hands up. “The file said nothing about Roger having a daughter.” He lowered one hand and reached into his pocket. “I’ll put a call in to the Bureau, see if they can do some digging.”
Chase placed her palm on his elbow.
“Good idea, but let’s finish here first.”
Floyd nodded in agreement.
Chase turned the frame over, undid the back, and removed the picture. Out of the frame, she got a better look at the girl.
“Does she look happy to you?” she asked.
“I guess. What do you think?”
I think this is a fake smile, Chase thought, and I should know. I wore one for years.
“I’m not sure.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “You visited Meredith, right? Wayne’s wife?”
“Yeah.”
“How was she? I mean, how did she behave?”
Floyd didn’t even pause to take a breath.
“She was a bitch. Real bitch. Pissed off.”
“And Julia? Wayne’s mistress?”
“Very nice. Upset, though.” Floyd’s eyes drifted to the photograph. “Crying.”
“And Henry? How was Henry?”
To Chase, Henry had seemed almost detached.
“No, I know what you’re thinking,” Floyd said. “Chase, I’m a rookie, but I know that people can behave all manner of ways when it comes to grief.”
Chase pointed at Henry, the girl, then Roger.
“Yeah. Trust me, I know. And unlike Jessica and Meredith, Roger was Henry’s business partner.” She let this hang in the air. The seconds ticked by and after ten of them, Floyd suddenly pulled back.
“No—you think?” his eyes darted to the photograph and then to Chase. “Really?”
“You said it: one happy family. Imagine they were a family… now, what do you think of Henry’s reaction when we visited him?”
Floyd sighed and massaged his forehead with one hand.
“Fuck, I don’t know. If it were me…”
“Me, too.” Chase folded the photo and put it in her pocket. Then she went back to the bathroom and started to rifle through the drawers.
“What are you looking for?” Floyd asked.
Chase found a pink brush tucked at the back of the cupboard under the sink.
“DNA,” she said, holding it up. “If that girl in the morgue is the same as the one in the photo, then this is going to prove it.”
It was just an off-hand idea when it had first crossed her mind, but now it seemed to have teeth. If it was true, however, then what was Henry’s role in all of this?
“Yeah, I dunno,” she said, mostly to herself.
“Me neither—we can always just ask Henry,” Floyd suggested.
Chase thought about it.
“Not tonight. Let’s just drop this off with the ME—I’m pretty sure I can get him to run a comparison—and then grab a bite and some rest.”
Floyd yawned.
“Rest would be good. Can I ask you a favor, though?”
“What?”
“Can we get a place that looks more like Henry’s than Roger’s? And something that smells good. For the love of God, no more smells for today.”
Chapter 22
After dropping the hairbrush that they’d procured from Roger Evans’ place and strong-arming the ME into performing one more test—this time a DNA comparison with the decomposing corpse—they found a hotel. Chase tried her best to accommodate Floyd’s requests and managed to pick a place that smelled clean. It was far from luxurious, however, she wanted something close to E-Tronics. They checked into separate rooms, with Floyd paying for his using Uncle Sam’s money while Chase used cash.
Next door to their hotel they found a restaurant that had an identity crisis, falling somewhere between a diner and a sports bar. They were both so hungry that they didn’t care.
They served food and beer.
Hard stop.
Floyd, who hadn't finished what he’d ordered in Columbus when Chase had come on the scene, got the same thing: a double cheeseburger with a side of fries and a vanilla milkshake. Not wanting to deviate from the norm, Chase copied her partner, swapping the milkshake for a beer, instead.
They decompressed in silence while they waited for their order, but once their food arrived and they started to fill their bellies, the conversation began to flow.
“How’s Georgina? She goes to school, now?” Floyd asked.
“Yeah, she started shortly after I came back from New York City. You remember Louisa?”
Floyd took an impressive bite from his burger and then wiped the grease from his chin.
“Yeah.”
“She has two boys—they’re both a little older than Georgina—but they get along well. She goes to school with them.”
“Is that where she’s staying with now? Louisa and her kids?”
“Yep. They really look out for her.”
“Sweet. When you called, though, you said something about being in Tennessee, right?”
And just like that, the mirage of two people, two colleagues, and friends talking about their lives outside of work evaporated.
Chase saw Brian, his grin, and even heard his voice.
I have my people, my wives, looking out for me, but who is looking out for you, Chase? Anyone? Anyone at all?
She grabbed her beer and took a long pull.
“I’m sorry, you don't have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Chase didn’t want to lie so she flipped the script.
“How are things with you? You look good.”
Floyd made a face and looked at his stomach. Then he squeezed his belly, but his fingers came up with very little substance.
“Getting fat. Tate likes fast food like you wouldn’t believe. Doesn’t work out, either, but somehow doesn’t gain a pound.”
Chase finished her beer and then signaled for another. She’d been hungry when they’d come in here, but she hadn’t touched much of her food.
It was the drink that her body craved.
“Who is this guy, Tate, anyway? You two seem like a good fit.”
Floyd chuckled.
“You know what, I think I’ll have a beer, too.” He ordered one and pushed his half-drunk milkshake aside. “Tate’s—well, you met him. He’s interesting.”
“I’m sorry, you don't have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Floyd laughed and sipped his beer.
“Naw, he’s great. Really. Hampton set me up with him after New York, and we haven’t looked back. He’s got a ton of experience and I’m learning a lot from him. Guess who his last partner was?”
Chase shrugged.
“No idea.”
“Constantine Striker,” Floyd said the name like it should mean something to Chase. He was quickly disappointed. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Floyd, I don’t know if you know this about me, but I’m not one for gossip. Neither was Stitts, my partner before you. And the one before that? Well, Martinez was a psycho, didn’t say much about J. Edgar or whatever.”
“Ah, so you know something about the FBI,” Floyd joked.
Chase could tell that Floyd wanted to tell her about this Constantine fellow, so she indulged him.
“Go on, tell me about the revered Constantine Striker.”
“I don’t know about revered, but as I said, Constantine was Tate’s partner before me. He was the one who brought down The Sandman—remember him?”
Now this, Chase did remember. Twenty years ago, a serial killer dubbed ‘The Sandman’ terrorized Los Angeles. The press had given him the name based on evidence that the sick bastard had cuddled and slept with his victims post-mortem. The fact that there was never any evidence of sexual abuse somehow made The Sandman’s crimes even more twisted.
“Constantine was the one who finally caught him.”
Floyd nodded. He looked proud for some reason.
“But that’s not the whole story. Constantine’s twin sister? Well, she was one of his victims. But the kicker is, her body is the only one that has never been found. And…” Floyd suddenly went pale, and he stopped speaking. “I’m sorry, Chase. I didn’t—”
“No, it’s okay, Floyd. It’s alright. I asked.”
Floyd looked uncomfortable continuing, and it was obvious that he’d abbreviated the rest of the story.
“Anyway, Constantine’s still with the Bureau, but he spends every spare minute researching the case, and putting in requests to visit The Sandman in prison. Requests that are always denied.”
A man lost, trying to find his sister. That’s something I can relate to.
“Tate told me all this stuff. He does this thing—Tate, I mean—where he can shift from one persona to another, from thug to professional in a split second.”
Chase pictured the man with his mustache and suit. Thug, she wasn’t so sure about. Then she was reminded of the note that he’d given her—Fuck you, too. That had been unexpected, and something that had put a grin on her face.
“He’s like a chameleon. I don’t know how he does it, but it’s more than just becoming someone else. That part’s easy. The hard part is knowing what to become. And he’s damn good at it. He says that he learned this from Con and that Con is even better than he is. And, if you know Tate, that admission didn’t come lightly.”
Something else I can relate to, Chase thought.
Floyd sipped his beer and then changed the subject, eager to move on to something a little lighter.
“So, are you back, Chase? I mean, did Director Hampton approve you for full duty or what?”
