Authors: Carolyn Arnold
The Advocate ground the heels of his palms into the steering wheel. Patience defined him, unless failure entered in. How could the timing have been any more catastrophic? It should have been perfect. He was so absorbed in planning Ellis’s execution that he had failed to keep proper tabs on the man who was to take the fall—Bowen.
He had been the ideal candidate. He had a
habit of sending hate mail to those who beat animal abuse charges and it had put him on the FBI’s radar. He had no doubt Ellis would have received one of those letters. And, while
Bowen was a man of like mind, if it came down to one of them being put behind bars, he
’d rather it be Bowen. The confinement to a cell would have the Advocate suicidal in days, if it took even that long.
No. He was meant to be free to continue on with his noteworthy mission in life. When he was young, an event had laid the foundation for this, and then, years ago, it had come back to him, assigning him purpose. It was too dominant to be considered anything less than a calling. Bringing justice for the defenseless was the reason he was put on this earth.
The thought made him smile, but it faded with the onset of a nagging conscience—it would do so periodically, rapping away as a woodpecker does against the bark of a tree, the constant rhythm enough to wish oneself deaf.
In the end, his strategy had failed and the person who should have taken the fall, walked free.
He was already working faster than ever before. Up until a week ago, it had
been three murders in twenty-six years, now that number had doubled.
His previous self would have passed judgment, insisting that his moral standards were waning, but the barrier between right and wrong had become a wavy line.
At night when he closed his eyes, he would see those of the Offenders, pleading with him and begging for reprieve. After his first few kills, these recollections had brought a shred of remorse, but he refined his focus. It was by his actions that they had been set free of their sins. He had rebalanced the scales of justice.
Part of him reasoned it would be best to stop for a while, but there was work to be done. And maybe if the feds caught their
“killer,” he could carry on in silence, at his own pace.
But for that to happen, there would be no room for mistakes. He had to cast the light where it belonged or lose everything.
He just wished he had more time to select a winning candidate, but as long as the FBI were searching, he would leave a trail
. Only it wouldn’t be him they’d find.
*****
Connie Shepard’s boyfriend opened the door. His bangs stood up as if he had gelled them into place, the spiky do disclosing a night of tossing and turning. The dark crescents under his eyes spoke to a hangover.
“You came back. It’s a little early, isn’t it?” He rubbed his forehead and dropped his arm to the door knob.
“It’s after eight in the morning. Could we speak to Miss Shepard, please,” Paige said.
His eyes skimmed over her and passed to Zach.
“I’ll get her.”
He stepped away from the front door, but left it open. The temperature outside was well below freezing and Paige took it as an invitation to enter the house. Zach followed.
“Hey, what do you want?” A sleepy-eyed Connie Shepard came toward them, dressed in plaid pajamas and white slippers.
Her hair was in a haphazard ponytail that left long strands hanging out at the sides.
“We’d like to talk to you about yesterday.”
“Of course you would.” Her voice was gravelly. “But I’m not sure what I can tell you. I told the cops everything yesterday.”
A male was passed out on the couch in front of them. Paige asked Connie, “Do you have some place we can sit and talk?”
“Sure. This way.”
She led them into the kitchen.
The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air. The table was full of beer bottles, along with an empty bottle of tequila. It had been a good party, and from the look of it, Connie
’s boyfriend was paying heavily.
Connie slipped onto a kitchen chair, her leg bent beneath her. She settled her gaze on Paige.
“I’m not sure what else I can say.”
“When you first heard him—”
“I thought it was my grandmother’s ghost.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.” Her lips curled and she adjusted her sitting position.
“The report says that you heard moaning. I’m just curious why you would conclude it was a ghost.”
Paige leveled eye contact with her, wondering what her response would be to that question.
Connie remained quiet.
“Did your grandmother moan?”
The boyfriend laughed and it warranted a crossway glare from Connie. He was standing next to the counter and held up his hands in surrender.
“No, she didn’t moan.”
The energy in the room took on a slight shift and held more of a serious tone.
“Is he still alive? The man I found?” Tears beaded in her blue eyes and she studied Paige’s.
“He died on the way to the hospital.”
A few tears fell down Connie’s cheeks.
“Had you seen him before?”
“No.”
“So your grandmother—”
“I think he said something.”
Paige glanced at Zach. Did Shepard hear him say more than
I’m sorry? Paige wasn’t going to say a word unless Connie needed more prompting. Sometimes all it took to silence someone was speaking at the wrong time, and it wasn’t worth that risk.
“I had a dream last night, surprisingly. I didn’t sleep much.”
A
dog came up to Connie and she ran a hand along its back. He was a big number and heavy with fur.
“Nice dog.” Paige smiled. “And he’s quiet too.”
Connie sniffled. “She’s a good girl. She’s my joy.” She continued rubbing at the back of the dog’s neck.
The motion made Paige wonder if the girl would feel any sympathy for the man she found fighting for life on the side of the road if she knew his history.
“He’s a Bernese Mountain dog
,
” Zachery said.
“That’s right.” Connie smiled, seemingly impressed by his knowledge.
“What’s her name?”
She laughed.
“Roxie. She’s six.” Another rub had Roxie looking up at Connie, panting and flashing a
doggie smile.
“You mentioned you had a dream,” Paige said.
Connie pried her eyes from Roxie
. “Yeah, but I think it was more of a memory. All I could see was myself walking down that road. And then that man in the ditch. His voice was muffled and carried on the wind, but I think he said something about a key.”
A good night’s sleep—and possibly the alcohol—had jarred Connie’s memory.
“Key?” Zach asked.
Connie nodded, but there was no conviction in her eyes.
“Did he say anything else?”
“Yeah,” Connie’s attention went to Roxie, who had settled into a ball at her feet, “stupid kid.” Connie lifted her head and shrugged. “That’s what he first said and why I thought it was my grandmother.”
The man at the front desk of Fields
’s condo building frowned when he saw us. “You’re back.”
There wasn
’t even an attempt at geniality.
It didn
’t deter Jack. “Kent Fields in?”
“That would violate his privacy.” He pronounced it like ‘
privicy
’ as if he were of English background.
Jack
spoke through clenched teeth. “If you don’t answer, you’re interfering with an open investigation, and that means charges and jail time.”
The man
’s hands went to the counter and he splayed his fingers. His gaze fell behind us and then met with my eyes. “He’s away.”
“When did you last see him?” I asked.
“Last night.”
“And how did he seem to you?”
“Is he in trouble?”
“Don’t know yet.” Jack held eye contact. The man looked away first.
“He seemed rushed. He usually wipes his feet on the front mat,” he pointed to it, “but he didn’t. I had to call in the janitor to mop up behind him. He left pools of melted snow on the floor. Something like that would open us up for a lawsuit if someone slipped and fell.”
“What time was that?”
“Eight-ish.”
That would fit in with the timeframe.
“When did he leave?”
“Say, fifteen minutes later, if that. I know because the janitor bitched when he saw him again. Of course, not in front of Fields.”
“Of course not,” Jack said dryly. “Was he packed to go somewhere?”
“Nah. I don’t think so. Just in a hurry, like something bad had happened and he had to get somewhere.”
Jack was already on the move. He must have been thinking the same thing as me—Fields could be on the run.
I caught up to him, regretting it as soon as I hit the cold air. I wasn
’t sure how people who lived here did it. It was below zero for five months of the year, or maybe that was a myth, like all Canadians play hockey and live in igloos—then again, maybe they did. I had never lived in Canada.
“Should we call this in?” I asked. “Fields left here about the time we figured Ellis was dragged. He appeared upset. Heck, probably because he had just sentenced a man to death.”
Jack pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He had the process down to a fine art and could do it in seconds.
“What would make Fields risk everything?” I asked.
“The why isn’t something we always get answered.”
I continued on with my line of thought. “He’s at the top of the publishing industry. People want to be him.”
“People have risked a lot before. Their drive moves them to do things that are beyond reason.”
Jack stopped walking and stood in the middle of the lot.
“I don’t know if I’m buying it or not,” I said.
I let seconds tick off as I thought about where we stood. There were few viable suspects. Bowen, who seemed to have the strongest motivation, was cleared. Fields was the next closest person to these cases. He would have intimate knowledge from interviews with the clinics where the animals were brought in. We should have never cut him loose. We should have at least brought him in for intense questioning.
“The records show that Fields has two vehicles, right? So even if he’s gone, he can only drive one.”
“Hmm.”
“We could let ourselves into the underground parking lot and see if, by chance, his truck is there.” It was a long shot. If Fields had dragged Ellis with his truck that would be the vehicle he fled in, but
I was already on the move toward the garage.
There were two motorized rolling steel doors—one for entry and one for exit. It required a passkey. I was about to turn to Jack for
the what’s next
when a door lifted.
Jack and I held up our credentials to the driver, who didn’t even seem to care, while we squeezed between their car and the garage door’s frame.
It was disappointing actually. I thought we
’d at least get into it with a guard, or a valet. There weren’t even other tenants around.
I pointed to painted numbers on the walls.
“Each spot has an assigned unit.”
“It also looks like every unit gets only one spot.”
“It’s possible the penthouse gets two. Bigger bucks, greater privileges.”
We walked around for a few minutes before we spotted the word
Penthouse
. If that didn’t place a target on a man’s back to have his car keyed, I’m not sure what would. A two-door Mercedes was parked in the space.
I stated the obvious. “And his truck is missing.”
Jack already had his cell to his ear.
“Get an APB out on Fields and his pickup immediately.”
My stomach tightened and I wondered if we’d had our killer but had let him go. Maybe it didn
’t matter to Fields that he risked everything. Maybe he had concluded that creating justice, albeit his own warped version, was tantamount in importance, even to his freedom.