“Agent Patterson?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Detective Thad Harris out of Nevada. I understand you’re in charge of crimes against S.O.s.”
“That’s right.”
“Then I thought I should pass this along. A con by the name of Kevin Shea was collared yesterday for kidnapping and murdering two boys.”
“I only handle crimes against sex offenders.”
“I know. Thing is, we wouldn’t have caught him except for an anonymous tip we got about the bodies.”
“Okay?”
“The warrant got bogged down at the courthouse, and by the time we got to the scene, Shea had figured out someone was on to him and had bolted. We caught up with him but only because the anonymous tipster followed him and called to tell us where he was.”
Steve’s quiet. A stalker. It’s rare, but it happens. Citizens who feel it’s their responsibility to keep an eye on ex-felons. “Send me the report.”
“Will do.”
Steve hangs up and blows out a breath. Is it his imagination or are the number of bad guys and the evil they’re capable of growing exponentially?
His phone buzzes, letting him know he’s been messaged. He smiles and taps to retrieve his prize. An image of pink painted toes appears, below it, the message:
His fat thumbs struggle with the keys as he taps his reply:
Her timing is amazing. She’s amazing.
An email pops up in his inbox—the report from the Nevada detective—a single page outlining the two calls the detective received along with the address and phone number of the storage unit where the two boys were found.
Steve doesn’t expect much as he dials.
“U-Store and a whole lot more,” a bored voice recites on the other end of the line.
Steve explains who he is, and the clerk becomes more animated. “It was like totally crazy. There were all these police and reporters . . .” She chatters on, and Steve lets her, knowing this is possibly the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to her.
When she finishes, he asks, “Did you know Kevin Shea?”
“I don’t really get to know the people who rent here. I see them come and go, but there ain’t no reason to talk to them.”
“But you saw Mr. Shea coming and going?”
“Every day. He’d come about the same time, usually around five.”
“And how long would he stay?”
“Don’t know. I’m off at six, and he was usually still here.”
“Did you notice anyone else hanging around about that time?”
“Nope. This place is pretty quiet. Most people just store their junk, and it sits here.”
“So yesterday, you didn’t notice anything before the police arrived?”
“Not really. I rented a unit, but that’s about it.”
The slightest buzz of nerves. It could be nothing, but small nothings often turn into somethings. “You rented a unit? Do you have the renter’s name?”
“Hold on.” Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana” fills the earpiece.
She returns. “Abraham Stoker from New Hampshire.” She rattles off a driver’s license number and address.
When Steve hangs up, he leans back in his chair and looks at the note. Abraham Stoker. Something about the name is familiar. He punches it into the FBI database. Nothing. He retypes it in Google—61,700 hits. Bram Stoker wrote the book Dracula. He also wrote the book Famous Impostors.
Cute joke. Steve doesn’t laugh.
A concerned citizen tracks a bad guy to the scene of a crime, reports it, follows him when the cops’ response is too slow, then calls the cops again, and the perp gets busted.
Pursuing this would take effort and resources Steve doesn’t have. And even if they caught the guy, no jury is going to convict him. He would be hailed a hero, possibly even be thrown a parade. Steve archives the email and moves on to his newest, most pressing case.
The Riley family moved to Concord, Ohio, three months ago. Mr. Riley is the night manager at a twenty-four-hour drugstore. Mrs. Riley is a homemaker. Their two boys are six and nine. Mr. Riley is also a convicted rapist. Two days ago, in the middle of the afternoon, the Rileys’ house burned down. No one but Mr. Riley was home at the time. He was asleep, but the smoke alarm woke him, and he got out. Their cat died.
The local police declared the fire an accident, but Mr. Riley and the Rileys’ pastor believe it was arson. The pastor called the State Department, and that led him to Steve.
According to the pastor, from the moment the Rileys moved to town, they have been harassed. A rock was thrown through a window. Mr. Riley’s car was tagged with spray paint. The family received several threatening letters warning them to leave. The Rileys had already moved several times and were determined to make this new home work. The church had become a haven, and Mr. Riley’s new job was good. So they ignored the threats.
Steve pulls up Mr. Riley’s criminal record. When he was twenty-two, he pled guilty to first-degree rape. The victim was a nineteen-year-old college student. He served ten years of a fifteen-year sentence and was released twelve years ago. No priors, and nothing since.
Steve dials Mr. Riley’s number. “Mr. Riley?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Steve Patterson. I’m an agent with the FBI.”
“I’m on the straight.”
“Relax. I’m not calling to hassle you. I’m calling because I understand a crime may have been committed against you and your family.”
“If you consider trying to burn a man alive a crime.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“I smelled the gas, and my wife don’t let me smoke in the house. Wasn’t no accident. They tried to light me up, and now we’ve lost everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
Grunt.
Steve’s never been good at condolences, too little able to be fixed with words.
He’s considering what to say next when Mr. Riley continues, “You know what a fire’s like? It’s like a giant eraser. Takes everything you have, everything you worked for, all your memories, and erases them like they ain’t never existed.”
“Were you insured?”
“Not for fire due to negligence, which is what they’re calling it. Damn pigs, probably the ones who threw the match.”
“The police?”
“Even if they weren’t the ones who did it, don’t mean they ain’t responsible. I told them about those boys, but they didn’t care. Told me maybe it was best if we moved on.”
“You’re talking about the Olsen brothers?” Steve says, referring to the file.
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Riley, I’m going to look into this.”
“Won’t help. They’ll just tell you what they told me, that I oughta have been more careful. Damn fire captain didn’t even go inside. Declared the fire an accident from the sidewalk.”
“The pastor said you’re staying with him for the time being?”
“Just until Sunday. He’s got six of his own. The church will be taking up a collection at the service, then we’ll be moving on.”
“Well, if this turns out to be arson, you’ll have an insurance claim.”
Silence for a beat before Mr. Riley says, “What happened wasn’t right. I know what I did was wrong, and every day I need to live with that. But in this life, I did my time. That ain’t to say I’m forgiven and that I don’t still deserve a penance. But my wife and kids, they didn’t do nothing. Not sure why, but God gave me a second chance. He gave me my family, and they’re good and decent. I messed up, worse than I’ll ever be able to make up for, but for twelve years, I’ve been doing right, and that should count for something.”
Steve finds himself nodding. It’s exactly right. Doing right needs to count for something. Otherwise, what’s the point of even trying? One foot in front of the other, Danny would say each time Steve asked how he was holding up. “I’m not moving real fast, but I’m still standing and managing to put one foot in front of the other, and I suppose eventually it’s going to take me somewhere.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Steve says.
The line disconnects, and Steve sets the phone down at the exact moment it buzzes. He picks it up again and looks at the screen.
His insides do somersaults.
Not sure why, but God gave me a second chance, Mr. Riley’s words replay in his head.
He books a flight to California with a day layover in Dayton, Ohio, an hour from the Rileys’ burned down home.