Dane had never been in a helicopter before. It wasn’t as glamorous as he thought it would be. First of all, it was loud as hell, and the two young-buck agents in matching dark gray suits who had been sent to be Dane’s escorts to the city just stared at him the entire time like he was a monkey about to perform a trick. He nearly lost his hat out the wide-open side hatch of the chopper several times, and the seat belt felt more like a sad joke than a safety precaution. Dane Kirby was about a mile and a half above his comfort zone in a Plexiglas bubble, and it was fair to say he didn’t like it.
“Is someone going to tell me what is going on?” Dane felt like an idiot, having to yell above the noise of the whirling chopper blades, and even more so for having to ask the question in the first place, since Charles had told him he’d be briefed on the ride, but once they were in the air, neither of the agents, the Latino one nor the white one, said a word. One of the two men, identically dressed down to the matching sets of mirrored aviator sunglasses, put a finger to his lips and then to his ear. Dane assumed that meant he didn’t want to talk over the noise. That made him feel even dumber, being condescended to like that, so he went back to gripping his hat like a rolled-up magazine and being judged by two arrogant FBI pricks.
By the time the chopper landed on the helipad at Jacksonville International Airport, Dane couldn’t get out of the gravity-defying death machine fast enough. The same agent who’d given him the hush finger on the flight over got out first and offered him a hand. Dane ignored him and hopped out unassisted. He hit the tarmac a little harder than he wanted to, but he ignored the lightning bolt of pain that shot all the way from his heel up to his armpit. It was bad enough that he felt inferior to these stooges for being in the dark about why he was there, but he’d be damned if he was going to look like he couldn’t handle a four-foot jump. The jolt to his knees made his eyes water, but he slid his hat on and pulled it down low to shield the swelling tear before anyone could see it.
The second agent dismounted from the chopper smoothly behind them by keeping a hand on the grip by the door that Dane had failed to see. “Keep your head down,” he said as he hustled by his partner and Dane, as if all of a sudden he was in a huge hurry. Dane wanted to smack him, but he followed at a slower pace and did keep his head down. He couldn’t hide the limp and decided he didn’t care; he knew his limits, and the hell with what these guys thought.
The three of them made their way through the covered skyway to the other side of the glass enclosure, where an unmarked black Chevy Tahoe was waiting in a private lot to pick them up. All of the Bureau’s government rides were Chevys. That should’ve been a hint right there that Dane had made the wrong decision about which job to take when he retired, but not everyone understood the magic of driving a Ford. He chalked it up to inexperienced youths cutting the checks in the governor’s office. The bigger of the two agents held open the rear passenger-side door, while his partner and Dane got in. Once they were settled, the driver pushed the big black SUV into traffic and yet another agent, riding in the front seat directly in front of Dane, turned to face him. His face was familiar. Dane thought he recognized the guy as one of the higher-ups in the Federal Bureau. The FBI sometimes worked in conjunction with Dane’s office in Georgia and they were easy to recognize from their pretentious manner. They thought their shit didn’t stink. This guy was someone who wouldn’t be talking to Dane at all unless he had to and, judging by the blatant irritation on his face, clearly that was the case right now. It was easy to tell that the agent was abnormally tall, even sitting down, and looked uncomfortably cramped even in the spacious cab of the vehicle. He looked older than Dane by at least a few years, with a high widow’s peak of thinning, slicked-back hair with hints of silver that shone in the sunlight. The agent took off his sunglasses and reached a reluctant hand over the seat for Dane to shake. Dane tried to remember his name. It was something creepy.
“Welcome to the fray, Agent Kirby. I’m Special Agent Geoff Dahmer with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“That’s right,” Dane said and shook the man’s hand. His palm felt clammy and his fingers were as abnormally long as the rest of him. “Man, that’s a shit roll of the dice getting saddled with that name. I bet you caught a lot of hell as a kid.”
“I didn’t,” he said dryly. “There is no relation, I can assure you.” Dahmer spoke without a hint of humor in his voice. He had a mechanical sense about him that would’ve made Dane uneasy even if he didn’t have a man-eating serial killer’s name. Dane broke the dead-fish handshake and expected Dahmer to finally fill him in on what he was doing there, but the agent just turned around to face forward and said nothing. Dane looked at everyone in the car. They were all staring straight ahead, as if the whole interior of the SUV had been sucked clean of any form of personality. Dane felt like he was sitting in yet another vacuum—the first one, a plastic flying bubble, void of any comfort, and now this Men in Black piece-of-shit Chevy, void of any emotion. He was tempted to crack a cannibal joke but decided against it. Now wasn’t the time. He doubted this guy Dahmer would even get it. These guys took themselves seriously, and since the Feds had gone through all the trouble of laying out the red-carpet treatment to get him there, Dane figured he probably should, too. And besides, this guy, Dahmer, would most likely take it out on Charles, and Dane didn’t need that kind of ass-chewing when he got home from—whatever this was.
All the secrecy had begun to make Dane anxious. He thought about Ned, and how he had promised to bring him some cigarettes. He hadn’t seen the man in years, and already Dane had fed him a lie about being right behind him on the way to the station. He rubbed his sweaty palms across his shirt and pulled at a loose thread on the pocket. He’d managed to poke a hole in it. He yanked the piece of thread and twirled it between his fingers as he thought about Ned and a time that seemed like a hundred years ago. It took roughly another ten minutes of riding in silence before Dahmer finally started to lay it out.
“Agent Kirby, my men and I have been instructed by Assistant Director of Law Enforcement August O’Barr to personally escort you to the upcoming location.” He glanced over his glasses at the truck’s GPS. “ETA—five minutes.”
“Okay. I got that. But what exactly is this upcoming location?”
“A motel, a Days Inn to be specific. It’s the scene of an active homicide investigation that the local PD pulled us in on.”
Dane’s nerves still rattled. Nothing about this sounded right. “Any idea why this August guy wants me here, Agent Dahmer?”
“It’s Special Agent Dahmer, if you don’t mind, and in my presence, it’s also Assistant Director O’Barr, not August.”
Dane held his tongue. Instead he answered slowly. “Right. My bad.” He waited for Dahmer to continue. The senior agent turned around to face Dane and removed his glasses. Dahmer’s eyes were a cold, icy blue. Dane felt increasingly uneasy. At first, Dahmer didn’t say anything. He just seemed to be sizing Dane up. Dane understood. He was still decked out in his civilian fishing gear—tan Wrangler cargos and a light blue Hanes pocket tee with a big hole in the pocket. Dane raised his eyebrows and took another look at all the silent stone faces flanking him in the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine. He was starting to get pissed.
“Look, Special Agent Dahmer, my boss, Charles—excuse me—Deputy Director Finnegan told me on the phone that someone would tell me what the hell is going on here before we got to where here is, and so far, no one has told me anything.” Dane looked over the seat at the GPS himself. “And now there’s a two-minute ETA. So do you think maybe you could stop with the eye-fucking, and tell the guy with no jurisdiction in the state of Florida—the guy who your boss asked you to go get—just what the hell I’m doing here?” Dane held his hands up and addressed the whole crew. “Or is this how y’all treat everybody that doesn’t shop at Men’s Wearhouse?” Dane thought he heard a faint chuckle out of Tweedledee on his right, but if he did, the blank look of obedience on the big Latino man’s face didn’t give him away. Dahmer eased himself further around in his seat.
“Eye-fucking,” he said, tasting the words. “I’ve never heard that phrase.”
“Well, I’d be happy to keep adding to your hillbilly vernacular, but seriously, what’s the deal?”
“I’ll let you see for yourself. We are almost there.”
“That’s it? That’s all I get?”
“Assistant Director O’Barr mentioned that he believes that your presence here can benefit this investigation and possibly lead to a swift resolution.”
“Well, Assistant Director O’Barr is wrong.”
Dahmer tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at Dane. “About your presence being required here? Because I believe he’s wrong as well.”
Dane thought about it. He wasn’t sure what to believe. He wasn’t sure about anything, except that Dahmer was an asshole. Dane settled back into the leather seat and crossed his arms. “This is bullshit.”
Dahmer’s patience was being tested. It amused Dane. “Do I have to remind you, Kirby, that I am your superior?”
“No man is my superior, Dahmer, but if you mean you got me in rank, then go ahead and write me up or do whatever it is y’all do. Knock yourself out. I don’t work for you. I’ve been a criminal investigator my whole adult life, and if this August fella called me out here, then it’s for a damn good reason. So maybe you should cut the shit, and remember who’s driving who, here.” The cab of the SUV went dead silent, and that time Dane was positive he got a smile out of Tweedledee. The driver took another left off the main road and pulled into the entrance of the Days Inn motel.
“We’ll continue this conversation soon, Kirby.”
“Can’t wait, Geoff.” The SUV circled the lot and came to a stop just outside the yellow plastic caution tape cordoning off a small portion of the first floor of the motel. Dane gnawed his lip and waited for Tweedledee to get out first, and then slid out of the truck behind him. He saw a thin older man, in a brown suit that hung off him the way it would a coat hanger, lift himself off the hood of an ’89 Oldsmobile, and despite his light weight, the car looked like it rose up a few inches under him when he stood.
August O’Barr was clearly in his sixties and looked every bit of it. He was tall and thin as a zipper on a pair of Levi’s. He kept his hair bristle-short in a military-style cut that had most likely gone gray ages ago, but O’Barr dyed it brown, and apparently dyed it himself, so it had an unnatural faux-auburn color to it that made him look a bit ridiculous. Dane assumed he was too far up the food chain for anyone to ever bring it up to his face and that his subordinates probably laughed at him behind his back. O’Barr stuck a finger in his mouth and whistled, then motioned for Dane to join him at the car. Dane headed toward him, but Tweedledee grabbed his arm to stop him.
“That was good stuff back there, with Dahmer. He’s an asshole.” He held out his hand for Dane to shake.
Dane took it. “Thanks,” he said.
“Not a problem, sir,” the young agent said. He nodded, stuck his hands in his pockets, and walked back toward the SUV. Dane heard August whistle again and started toward him. “I’m coming,” he said under his labored breathing. “I’m coming.”
“Special Agent Kirby. Glad to meet you. I see you’re already making friends.”
“Everywhere I go, Assistant Director O’Barr.”
“Please. Call me August.”
“All right then, August it is.” Dane looked back and tipped his hat to Dahmer, who had quickly stormed off toward a group of forensic technicians examining what looked like a pile of towels on the sidewalk outside the motel-room door. Dane shook August’s hand. He was wearing a suit like all the other guys wore, but he’d removed his tie, and his shirt collar hung open around the loose skin of his neck. August reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of menthols. He lit one up and offered the pack to Dane, who declined. “No thanks. Eight years quit.”
“Good for you.” O’Barr lit up. “How’s Charles treating you up there, Kirby? You like working for the GBI?” he asked through a mouthful of smoke.
“I like it okay. I’d like it more if I knew why they sent me somewhere I have zero authority.”
“They didn’t send you here. I sent for you.”
“An even bigger question.”
“Fair enough. We’ll get there. So, how’d you like that fancy helicopter shit. Pretty cool, right?”
“I can’t say I enjoyed it, August. I’m not a big fan of flying.”
“What? That’s too bad.” It was clear he didn’t give a shit what Dane was a big fan of. “Moving on,” he said. August put an arm around Dane like they were old friends catching up and began to walk him toward the motel. “I’m sure that big Lurch-looking joker over there has already told you why you’re here.” August nodded toward Dahmer.
“No, actually, he didn’t, and he was kind of a dick, too.”
“Well, that’s understandable.”
“Why is that understandable?”
August beamed a big toothy grin at Dane as another agent in a suit joined them. These guys were getting really hard to tell apart. They were like rabbits multiplying in the dark, but this new one stuck out from the bunch. She was the first female he’d encountered.
August made the introductions. “Dane, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Roselita Velasquez. She’s one of mine. Rosey, this is Dane Kirby. He’s a consultant with the Georgia Bureau.” Roselita nodded but made no attempt to shake Dane’s hand. Dane was actually thankful for it. He’d shaken more hands in the past few hours than he had in the past few years. He’d begun to feel like a politician and he didn’t like it. Roselita was slim and fit and wore a dark pantsuit over a bright white shirt, but this woman didn’t shop off the rack. Her clothes were expensive and tailored. Velasquez’s shoes alone looked like they might cost more than everything Dane had on. Her dark hair was short and cropped around her face and looked like it had been trimmed and styled less than ten minutes ago. If she wore makeup, Dane couldn’t tell, and there was something in her dark eyes that suggested she wasn’t all that happy about something.
August kept talking. “Rosey, I’m putting together a multi-organizational task force for this case and Kirby here is going to help you take point.” Dane and Roselita shared a stunned expression. August steamrolled on. “So, if you wouldn’t mind catching him up on everything we know so far, I’d really appreciate it.”
Roselita struggled but she kept her composure. “I’m sorry, sir, what?”
“No need to apologize, Rose. What part of what I said did you not understand?”
“I thought Dahmer was the lead investigator on this.”
“He was, right up until Dane got here. Now he’s not.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Sure you can.” August stood and waited, until Agent Velasquez actually asked.
“Okay. Why?”
“Reasons,” August said, and slapped Dane on the back. “Now, you kids go to work.”
Dane—and his new partner—watched August walk away, rubbing at the back of his neck, without another word of explanation. They turned to give each other a good once-over. Dane could only imagine what this pretty but hard-nosed young agent with the expensive suit and perfect hair was thinking. Dane was a middle-aged desk agent, with zero field experience, wearing a pair of dirty Wranglers and a Georgia Southern baseball cap—and this was Florida. Not only did he look wrong for the job O’Barr had just dropped in his lap, but Dane felt wrong about it, too. It was obvious from the look of utter disappointment in Velasquez’s eyes that she felt the same. Dane smiled at her. He had nothing else to offer. “Wait here a sec, Rose.”
Dane caught up with O’Barr just before he slipped behind the wheel of the Oldsmobile. “Hang on, sir, I’m not sure what’s happening here. I—”
“Need a proper walk-through, I know. That’s what Agent Velasquez is about to give you. Sorry about Dahmer. He was supposed to brief you, but he’s an asshole. Always has been, but he’ll get over it. Don’t worry about it. Once you see the contents of that room, you’ll understand why I brought you into this.”
“August, I’m out of my jurisdiction over here. You have to know that, right?”
“You let me worry about that. You’ll receive all the proper clearance from all the right channels within the hour. Right now, I’ve got to get over to the airport. Once you get your take on the scene, brief me directly on what you find, and let me know what you need. I’ll make sure you have it.”
“August, you’re not listening.”
Agent Velasquez joined them at the car and everyone began to speak at once until August held up a finger and took a call on his cell phone. No one else had heard it ring, but Dane and Roselita went silent anyway, like third graders hushed by their teacher. August held the phone to his ear and finished settling into the car. He mouthed the word “Go” and waved them both out of the way so he could close the door. He slammed it shut and cranked the engine. Once he’d rolled up the window, he dropped the cell phone on the seat, half-assed a salute, and wheeled the Oldsmobile out of the lot.
“What the hell just happened?” Dane asked himself for the second time that day.
Agent Velasquez turned toward the motel, unable to give a response. “Well, come on then,” she said. “We’re wasting daylight.” She crossed the parking lot, carefully stepping over a puddle of fresh vomit on the asphalt, and held up the plastic yellow caution tape. Dane avoided the puddle as well and leaned down to slip underneath Velasquez’s arm. A burned comforter lay in a heap by the curb. It stank of ash and burnt nylon and had been drenched with water. “Is that related to this case?” Dane pointed at the blanket.
“Yes, but it’s not important right now. Just follow me.”
Dane took off his hat just to put it back on. “Listen, Rose. It’s Rose, right?”
“No, actually, it’s Roselita. Nobody calls me Rose or Rosey except my mother and O’Barr, and he gets away with it because he’s the boss. Oh, and this thing that just happened? This thing about you and me working together? It’s temporary at best. You’re not even cleared for federal-level cases, so I’d prefer it if you stuck with Roselita, or better yet, Special Agent Velasquez, until this circus lets out.”
“Um, okay.” Dane lost his train of thought. He was beginning to think being an asshole was a prerequisite of both men and women working in the field. Roselita kept walking. Dane followed.
“Great, let’s get to work. We’ve wasted enough time already, and losing Dahmer is a huge setback for all of us.”
“It figures you two would be buddies,” Dane mumbled.
Roselita slowed her step and then came to a complete stop. She dug both hands into the pockets of her tailored pants and stared down at her expensive Italian leather flats for a moment before pivoting slowly to face Dane. “He’s not my buddy, Agent Kirby. He’s my partner—my real partner, going on four years now. He’s saved my life more times than I can count and he’s like family to me. He’s also one of the finest detectives I’ve ever worked with, so seeing him get kicked in the balls like this and replaced with someone who isn’t even cleared to work with Florida law enforcement, without any kind of explanation as to why, is slightly insulting to both of us.”
Dane stopped walking as well, and for the first time that afternoon, he felt like he deserved the scolding he’d just received. Roselita was right. Dane would feel the same way if the situation had been reversed. He nodded his head. “Fair enough, Agent Velasquez. I can understand that. No disrespect intended.”
“None taken. Now let’s just get to it. Like I said already, we’re just wasting time out here.”
“Okay, show me what you’ve got, so I can figure out why I’m here.” Dane looked over at the wet blanket on the curb. He caught a whiff of it, and it smelled like a house fire. Roselita stepped up onto the breezeway, grabbed a couple pairs of blue nitrile gloves from one of the forensic techs, and handed one set to Dane. He put them on, then used his elbow to ease open the door to room 1108.
“After you, partner.”
Dane stepped inside, and Roselita followed. “Agent Kirby, meet Arnold Blackwell.”