Reed steps outside to make a call and I continue talking to Paula’s mother, Mrs. Nelson. It’s clear by her lack of response that she doesn’t want to talk to us, or else she really knows nothing. I’m hoping to get more out of her daughter when she finally makes an appearance.
I glance outside to see if I can gauge how much longer Reed will be. Something’s going on in pretty boy’s mind because he’s pacing back and forth along the front walk. His shiny black dress shoes glinting in the sun while his tie blows to the side of his chest from the slight breeze in the air.
I can see why ladies sometimes feel more comfortable talking to him, especially in abduction or sex related cases. He’s a clean cut, lean muscled, suit-wearing, book-smart, too pretty for his own good, poster boy for the FBI. His fingernails are never dirty underneath and his hair never needs a trim.
I’m about as opposite from that as you can get.
So, when it’s a choice between the two of us, he’s the one they gravitate toward. He’s got the softer voice and better rapport. But just so we’re clear, I’m the better shot. And in the face of danger, it’s me they hide behind.
I try to catch his eye as he comes back in the house. “Sorry about that,” he says, avoiding my gaze and directing his comment to Mrs. Nelson. He holds his tie to his stomach as he sits. Paula chooses that time to come downstairs.
“Mom?” she asks about Reed’s and my presence as she reaches the bottom of the stairwell, dressed in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, her long hair still wet from her shower.
“Paula, these gentlemen are from the FBI and want to ask you a few questions about your abduction. I haven’t told them anything.”
Paula frowns at her. “Well, you could have. You know everything that happened.”
“It’s not my story to tell,” Mrs. Nelson replies.
Paula takes a seat on the couch next to her mom. “I already told the police everything that happened.”
“Sometimes it helps to go over it again, little things can come back to you after time. Things you may not even realize you’d forgotten.” Reed smiles warmly as he talks to her and she visibly relaxes into the cushions of the couch.
“Well, it was like I told the police before, I met this guy for drinks—”
“How did you meet him?” Reed interrupts.
“On that app, Honey Pot, it’s a real dating app, not one of those hookup sites just for sex.”
Reed nods and makes some notes in his little pad of paper he always carries with him. “And what name did he go by on the app?”
“Jacob.”
“Any last name?”
“They don’t list last names for privacy reasons.” She blushes slightly.
“When you met in person, you called him Jacob and he answered to that name?” I confirm.
She nods. “And I saw his credit card when he paid for drinks. It said Jacob, I’m fairly sure.”
That he paid by credit card is new information to me. I make a mental note to track down the slip and any other information we may glean from that. Reed makes a notation in his notebook, I’m sure with a similar thought.
“What happened next?” Reed asks.
“The date was going really well,” Paula continues. “We decided to go somewhere else for dinner. He offered to drive, which I saw nothing wrong with, so I left my car at the bar. He said he knew of a restaurant just down the way. It all seemed normal and fine.”
“What do you mean by normal?” I ask her.
“He didn’t seem like a creepy kidnapper—no windowless white van—he wasn’t wearing high water pants and short-sleeved button down with a skinny tie under a Member’s Only jacket.”
I laugh at her stereotypical description of a creepy kidnapper which sounds more like a child molester, but I keep that thought to myself.
“We’d been driving for a few minutes,” she continues, “when he stopped at an intersection, turned to me, and said here, let me fix that for you, but I didn’t know what he was referring to. Next thing I remember is waking up in that room with all those other women. They were all tied up, it was awful.” She shudders visibly.
“And you said you thought someone drugged the other women? Do you know what kind of drug? Did you see anything on the ground, anything that might identify what they took?” Reed asks.
Paula shakes her head. “No. They looked awake but not with it, you know? Their eyes were open, but no one was home.”
“Got it.” He nods and makes more notes.
“Can you tell us what he looked like? The man you went on the date with?” I ask.
Paula turns to me before answering. Her face is pale, and her eyes are blinking faster than normal. She looks scared, just not of me. It’s like recalling what happened to her is affecting her feelings all over again. “I mean, just what I told that sketch artist. He was great, the picture he drew looked a lot like the guy.” She looks down at her hands, resting in her lap, then back up at Reed. “Jacob reminded me of you a bit.”
“How so?” Reed asks.
“Tall, thin, nicely dressed in a suit, styled hair, handsome.” Her cheeks redden as she says the last word.
Reed smiles at her, his expression comforting and encouraging at the same time.
“I’m sorry if I haven’t been helpful.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Reed says. “Sometimes the smallest things can help the most. You told the police he was driving a rental car, is that right?”
“Yes, I mean I think it was. It had rental company license plate holders on it and one of those stickers inside. And it was black, like, maybe a Camry or an Altima, four-doors, definitely a sedan.”
“Do you remember where the stop sign was that he stopped at?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “There was a tree on the corner closest to me, I remember that.”
“What kind of tree?”
“Small. Like it was planted a short time ago. There was a tall stick in the ground next to it with one of those bands attaching the tree to it, like it wouldn’t be able to stand up on its own without it. That’s the last thing I remember seeing.”
We confirm a few more facts with Paula, but it isn’t until we stand to leave that Reed pulls his phone from his pocket and shows her something on it. “Is this the man who took you?”
Paula studies it for a moment. “It looks a lot like him. He was older than this and his hair was different.”
“How much older, would you say?”
“Five years, maybe ten.”
We thank the women for their time and show ourselves out. We didn’t get nearly as much as I thought we would out of her. She didn’t tell us much more than the police report already had.
“What did you show her,” I ask Reed as we’re getting in the car.
He sighs. “A picture of David Tremblay from college.”
“So, you decided I was right?”
“You’re usually right, you know that. But also, research and records ID’d the sketch as him.”
“Shit. Sorry, man.”
“I won’t assume the worst, not yet. I mean, I grew up with this guy. He’s my best friend. I’m the best man in his wedding; the engagement party is in a week for fuck’s sake.”
“I get it, I’d be the same way.”
“But Murph, if it turns out he’s involved in a sex trafficking ring, there won’t be anyone to convict because I’ll fucking kill him myself.”
“I’ll help you.”
“Burger?” I ask Reed as I start the engine.
“May as well. I’m getting a beer too; I don’t care what you say.”
“Wow, a rule breaker and a risk taker, I like it.” I backhand him along the biceps, he makes an “oof” sound in response.
Sometimes Reed can be a real pussy.
I head across town toward Dirty Dar’s, a bar that also makes the best burgers around. I’m a huge fan of good burgers and I’ll drive the extra mile to get one. Literally. It just so happens my ex, Daria, owns the place, which doesn’t always make for a good lunchtime experience.
She broke my heart—fucking shattered it—I’m not even close to being over it. Still, I drag Reed here at least once a week for lunch, partly to enjoy the burger, partly to torture myself being so close to what I can’t have. I still love her, but at the same time, I fucking hate her for leaving me.
The closer we get to Daria’s, the faster my heart pounds at the prospect of seeing her. And it’s like this every fucking time. We were together for just over a year before she broke it off. I was this close to proposing. And she’s still it for me. No one else has ever compared and I can’t believe anyone ever will. That was nine months ago now and I’m no closer to being over it or getting her back.
Daria is a contract killer, for lack of a better word. A lethal vigilante. Hired assassin. A total fucking badass by my standards. But I didn’t know that in the beginning. Just like she didn’t know I was a Fed. I’d told her I was in security, she let me believe all she did was to own a bar. It was only by accident that I found out.
Total fucking dumb luck.
I’d come back half a day early from a trip and thought I would surprise her. Since it was just past two in the morning, I stopped at the bar first, figuring that’s where she’d be. Just in time to see her get into a small, silent hybrid car idling at the curb and leave. Thinking she was seeing someone else—but hoping that wasn’t the case—I followed. Tailed the car she was in, parked when they did, shadowed her into the building, watched her pick the lock to the apartment, heard the muffled shots from just inside, stayed back as she retraced her steps, then let her carry on as normal.
I watched her every night we didn’t spend together, let her believe I was out of town when I wasn’t just so I could continue to follow her. At first, I couldn’t wrap my head around what she was doing. She was good at it, that was for sure, clean and organized without ever leaving a trace.
Once she’d made her second kill, I started backtracking who she was taking out based on addresses and working from there. It didn’t take me long to realize they were all straight-up shit for humans. The world a better place without them. I let four, that I knew of, go by before I said anything. And even then, I didn’t want to.
I took her out to a nice dinner, all romantic and shit with the dim lights and piano music, private little booth in the back. We had a bet that I couldn’t get her off with my fingers between the salad and the main course. She lost. So, while she was still all loose, pliant, and orgasm-drunk, I leaned in and whispered in her ear, “How long have you been assassinating low-life criminals, beautiful?”
A myriad of emotions had played across her face. Outrage, denial, anger, acceptance. Then she surprised us both by telling me the whole story, after which I told her mine. Then she said we couldn’t see each other any longer. I argued that I’d thought about marrying her. Looking back, maybe it would have been better if I’d straight up proposed, but I didn’t. I just said I’d thought about it.
She left me at the restaurant that night and has refused to be with me since. At first, I thought it was retaliation over me catching her in the act. But damn if some of her points about me being a Fed weren’t solid as hell. If she’s ever caught by the authorities, I’ll be in deep shit, regardless.
So, I make it my priority to always make sure that doesn’t happen. And not just for me, but also because I can’t imagine only seeing her dressed in an orange jumpsuit from here on out while she’s cuffed to a cold metal table during prison visiting hours.
And, it doesn’t stop me from feeding her information on creeps we know are guilty but can’t get enough evidence on to prosecute. Sure as shit, those guys drop off our radar after a short amount of time. I don’t ask questions and she doesn’t offer any answers. It works well. ‘Course, it could work way fucking better if she were in my bed every night.
One thing’s for sure, neither of us will see other people. For me, there’s not another woman out there who would measure up. I’ve been with enough to know. And I have a feeling she feels the same way about other men.
Add to that, I come around the bar to see her as often as I can, like a fucking sap, and you have our current predicament. One of these days maybe I’ll come up with the right words to convince us both that I’m capable of deciding about my career, and any impact her actions may have on it.
Until then, I eat a lot of burgers and make sure my partner stays in the dark about the whole thing.