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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
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Weatherly Apartments
Arlington, Texas
“So, are there any new leads with Mr. Trask?” the landlady asked as she unlocked the door to Trask’s apartment. She was a short, plump, middle-aged woman dressed in a dusty rose blouse that gathered at her waist, an unbuttoned white sweater over that, cream pants, and hot pink heels. She had short, mostly white hair (with strawberry-blonde highlights) that was tightly permed; the pretenders noticed she would pat it occasionally. Her hazel eyes were covered by thick black glasses attached to a gold chain around her neck, and she would glance once in awhile at Jarod and Samantha as they stood off to the side.
“Nothing new yet,” Jarod replied, “but we haven’t given up.”
As Jarod talked, Samantha took in her surroundings with a detective’s eye as she removed her sunglasses and put them in her jacket pocket. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary - a cement walkway led from the curb up two small steps, past a straight stairway, and back to a small brown turf mat that lay before a steel door painted a deep red to match all the other apartment doors on the ground level (the doors upstairs were green). Samantha slid slightly to one side so that the landlady could unlock the door. The young woman subconsciously drew in a breath as she switched on the camcorder and prepared to step into another reality.
“Anything else I can do for you?” the landlady asked.
“No, thank you,” Jarod replied politely.
“Well, just return the key when you get done,” she said, handing Jarod the apartment key. “And don’t forget to lock up.” The pretenders watched her walk across the lot to another building.
“We ready?” Samantha asked a few moments later. She started to brush past Jarod, but he stopped her. “What?”
“Normally, I would invoke the rules of chivalry,” Jarod replied, “but not at a crime scene. I’m more experienced, so I go in first. Besides, you’re forgetting two things.”
“What?”
Jarod pulled out two pairs of latex gloves, handing one pair to Samantha. “First of all, gloves.” Samantha put on her pair while Jarod slipped his on. “Secondly, you’re the camera girl, so you go in behind me.”
“Camera woman,” she replied as she narrowed her eyes at him, something he didn’t see as he walked past her. However, he could feel them as he pulled his gun and readied it before walking into the apartment. Samantha steadied the camera in one hand, pressing the record button, and got her gun out, following suit as she entered behind him.
Jarod heard her suck in her breath loudly and reflexively turned. “You okay?” he asked. He stopped short when he saw her standing in the doorway. She was pale, and her eyes were wide and appeared distant, like she was staring at something on a different plane. He caught the camera as it slipped out of her fingers, then he looked at her, concerned. “Sam?”
She blinked and shook her head slightly. “I’m . . . fine,” she replied slowly.
Jarod looked less than convinced. “Do you want to leave?”
“No,” Samantha replied. She looked into the apartment. “I want to stay.” She saw Jarod’s expression. “I’m fine; it was just an initial reaction. This place does have an atmosphere.” She overlooked his stern look as she glanced into the apartment and nodded. “Let’s go.”
Jarod was reluctant, but he finally turned and scanned the apartment, taking in and cataloging every detail with his eyes as well as the camcorder. His eyes fell first on the kitchen ahead of him, but he noticed he was standing on something and looked down. It was a small doormat, tan, against the beige marble tile floor. A pair of men’s boots were against the wall behind the door.
By sight Jarod knew they were not galoshes but generic buff-vinyl men’s boots made for all-purpose weather. Above the boots was a rack of plastic hooks nailed to the wall - three in all. Two held an umbrella and a rain slicker, respectively, but the third one was empty. Jarod tried to think of what might have been held there: an overcoat, jacket or something similar.
He moved to the kitchen, looking right first. The refrigerator was pushed against the wall to his immediate right and was ecru in color; there were also a couple of small pictures on it. Beyond that was a counter section, made of butcher block. A clean toaster occupied that space. Next to the toaster was a narrow plastic Sterilite drawer, neatly closed with a translucent face panel, which held a short loaf of wheat bread and a roll of bagels, neatly stored in their own bags. On the other side of that counter section was a stove. The only thing Jarod found odd was the mini grill on the stovetop.
He turned to his left and saw a long section of butcher block counter the entire length of the kitchen. A short partition of no more than a couple of inches ran the entire length, separating the counter from the kitchen bar. The counter to his immediate left was neat and nearly-empty, aside from the small, unwrapped sampler box of tea bags pushed against the back. A stainless steel sink was situated in the middle of the long section, and it was clean, save for a few stains embedded in it. The section of counter farthest from Jarod had a couple of clean plates on a small dish rack with a towel under it. A row of brown cabinets was above it, and hanging from the bottom was a microwave. Below, built into the counter, was a dishwasher; Jarod opened the door, saw it was empty, and closed it back up.
He left the kitchen and walked into the small space on the other side. There was a pantry to his left and an opened door leading to a dark room. Jarod carefully made his way over, standing beside the door and reaching a hand in. He fumbled for the switch, turned on the lights, and slowly looked in.
“It’s the bathroom,” Samantha said. Jarod jumped a little; she was following closer behind him than he thought. The young woman smiled a little at catching him off guard. “Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go in? I think I can handle a small bathroom.” She put her gun away as she brushed past Jarod and walked in, leaving the older man standing in the doorway.
The bathroom was indeed small, with a toilet near the door, a small sink beyond it with a mirror/medicine cabinet above it, a combination bathtub and shower on the right, and a small litter box with a towel underneath it between the shower and sink. There were matching navy blue rugs in front of the toilet and shower, but a red shag rug in front of the sink. Samantha pushed back the shower curtain - simple gray vinyl - and looked inside.
“Suave,” she said.
“What?” Jarod asked. He had remained in the doorway while Samantha explored, keeping the camera trained on her, but he’d been watching the bedroom door out of the corner of his eyes. It was open, but he couldn’t see into the room, because of the lack of windows, so he put his gun away and pulled out his flashlight. He turned it on, swinging it from side to side, looking for any signs of movement, but he turned back when she spoke.
“He uses Suave,” Samantha replied, holding up a bottle of raspberry-scented Suave Daily Use Shampoo in one hand, showing it to him before putting it back. “And . . . he uses VO5 Chamomile Conditioner - and there’s a bottle of Tile-Ex in here too.” She pulled the curtain back to how she found it, then walked over to the sink.
“Anything?” he asked as she looked at the sink.
“Toothbrush, toothpaste, cup . . .” She opened the medicine cabinet. “Comb, hairspray, floss . . . Valium?” She pulled out a small prescription bottle.
Jarod looked at her oddly. “Valium?”
“Unless I’m reading it wrong,” Samantha replied. She read the typed label. “Prescription for Valium from a Dr. Samuel Kincade, DMV. Prescribed for Athena about . . . a month ago.” She shrugged and nodded at the litter box. “Athena must be the cat. Probably hiding somewhere around here, though I haven’t seen a food or water bowl yet. Maybe we can check on that later.” She replaced the bottle and rummaged around some more. “Tylenol, Nyquil . . . nothing else.” She closed the door then looked at Jarod. “Nothing out of the ordinary around here.”
“Why don’t we check the bedroom?” Jarod suggested. He and Samantha left the bathroom and made their way into the bedroom. Jarod put the flashlight away and flipped the switch on the side of the wall, and the room lit up.
A queen-sized bed with navy sheets, comforter, and matching pillows was pushed against the far left wall. A nightstand was on the right of the bed, with a small lamp, a windup alarm clock, and a worn, paperback copy of John Grisham’s The Pelican Brief on it. A nine-drawer dresser was pushed against the far wall. There was a small, white, handmade ceramic dish that held some cuff links and tie tacks on top of the dresser, along with a photo of Trask, another man, a woman, and a small boy, as well as a signed baseball.
“Must be his family,” Samantha said as she picked up the frame and studied the photo. She glanced at the baseball’s signature. “Nolan Ryan?”
“Who’s that?” Jarod asked as he took his gun out once again, walking over to the closet.
“A very famous baseball player,” Samantha replied. “Well, former baseball player. He’s retired now.”
“Oh.” Jarod walked into the closet and flipped on the light switch. There were racks of clothes hanging on either side, with a variety of jackets, pants, and shirts. A variety of shoes, casual and dress, were underneath the clothes on the floor. "Well, nothing out of the ordinary here." He came back out and saw Samantha opening the drawers and rummaging through the clothes. “And how would you feel if someone rummaged through your drawers, touching your clothes?”
“Well, normally, since we ditch everything for the suits to go through anyway, it really doesn’t bother me.”
Jarod fixed her with a look. “You know what I mean.”
“Fine.” Samantha closed the drawers. “There’s nothing here.”
“Well, there’s still the living room.” He walked out with Samantha behind him, and into the living room. They stopped short when they saw the living room’s condition.
“Whoa,” Samantha said. “You weren’t joking, were you?”
The carpet was a common mix of beige and brown, like a few of their apartments in the past had. The furniture consisted of a loveseat, with its pillows out of place; a small end table next to it; an easy chair beside the end table; and a coffee table in front of the loveseat. The loveseat and easy chair were mismatched, with a cream-based southwestern pattern. A lamp had been knocked off the end table and lay broken on the floor. The coffee table was oval glass, and there were some non-classified papers with an upset mug of tea spilled on them. There was a lint roller - both pretenders assuming it to be for the cat - laying next to the puddle of tea. A cable wire leading from the wall was resting on the floor next to the coffee table. Broken glass from the patio door was scattered on the floor, and there were muddied footprints on the glass, some of which was disturbed, indicating something - or possibly someone - had been dragged through it.
A three-shelved microwave cart was pushed against the same wall as the front door, with a TV on the top shelf, a VCR where the silverware drawer would have been, and a few movies and CDs on the bottom. Pushed against the living room wall, under the kitchen’s bar, was a twenty-nine-gallon fish tank on a table. Jarod furrowed his eyebrows as he saw the rocks and plants, the water, the lamps and filter bubbles, the food and . . . nothing else.
“Nothing,” Jarod said.
“What?” Samantha asked.
“That tank,” Jarod nodded. “What does it look like it?”
“A terrarium of some sort?”
“Exactly,” Jarod replied. “So, if it’s a terrarium, where’s the animal?” He motioned for Samantha to stay before handing the camcorder back to her and slowly walking over to examined the tank at a closer range. Moving carefully, he put his gun away and pulled a tiny digital camera out of his coat pocket, documenting on both the video tape and the camera memory that he was not flagrantly tampering with evidence. Jarod clicked off several pictures of the current state of the terrarium and verbally described it for the camcorder Samantha held before reaching into the tank.
There were tiny air bubbles coming up from the side of the middle rock, so he pulled it out and looked down into the tank to see if he could find the source of the bubbles in the somewhat murky water. He felt something tickle his right hand, and he nearly jumped, letting out a yelp. He glanced at his hand and saw a head and legs sticking out of it the rock! It wasn’t a rock; it was a turtle!
“Um, there’s the animal,” Samantha giggled as she saw Jarod’s shocked expression, glad she had the camcorder pointed at him and it was recording.
“Thanks for the tip,“ Jarod replied wryly. He examined the turtle, who had stretched its neck completely out and was looking at him with what Jarod would consider a bored expression. “Well, he looks to be in good health.” He glanced up and saw Samantha on the verge of cracking up. “What?”
The young woman couldn’t contain herself any longer, and she doubled over laughing. “Man, you should have seen your face! You were so freaked! And I got it on tape for posterity!” She held up the camcorder.
“If you don’t watch it,” Jarod replied sweetly, “I’ll do something to *your* posterity, young lady.”
Samantha smiled back. “Are you man enough to back that up, Agent Clyde?”
“Watch it, Agent Parker,” Jarod smiled. “I know where you’re ticklish.”
“So do I,” Samantha retorted, still smiling. She nodded at the turtle. “Kind of a cute little fella. Reminds me of when I was younger.”
“You had a turtle?” Jarod asked, intrigued.
“I grew up on a farm, remember? I got my hands on anything that crawled, swam, slithered, flew, crept . . . none of which I was ever allowed to keep in the house, but -”
“But I bet that didn’t stop you,” Jarod smiled.
Samantha chuckled. “No. I can’t count how many times my parents would find a turtle or a spider . . . or even a snake loose in the house.” She stopped, her expression turning sad for a moment. She shook her head, then took a deep breath, her expression becoming professional once again. “Anyway, back to the matter at hand.”
Jarod met her eyes. He wanted to talk with her, comfort her, do something besides just standing there with the turtle in his hands, but he knew they had a job to do, and he respected her for getting them back on track - even if he was worried about her. He made a mental note to talk with her later, see if she wanted to talk or something.
Samantha was grateful that Jarod wasn’t going to push her into talking about her family. She was overemotional, and she knew it, but she still had his approval. Part of it came from having an understanding of being with someone for so long, but another part of it was . . . odd. Just like earlier when she walked into the apartment.
Jarod carefully put the turtle back in its spot in the tank and then did a quick, but thorough, scan of the room. He was looking for anything out of the ordinary, but he didn’t see a thing out of place, aside from the obvious signs of a struggle. “I think we’re finished here,” he said.
“You sure?” Samantha asked.
“Yes,” Jarod answered.
Samantha gave him a look for a brief moment, knowing part of the reason they were leaving was because of her; she kicked herself mentally, hating the fact that she was once again being a hindrance to Jarod, but she didn’t say anything as she turned off the camcorder and followed him out of the apartment. They stopped short when they saw the landlady waiting for them outside, startled by her appearance but quickly covering it by smiling.
“Thank you so much for your help,” Jarod replied as he handed the key back to her. “If we need anything further, we’ll be sure to call you.” He didn’t like how nosy the landlady seemed to be, but he couldn’t show his true emotions. He put a hand on Samantha’s back, giving her a nonverbal signal to both leave, while letting the young woman know he wasn’t tolerating the landlady’s behavior.
The landlady noticed what Jarod was doing; she knew she wasn’t going to get any information from him or his partner, and she was a little put off by it but not much. She graciously took the key with a nod. She stayed and watched the two pretenders leave, frustrated that she couldn’t enter the apartment, sizing them up, hoping that one of them forgot something and would suddenly turn around and remember it. But they just kept on walking to their car.
“That was interesting,” Samantha said as they peeled their gloves off. She took her shades from her pocket and slipped them back on. “Now what?”
Jarod noticed her tone was a bit harsh. “What’s wrong?” he asked. Samantha shrugged. “Please don’t be evasive with me.”
Samantha sighed. “Okay.” She paused. “I’m sorry for back there.”
“Back there?” Jarod asked.
“Yeah, me freaking out and all in the apartment. That’s why you wanted to leave early, right?”
Jarod turned at her question and stopped her. He gently removed her shades and looked her in the eyes. “Sam, you in no way disappointed me back there,” he said gently. “You conducted yourself with grace.” He gently put the shades back over her eyes, pulled her into a gentle hug and kissed her forehead. With one arm still around her mid-section, they walked together to their car. She wasn’t totally assured by Jarod’s words, but she was quieted by them. Then she felt it.
It felt like spiders crawling up the back of her neck. It was like someone was behind her, trying to get inside her head. She stopped and turned her head, looking where she felt the feeling coming from, trying to locate the source with her eyes, but Jarod had felt it too, and he kept pushing her gently to the car.
“Ignore it,” Jarod whispered as he tried to act nonchalant. His guard already up, he protectively kept his hand on the young woman’s back as he led her over to the passenger’s side and opened her door. After tossing their gloves in the back seat, and after she was seated, Jarod got down on one knee and, smiling reassuringly at the young woman, took one of her hands and kissed it gently. Then he got up, closed her door, and walked around to the driver’s side, his eyes looking around. He quickly got in the car, started the engine, and he drove the car out of the parking lot. Neither Jarod nor Samantha took much note of the silver compact sedan with moderately tinted windows that they passed on their way out to the street.
The driver watched the midnight blue Lexus disappear around the corner and out of the complex before getting out of his car and walking over to the landlady, who was making her way back to the main office. “Excuse me,” he said.
The sudden presence of the newcomer, added to the perfectly timed rumble of thunder, sent a shiver down the landlady’s back. She tried not to look flustered or startled by his appearance, but his quick eye had caught her startled expression, and he was going to use it to his advantage.
Agent Steele approached the woman with measured strides, slipping into an ingratiating, if slightly tight, smile. Behind his shades he calculated how long it would take him to get what he wanted from her and catch up with his prey. “Good morning, Ms. Devereaux; how are you today? I’m sorry to disturb you on such a stormy morning, but I have a few questions, and I suspect that you are the only person who can help me.”
Ms. Devereaux was surprised and flattered that he remembered her name. The last time she had seen him was when the other agents had come to Trask’s apartment after he had disappeared. She had never spoken to him during that time, or even learned his name, but she had seen his face at a distance; there had been a presence about him, she remembered, a presence that was clearly heightened by his close proximity at that moment.
“Well, good morning to you, Agent -” Nonplussed but trying to seem unflappable, Ms. Devereaux raised one penciled brow behind her plastic frames. She was determined to maintain control of anything that happened on her property, and it seemed that this gentleman understood that - a fact which made her feel inclined to be cooperative. Of course, that feeling was somewhat reinforced in her subconscious by the man’s dark good looks, his presence, his words that left her feeling elevated, and his voice - distant thunder, stone on stone, a curious mix of warm familiar Southern drawl and cool scholarly English.
He continued to smile warmly, letting her feel that she was in control, knowing he had her exactly where he needed her. He tipped his head politely. “Steele. Special Agent Steele, ma’am. Might I ask you just a few questions? I won’t take up much of your valuable time. It concerns our investigation and the security of everyone here.”
“Oh, my.” Ms. Devereaux gathered the sides of her sweater at her throat and ran her eyes over his compact form, biting down the urge to say, “Yes, I bet you are special.” She tried to construct a picture of him in her mind; she would never know the kind of power he carried underneath his black coat and designer shades. She patted her hair to make sure her curls were holding, then drew herself up visibly. “What can I help you with, Special Agent Steele?”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you about those two agents who just left. They entered Agent Trask’s apartment, correct?” He saw the woman nod, and he repressed a sigh; he wanted to hurry this up, but he knew from long experience that in a hunt, any connection to any potential witness could prove critical to the outcome, and he had not become the best by destroying crucial relationships - at least, not until he was through with them.
“Special Agent Clyde and Special Agent Parker?” Ms. Devereaux asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Steele replied. “Both of them are new to the division and are under review. I’m following up on their work here to make sure they conducted themselves appropriately and followed proper procedures. I presume you observed their actions; could you help me out with what you saw?”
“Sure,” Ms. Devereaux replied. “They both came into my office as I was finishing up some eviction notices. They identified themselves as Agents and said they wanted to look at Mr. - uh - Agent Trask’s apartment. I told them that Agents had already looked at the apartment, but then Agent Parker - the girl - started getting curt with me, but Agent Clyde stopped her and explained the situation.”
“What precisely did he say?” Steele asked.
“He said that their supervisors wanted them to conduct and document a follow-up investigation, to make sure nothing was missed from the first time.”
“Document?” Steele asked. He’d stiffened and tilted his head, and she had the distinct impression he was preparing for some sort of attack - not on her, but on something that had displeased him.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, her voice dripping with helpfulness. “Agent Parker was holding one of those new types of cameras.”
Just then Ms. Devereaux felt as much as heard a rumble, she and wasn’t certain whether it came from the western sky or the man next to her. She couldn’t be sure without seeing beyond the shades, but she had the feeling she’d just given him information that changed whatever plan he’d had. Savoring the feeling of power, she raised her eyebrows and said with exaggerated innocence, “Why, yes, they took a camera into the apartment with them. I believe they recorded every minute of their visit. Does that answer your question?”
Steele fairly snarled to himself as he realized that the camera she’d mentioned must have been a camcorder. “They have a tape.” He was already in motion, barely remembering to nod her way in thanks. He was so angry that he reached his car at a near run, tripping the lock with his electronic key as he plotted in his mind. He wasn’t sure where his prey had gone, but he was determined to stop them. They’d just made their situation that much worse; by secretly taping part of his investigation, they undermined his authority, and no one did that and escaped unscathed. They might think they were out of his reach, but they would learn that they were wrong, and they would pay.
(End of Chapter 3)
Weatherly Apartments
Arlington, Texas
“So, are there any new leads with Mr. Trask?” the landlady asked as she unlocked the door to Trask’s apartment. She was a short, plump, middle-aged woman dressed in a dusty rose blouse that gathered at her waist, an unbuttoned white sweater over that, cream pants, and hot pink heels. She had short, mostly white hair (with strawberry-blonde highlights) that was tightly permed; the pretenders noticed she would pat it occasionally. Her hazel eyes were covered by thick black glasses attached to a gold chain around her neck, and she would glance once in awhile at Jarod and Samantha as they stood off to the side.
“Nothing new yet,” Jarod replied, “but we haven’t given up.”
As Jarod talked, Samantha took in her surroundings with a detective’s eye as she removed her sunglasses and put them in her jacket pocket. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary - a cement walkway led from the curb up two small steps, past a straight stairway, and back to a small brown turf mat that lay before a steel door painted a deep red to match all the other apartment doors on the ground level (the doors upstairs were green). Samantha slid slightly to one side so that the landlady could unlock the door. The young woman subconsciously drew in a breath as she switched on the camcorder and prepared to step into another reality.
“Anything else I can do for you?” the landlady asked.
“No, thank you,” Jarod replied politely.
“Well, just return the key when you get done,” she said, handing Jarod the apartment key. “And don’t forget to lock up.” The pretenders watched her walk across the lot to another building.
“We ready?” Samantha asked a few moments later. She started to brush past Jarod, but he stopped her. “What?”
“Normally, I would invoke the rules of chivalry,” Jarod replied, “but not at a crime scene. I’m more experienced, so I go in first. Besides, you’re forgetting two things.”
“What?”
Jarod pulled out two pairs of latex gloves, handing one pair to Samantha. “First of all, gloves.” Samantha put on her pair while Jarod slipped his on. “Secondly, you’re the camera girl, so you go in behind me.”
“Camera woman,” she replied as she narrowed her eyes at him, something he didn’t see as he walked past her. However, he could feel them as he pulled his gun and readied it before walking into the apartment. Samantha steadied the camera in one hand, pressing the record button, and got her gun out, following suit as she entered behind him.
Jarod heard her suck in her breath loudly and reflexively turned. “You okay?” he asked. He stopped short when he saw her standing in the doorway. She was pale, and her eyes were wide and appeared distant, like she was staring at something on a different plane. He caught the camera as it slipped out of her fingers, then he looked at her, concerned. “Sam?”
She blinked and shook her head slightly. “I’m . . . fine,” she replied slowly.
Jarod looked less than convinced. “Do you want to leave?”
“No,” Samantha replied. She looked into the apartment. “I want to stay.” She saw Jarod’s expression. “I’m fine; it was just an initial reaction. This place does have an atmosphere.” She overlooked his stern look as she glanced into the apartment and nodded. “Let’s go.”
Jarod was reluctant, but he finally turned and scanned the apartment, taking in and cataloging every detail with his eyes as well as the camcorder. His eyes fell first on the kitchen ahead of him, but he noticed he was standing on something and looked down. It was a small doormat, tan, against the beige marble tile floor. A pair of men’s boots were against the wall behind the door.
By sight Jarod knew they were not galoshes but generic buff-vinyl men’s boots made for all-purpose weather. Above the boots was a rack of plastic hooks nailed to the wall - three in all. Two held an umbrella and a rain slicker, respectively, but the third one was empty. Jarod tried to think of what might have been held there: an overcoat, jacket or something similar.
He moved to the kitchen, looking right first. The refrigerator was pushed against the wall to his immediate right and was ecru in color; there were also a couple of small pictures on it. Beyond that was a counter section, made of butcher block. A clean toaster occupied that space. Next to the toaster was a narrow plastic Sterilite drawer, neatly closed with a translucent face panel, which held a short loaf of wheat bread and a roll of bagels, neatly stored in their own bags. On the other side of that counter section was a stove. The only thing Jarod found odd was the mini grill on the stovetop.
He turned to his left and saw a long section of butcher block counter the entire length of the kitchen. A short partition of no more than a couple of inches ran the entire length, separating the counter from the kitchen bar. The counter to his immediate left was neat and nearly-empty, aside from the small, unwrapped sampler box of tea bags pushed against the back. A stainless steel sink was situated in the middle of the long section, and it was clean, save for a few stains embedded in it. The section of counter farthest from Jarod had a couple of clean plates on a small dish rack with a towel under it. A row of brown cabinets was above it, and hanging from the bottom was a microwave. Below, built into the counter, was a dishwasher; Jarod opened the door, saw it was empty, and closed it back up.
He left the kitchen and walked into the small space on the other side. There was a pantry to his left and an opened door leading to a dark room. Jarod carefully made his way over, standing beside the door and reaching a hand in. He fumbled for the switch, turned on the lights, and slowly looked in.
“It’s the bathroom,” Samantha said. Jarod jumped a little; she was following closer behind him than he thought. The young woman smiled a little at catching him off guard. “Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go in? I think I can handle a small bathroom.” She put her gun away as she brushed past Jarod and walked in, leaving the older man standing in the doorway.
The bathroom was indeed small, with a toilet near the door, a small sink beyond it with a mirror/medicine cabinet above it, a combination bathtub and shower on the right, and a small litter box with a towel underneath it between the shower and sink. There were matching navy blue rugs in front of the toilet and shower, but a red shag rug in front of the sink. Samantha pushed back the shower curtain - simple gray vinyl - and looked inside.
“Suave,” she said.
“What?” Jarod asked. He had remained in the doorway while Samantha explored, keeping the camera trained on her, but he’d been watching the bedroom door out of the corner of his eyes. It was open, but he couldn’t see into the room, because of the lack of windows, so he put his gun away and pulled out his flashlight. He turned it on, swinging it from side to side, looking for any signs of movement, but he turned back when she spoke.
“He uses Suave,” Samantha replied, holding up a bottle of raspberry-scented Suave Daily Use Shampoo in one hand, showing it to him before putting it back. “And . . . he uses VO5 Chamomile Conditioner - and there’s a bottle of Tile-Ex in here too.” She pulled the curtain back to how she found it, then walked over to the sink.
“Anything?” he asked as she looked at the sink.
“Toothbrush, toothpaste, cup . . .” She opened the medicine cabinet. “Comb, hairspray, floss . . . Valium?” She pulled out a small prescription bottle.
Jarod looked at her oddly. “Valium?”
“Unless I’m reading it wrong,” Samantha replied. She read the typed label. “Prescription for Valium from a Dr. Samuel Kincade, DMV. Prescribed for Athena about . . . a month ago.” She shrugged and nodded at the litter box. “Athena must be the cat. Probably hiding somewhere around here, though I haven’t seen a food or water bowl yet. Maybe we can check on that later.” She replaced the bottle and rummaged around some more. “Tylenol, Nyquil . . . nothing else.” She closed the door then looked at Jarod. “Nothing out of the ordinary around here.”
“Why don’t we check the bedroom?” Jarod suggested. He and Samantha left the bathroom and made their way into the bedroom. Jarod put the flashlight away and flipped the switch on the side of the wall, and the room lit up.
A queen-sized bed with navy sheets, comforter, and matching pillows was pushed against the far left wall. A nightstand was on the right of the bed, with a small lamp, a windup alarm clock, and a worn, paperback copy of John Grisham’s The Pelican Brief on it. A nine-drawer dresser was pushed against the far wall. There was a small, white, handmade ceramic dish that held some cuff links and tie tacks on top of the dresser, along with a photo of Trask, another man, a woman, and a small boy, as well as a signed baseball.
“Must be his family,” Samantha said as she picked up the frame and studied the photo. She glanced at the baseball’s signature. “Nolan Ryan?”
“Who’s that?” Jarod asked as he took his gun out once again, walking over to the closet.
“A very famous baseball player,” Samantha replied. “Well, former baseball player. He’s retired now.”
“Oh.” Jarod walked into the closet and flipped on the light switch. There were racks of clothes hanging on either side, with a variety of jackets, pants, and shirts. A variety of shoes, casual and dress, were underneath the clothes on the floor. "Well, nothing out of the ordinary here." He came back out and saw Samantha opening the drawers and rummaging through the clothes. “And how would you feel if someone rummaged through your drawers, touching your clothes?”
“Well, normally, since we ditch everything for the suits to go through anyway, it really doesn’t bother me.”
Jarod fixed her with a look. “You know what I mean.”
“Fine.” Samantha closed the drawers. “There’s nothing here.”
“Well, there’s still the living room.” He walked out with Samantha behind him, and into the living room. They stopped short when they saw the living room’s condition.
“Whoa,” Samantha said. “You weren’t joking, were you?”
The carpet was a common mix of beige and brown, like a few of their apartments in the past had. The furniture consisted of a loveseat, with its pillows out of place; a small end table next to it; an easy chair beside the end table; and a coffee table in front of the loveseat. The loveseat and easy chair were mismatched, with a cream-based southwestern pattern. A lamp had been knocked off the end table and lay broken on the floor. The coffee table was oval glass, and there were some non-classified papers with an upset mug of tea spilled on them. There was a lint roller - both pretenders assuming it to be for the cat - laying next to the puddle of tea. A cable wire leading from the wall was resting on the floor next to the coffee table. Broken glass from the patio door was scattered on the floor, and there were muddied footprints on the glass, some of which was disturbed, indicating something - or possibly someone - had been dragged through it.
A three-shelved microwave cart was pushed against the same wall as the front door, with a TV on the top shelf, a VCR where the silverware drawer would have been, and a few movies and CDs on the bottom. Pushed against the living room wall, under the kitchen’s bar, was a twenty-nine-gallon fish tank on a table. Jarod furrowed his eyebrows as he saw the rocks and plants, the water, the lamps and filter bubbles, the food and . . . nothing else.
“Nothing,” Jarod said.
“What?” Samantha asked.
“That tank,” Jarod nodded. “What does it look like it?”
“A terrarium of some sort?”
“Exactly,” Jarod replied. “So, if it’s a terrarium, where’s the animal?” He motioned for Samantha to stay before handing the camcorder back to her and slowly walking over to examined the tank at a closer range. Moving carefully, he put his gun away and pulled a tiny digital camera out of his coat pocket, documenting on both the video tape and the camera memory that he was not flagrantly tampering with evidence. Jarod clicked off several pictures of the current state of the terrarium and verbally described it for the camcorder Samantha held before reaching into the tank.
There were tiny air bubbles coming up from the side of the middle rock, so he pulled it out and looked down into the tank to see if he could find the source of the bubbles in the somewhat murky water. He felt something tickle his right hand, and he nearly jumped, letting out a yelp. He glanced at his hand and saw a head and legs sticking out of it the rock! It wasn’t a rock; it was a turtle!
“Um, there’s the animal,” Samantha giggled as she saw Jarod’s shocked expression, glad she had the camcorder pointed at him and it was recording.
“Thanks for the tip,“ Jarod replied wryly. He examined the turtle, who had stretched its neck completely out and was looking at him with what Jarod would consider a bored expression. “Well, he looks to be in good health.” He glanced up and saw Samantha on the verge of cracking up. “What?”
The young woman couldn’t contain herself any longer, and she doubled over laughing. “Man, you should have seen your face! You were so freaked! And I got it on tape for posterity!” She held up the camcorder.
“If you don’t watch it,” Jarod replied sweetly, “I’ll do something to *your* posterity, young lady.”
Samantha smiled back. “Are you man enough to back that up, Agent Clyde?”
“Watch it, Agent Parker,” Jarod smiled. “I know where you’re ticklish.”
“So do I,” Samantha retorted, still smiling. She nodded at the turtle. “Kind of a cute little fella. Reminds me of when I was younger.”
“You had a turtle?” Jarod asked, intrigued.
“I grew up on a farm, remember? I got my hands on anything that crawled, swam, slithered, flew, crept . . . none of which I was ever allowed to keep in the house, but -”
“But I bet that didn’t stop you,” Jarod smiled.
Samantha chuckled. “No. I can’t count how many times my parents would find a turtle or a spider . . . or even a snake loose in the house.” She stopped, her expression turning sad for a moment. She shook her head, then took a deep breath, her expression becoming professional once again. “Anyway, back to the matter at hand.”
Jarod met her eyes. He wanted to talk with her, comfort her, do something besides just standing there with the turtle in his hands, but he knew they had a job to do, and he respected her for getting them back on track - even if he was worried about her. He made a mental note to talk with her later, see if she wanted to talk or something.
Samantha was grateful that Jarod wasn’t going to push her into talking about her family. She was overemotional, and she knew it, but she still had his approval. Part of it came from having an understanding of being with someone for so long, but another part of it was . . . odd. Just like earlier when she walked into the apartment.
Jarod carefully put the turtle back in its spot in the tank and then did a quick, but thorough, scan of the room. He was looking for anything out of the ordinary, but he didn’t see a thing out of place, aside from the obvious signs of a struggle. “I think we’re finished here,” he said.
“You sure?” Samantha asked.
“Yes,” Jarod answered.
Samantha gave him a look for a brief moment, knowing part of the reason they were leaving was because of her; she kicked herself mentally, hating the fact that she was once again being a hindrance to Jarod, but she didn’t say anything as she turned off the camcorder and followed him out of the apartment. They stopped short when they saw the landlady waiting for them outside, startled by her appearance but quickly covering it by smiling.
“Thank you so much for your help,” Jarod replied as he handed the key back to her. “If we need anything further, we’ll be sure to call you.” He didn’t like how nosy the landlady seemed to be, but he couldn’t show his true emotions. He put a hand on Samantha’s back, giving her a nonverbal signal to both leave, while letting the young woman know he wasn’t tolerating the landlady’s behavior.
The landlady noticed what Jarod was doing; she knew she wasn’t going to get any information from him or his partner, and she was a little put off by it but not much. She graciously took the key with a nod. She stayed and watched the two pretenders leave, frustrated that she couldn’t enter the apartment, sizing them up, hoping that one of them forgot something and would suddenly turn around and remember it. But they just kept on walking to their car.
“That was interesting,” Samantha said as they peeled their gloves off. She took her shades from her pocket and slipped them back on. “Now what?”
Jarod noticed her tone was a bit harsh. “What’s wrong?” he asked. Samantha shrugged. “Please don’t be evasive with me.”
Samantha sighed. “Okay.” She paused. “I’m sorry for back there.”
“Back there?” Jarod asked.
“Yeah, me freaking out and all in the apartment. That’s why you wanted to leave early, right?”
Jarod turned at her question and stopped her. He gently removed her shades and looked her in the eyes. “Sam, you in no way disappointed me back there,” he said gently. “You conducted yourself with grace.” He gently put the shades back over her eyes, pulled her into a gentle hug and kissed her forehead. With one arm still around her mid-section, they walked together to their car. She wasn’t totally assured by Jarod’s words, but she was quieted by them. Then she felt it.
It felt like spiders crawling up the back of her neck. It was like someone was behind her, trying to get inside her head. She stopped and turned her head, looking where she felt the feeling coming from, trying to locate the source with her eyes, but Jarod had felt it too, and he kept pushing her gently to the car.
“Ignore it,” Jarod whispered as he tried to act nonchalant. His guard already up, he protectively kept his hand on the young woman’s back as he led her over to the passenger’s side and opened her door. After tossing their gloves in the back seat, and after she was seated, Jarod got down on one knee and, smiling reassuringly at the young woman, took one of her hands and kissed it gently. Then he got up, closed her door, and walked around to the driver’s side, his eyes looking around. He quickly got in the car, started the engine, and he drove the car out of the parking lot. Neither Jarod nor Samantha took much note of the silver compact sedan with moderately tinted windows that they passed on their way out to the street.
The driver watched the midnight blue Lexus disappear around the corner and out of the complex before getting out of his car and walking over to the landlady, who was making her way back to the main office. “Excuse me,” he said.
The sudden presence of the newcomer, added to the perfectly timed rumble of thunder, sent a shiver down the landlady’s back. She tried not to look flustered or startled by his appearance, but his quick eye had caught her startled expression, and he was going to use it to his advantage.
Agent Steele approached the woman with measured strides, slipping into an ingratiating, if slightly tight, smile. Behind his shades he calculated how long it would take him to get what he wanted from her and catch up with his prey. “Good morning, Ms. Devereaux; how are you today? I’m sorry to disturb you on such a stormy morning, but I have a few questions, and I suspect that you are the only person who can help me.”
Ms. Devereaux was surprised and flattered that he remembered her name. The last time she had seen him was when the other agents had come to Trask’s apartment after he had disappeared. She had never spoken to him during that time, or even learned his name, but she had seen his face at a distance; there had been a presence about him, she remembered, a presence that was clearly heightened by his close proximity at that moment.
“Well, good morning to you, Agent -” Nonplussed but trying to seem unflappable, Ms. Devereaux raised one penciled brow behind her plastic frames. She was determined to maintain control of anything that happened on her property, and it seemed that this gentleman understood that - a fact which made her feel inclined to be cooperative. Of course, that feeling was somewhat reinforced in her subconscious by the man’s dark good looks, his presence, his words that left her feeling elevated, and his voice - distant thunder, stone on stone, a curious mix of warm familiar Southern drawl and cool scholarly English.
He continued to smile warmly, letting her feel that she was in control, knowing he had her exactly where he needed her. He tipped his head politely. “Steele. Special Agent Steele, ma’am. Might I ask you just a few questions? I won’t take up much of your valuable time. It concerns our investigation and the security of everyone here.”
“Oh, my.” Ms. Devereaux gathered the sides of her sweater at her throat and ran her eyes over his compact form, biting down the urge to say, “Yes, I bet you are special.” She tried to construct a picture of him in her mind; she would never know the kind of power he carried underneath his black coat and designer shades. She patted her hair to make sure her curls were holding, then drew herself up visibly. “What can I help you with, Special Agent Steele?”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you about those two agents who just left. They entered Agent Trask’s apartment, correct?” He saw the woman nod, and he repressed a sigh; he wanted to hurry this up, but he knew from long experience that in a hunt, any connection to any potential witness could prove critical to the outcome, and he had not become the best by destroying crucial relationships - at least, not until he was through with them.
“Special Agent Clyde and Special Agent Parker?” Ms. Devereaux asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Steele replied. “Both of them are new to the division and are under review. I’m following up on their work here to make sure they conducted themselves appropriately and followed proper procedures. I presume you observed their actions; could you help me out with what you saw?”
“Sure,” Ms. Devereaux replied. “They both came into my office as I was finishing up some eviction notices. They identified themselves as Agents and said they wanted to look at Mr. - uh - Agent Trask’s apartment. I told them that Agents had already looked at the apartment, but then Agent Parker - the girl - started getting curt with me, but Agent Clyde stopped her and explained the situation.”
“What precisely did he say?” Steele asked.
“He said that their supervisors wanted them to conduct and document a follow-up investigation, to make sure nothing was missed from the first time.”
“Document?” Steele asked. He’d stiffened and tilted his head, and she had the distinct impression he was preparing for some sort of attack - not on her, but on something that had displeased him.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, her voice dripping with helpfulness. “Agent Parker was holding one of those new types of cameras.”
Just then Ms. Devereaux felt as much as heard a rumble, she and wasn’t certain whether it came from the western sky or the man next to her. She couldn’t be sure without seeing beyond the shades, but she had the feeling she’d just given him information that changed whatever plan he’d had. Savoring the feeling of power, she raised her eyebrows and said with exaggerated innocence, “Why, yes, they took a camera into the apartment with them. I believe they recorded every minute of their visit. Does that answer your question?”
Steele fairly snarled to himself as he realized that the camera she’d mentioned must have been a camcorder. “They have a tape.” He was already in motion, barely remembering to nod her way in thanks. He was so angry that he reached his car at a near run, tripping the lock with his electronic key as he plotted in his mind. He wasn’t sure where his prey had gone, but he was determined to stop them. They’d just made their situation that much worse; by secretly taping part of his investigation, they undermined his authority, and no one did that and escaped unscathed. They might think they were out of his reach, but they would learn that they were wrong, and they would pay.
(End of Chapter 3)
