In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel (28 page)

“Wunnerful… Sounds like maybe he’s just a
wingnut.”

“That crossed my mind, trust me. And you’re
right; he probably is. But I still need to check him out.”

“Yeah, I hear ya’… So whaddabout the local
coppers?” he suggested. “Surely they know somethin’ about ‘im,
especially if he’s a nutjob.”

“That’s just it; I think they do, but they
aren’t really sharing.”

“Hmph,” Ben grunted. “So Sherlock ain’t
playin’ so nice, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly. He’s not bad,
to be honest,” she replied. “I actually like the man, and he seems
to be a really good cop. But I definitely feel like he’s holding
something back.”

“Gut?”

“Yeah.”

“Gotta trust it.”

“That’s what I’m doing. Of course, I suppose
he could be playing it close to the vest because I’m the fifth
agent that’s been sent out here on this case, and from what I’ve
seen, he hasn’t received much help from the bureau so far. Based on
what he’s said, I know for a fact there are some serious trust
issues for him where the FBI is concerned.”

“Yeah… Maybe…” he huffed. “Doesn’t justify
holdin’ out on ya’, though. He should know that.”

“So are you the pot or the kettle? Seems to
me we did that dance ourselves once upon a time.”

“Uh-huh…” he grunted again. “Don’t remind me.
I think I’ve paid my dues on that one.” After a short pause he
spoke up again. “So, ya’ said ya’ wanted three favors?”

“Yes. The next thing is could you run an NCIC
query on Merrie Frances Callahan, and John Horace Colson.
Specifically what I’m looking for would be any case information
regarding Merrie’s abduction on December twenty-second, nineteen
seventy-five, and Colson’s subsequent death on the
twenty-fifth.”

“I can do that,” he said. “But ya’know if the
paper you’re holdin’ is already incomplete on a case that old, I
really doubt there’ll be anything in the database.”

“Agreed, but I’d like to know for sure.”

“And number three?”

“I’d like for you to get me whatever you can
on Sheriff Addison Carmichael.”

“Thought you said you liked ol’ Sheriff
Sherlock? Second guessin’ yourself now, are ya’?”

“Just trusting my gut. I really don’t think
he’s dirty, but… Well… You know. I’d just like to have some
background so I can cover all the bases.”

“Yeah, can’t hurt.”

“He’s been the sheriff here for at least the
last seven years. And, he was a deputy here back in
seventy-five…”

“Okay, got it…”

“Somewhere in between he was with the KCPD.
Made detective from what I’ve picked up in conversation.”

“KC Missouri or KC Kansas?”

“I’d assume Missouri, but I’m not sure.”

“No prob; I’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“Yeah… We can talk about that later. Okay…
Well, I’m sure you knew this was comin’, so here it is, the
sixty-four-kay question. You’re a Feeb. You’ve got better resources
than the metropolitan PD. Why’re ya’ callin’ me ta’ do this? Forget
ta’ take your computer with ya’?”

“That’s the other thing I should mention,”
she sighed. “I sort of need you to keep all this under the radar.
In fact, it would be best if you could get someone else to pull the
NCIC info, so your name isn’t on it since you can be connected back
to me.” A thick silence fell in the wake of her words. She took
several measured breaths as she waited for a response, then finally
gave in and said, “Ben? Are you still there?”

His voice flat, he responded, “Yeah… I had a
feelin’ that’s what you were gonna say. Jeezus… What the hell’ve
you stepped in up there, hon?”

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I’m
pretty sure the sheriff isn’t the only one holding out on me.”

“Feeb central?”

“Possibly. I don’t know. I just don’t want
any red flags popping up until I’m sure, so if you could mask the
queries somehow that would help. I just definitely don’t want them
coming from my computer with my ID.”

“Okay, tell me exactly where you’re stayin’,”
he said. “I’m on my way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m comin’ up there.”

“No,” she objected. “I need you to stay right
where you are and do that background check for me.”

“Constance, think about it. You’re in the
middle of north fuckin’ nowhere, workin’ a jacked up serial case,
and now you’re tellin’ me your own people might be coverin’
somethin’ up. You need backup, hon, and you need it yesterday.”

His reaction wasn’t wholly unexpected, and it
made her glad she’d held back on the emotional information dump. If
she’d told him about the anonymous email and texts, or especially
the incident at the soda machine last night, he would probably
already be halfway here. There were times when it was cute that he
wanted to come to her rescue, but this wasn’t one of them.

“Don’t overreact, Ben. I appreciate your
concern—really I do—but I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, but this could be
different.”

“I’m a big girl, Ben. With a badge and a gun
and bullets and everything.”

“I just dunno… What if–”

She cut him off. “I can take care of myself.
Think about it… I took you to the mat, didn’t I?”

“Two outta three falls.”

“Well?”

“It’s that one outta the three that worries
me, hon.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I let
you win that time. I didn’t want you to feel totally emasculated by
a woman who’s more than a foot shorter than you.”

“Dammit, I’m serious, Constance.”

She puffed her cheeks as she blew out a
protracted breath, then answered, “I know you are. But I’m serious
too. I can take care of myself and you know it. Besides… This is
all just speculation at this point. I’m not even sure there’s a
cover-up, but even if there is, there have been too many agents
involved before me, and they’re all still alive and kicking. If
there’s a danger in this, it will most likely be to my career, not
my life.”

“Jeezus…” he moaned. “I still don’t like it.
Not at all.”

“Don’t worry so much,” she appealed. “Just
see what info you can get for me. Maybe then I’ll know where I
stand.”

“Yeah… Okay… Let me make some calls. I dunno
how quick this is gonna happen with it bein’ a holiday, especially
if I gotta fly low. I’m prob’ly gonna hafta call in some
markers.”

“I understand. But the sooner the
better.”

“Yeah… Always is.”

“Okay… Well, I have some leads to follow up,
and then I need to try to grab a nap. We’re staking out the repeat
crime scene tonight,” she said.

Ben huffed out a sympathetic sounding snort.
“Hell of a way ta’ spend Christmas Eve.”

“Tell me about it,” Constance agreed.

“How late can I call ya’ back? Don’t wanna
interfere.”

“You’re probably good up till ten.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’ll try to check in later if I don’t hear
from you first.”

“You’d better,” he returned. “Ya’ got Kevlar
with ya’?”

“Of course. It’s out in my trunk.”

“Damn lotta good it’s doin’ ya’ in there,” he
spat.

“Don’t worry so much.”

“Get the vest outta the trunk and wear it,
hear me?”

“I will.”

“And watch your back, okay?”

She sighed. “Stop worrying… I need to go…
Later…”

“Yeah… Later…”

Constance started to pull the phone away from
her ear then pressed it back up and said, “Oh… Wait… Are you still
there?”

She heard a quick fumble then his voice came
back on the line, a bit of sudden concern evident in the tone.
“Yeah, I’m here, what is it?”

“Nothing really important. I just have a
weird question. Kind of a riddle someone asked me,” she explained.
“What would you say is ‘heavy symbolism of the Christmas
season’?”

She lied about the importance. She was
already asking him to do enough, but if the searches set off any
flags, he shouldn’t be the one to take the heat; it would come down
on her. However, she had no idea what was in that hidden file or
from whom it had come. If it turned out that it was something she
wasn’t supposed to be seeing, then it was definitely not something
Ben should know about. She wanted to keep that brand of trouble
contained to herself if possible. Besides, she didn’t need him
rushing up here to save her right now.

“Heavy?” he snorted. “That’s easy. My
Lieutenant’s wife’s godawful homemade fruitcake.”

C
HAPTER
21

AFTER
thumbing the ‘end’ button on her
cell, Constance quietly stared across the narrow space between
where she was sitting on the corner of the bed and the desk that
was positioned against the opposite wall. Her notebook computer sat
there waiting, the screen empty and dark at the moment because the
unit had finally dropped into standby mode due to inactivity. It
mimicked her blank stare, patiently awaiting a key press or even a
quick tap on the touch pad to bring it to life. While it was only a
few feet away in physical distance, for all the bad luck she’d had
with cracking the encryption key thus far, the gulf might as well
have been countless miles.

And now that she had reached out for help,
all Ben had to offer was “fruitcake.”

That was definitely one she hadn’t tried. But
then, it had nine characters, not eight. Not to mention it really
didn’t jibe with the theme of the song to which the mysterious file
was attached. Things like silver and gold decorations, shepherds,
kings, and all of the other associated religious myth surrounding
the Christmas holiday. She had exhausted those clues to the best of
her ability, using kludged together pieces of the lyrics, and even
going so far as to try various permutations of—and words from—“The
Christmas Story” in the books of Matthew and Luke, but she still
had no luck. She was pretty sure she had tried all of the secular
options even remotely related to the song by now as well—all of
them that she could think of, anyway.

She could probably have given him some
guidance by throwing the song out there too, but doing so might
have led to questions, and it wasn’t easy for her to lie to him. In
the long run, the less he knew about that segment of this debacle,
the better. Besides, the song was really just a delivery vehicle.
There was nothing to say it was absolutely connected to the answer.
That was just a guess on her part.

She muttered, “But
fruitcake
?
Yeah…right,” and then she shook her head and sighed.

After a handful of minutes spent staring off
into space, she stood and deposited her cell phone onto the desk
next to the computer, then proceeded to make the bed. She had
placed a standing “do not disturb” request with the office when
she’d checked in, as was her SOP while working. It was just safer
for everyone concerned that way.

Before heading out for breakfast, she had
tucked all of the carefully sorted reports into her suitcase, out
of sight, just in case the housekeeper didn’t get the message about
the DND or the wind took off with the door hanger. None of the
information she currently had was sensitive, otherwise she would
have taken it with her. However, being
not sensitive
didn’t
necessarily make any of it fit for public consumption either.

She dug out the semi-ordered stack of paper
and began systematically arranging the different parcels of
documents atop the now mostly smoothed comforter. She had no idea
what a third run through was going to do for her at this point,
other than confuse the issue more, of course. Nothing at all seemed
to add up where any of these murders were concerned. A locked,
empty house with no forced entry. Not only that, a locked, empty
house with no forced entry and cops watching it inside and out. But
like magic, out of nowhere, a body appears—or parts of one, to be
more accurate.

Magic. That’s exactly how it seemed.

The thought made Constance recall an old
trick her brother used to do back when they were kids. He used a
prop called a
Lippincott Box
, and he would make a borrowed
coin or ring disappear from a handkerchief and then reappear inside
the locked container, right in front of your nose, much to the
amazement of family and friends.

Looking at the individual reports now, it was
as if the house on Evergreen Lane was itself a giant
Lippincott
Box
and the killer a stage magician doing one show per year for
a very select audience. The only problem was that the victims
weren’t inanimate objects, and there was more going on behind the
scenes than simple sleight of hand.

There was another puzzle within a puzzle
too—the victims themselves. There were seven men dead and not a
single ID made on any of them in all these years. Except for the
external genitalia, all of their body parts were accounted for,
meaning they had to have fingerprints and dental impressions—or
they should. That was something else sorely lacking from any of the
files. No autopsy reports, no ten-print cards, and not even a
close-up photo of any of the faces. Why?

It just didn’t make sense. Especially with
the bureau involved. This wasn’t shoddy investigative work; this
was deliberate. More than that, it was a manufactured nightmare
with strings attached, because someone else was going to die if she
didn’t wake up and figure it out.

She was feeling like she’d been told to go
sit in the corner and play solitaire and to not come out until
she’d won; but as some kind of sick joke she had been handed an
incomplete deck of cards to use. For all intents and purposes, that
was exactly her situation. The SAC had to have known what she was
up against, and moreover what was
not
in that envelope when
he handed it to her. Then there was the fact that this assignment
had possibly come out of DC, with her name at or near the top of
the short list.