Time of Death rb-2 Page 2

  ‘And what about his real father?’ said Robbie.

  ‘James Laker – presumed dead,’ said Ren. ‘It is believed he was killed in the fire that destroyed the compound.’ A sweet, kind man, used and abused, first by life and then by Domenica.

  ‘Now to number four on our list,’ said Ren. ‘Another of Domenica’s minions: Javier Luis, born 1973, five foot two, one hundred and sixty pounds. First-degree murder, attempted first-degree murder, aggravated robbery; drugs; rape, sexual assault on a minor…he went MIA from Domenica’s compound in 1998, just before the shit hit the fan.’

  Ren remembered Javier Luis. He was always dressed in concert T-shirts for bands he had never seen. He was not tall, so his shorts almost reached his ankles. His voice was nasal and whiny. He would look at Ren in a way that reminded her to shutter the windows at night and lock all the doors. She rarely spoke with him and, when she did, she kept it brief.

  ‘Finally,’ said Ren, ‘number five, Erubiel Diaz, Latino, DOB 12/10/58, one of Domenica’s shit shovelers.’

  She pointed at the photo.

  ‘This roidy little man was involved in the H2S lab – as a gofer, not a scientist, so that qualifies him for our hit list,’ said Ren. ‘He’s violent, a probable rapist and every daytime chat show’s favorite – a dead-beat dad. He was ratted out by his ex-wife four months ago for showing up in Denver, penniless, trying to see his kids. And off the record? He tried to assault me late one night in the parking lot of the Brockton Filly in Breckenridge and I—’

  ‘Kicked the living daylights out of him?’ said Robbie.

  ‘All the way to Frisco Medical Center,’ said Ren.

  ‘Where he told everyone he was attacked by a man,’ said Gary.

  ‘He was,’ said Colin.

  Ren rolled her eyes. ‘Diaz obviously didn’t know at the time that I was an agent, but I let him know when I paid him a visit in the Summit County Jail, where he was being held for failure to pay child support. I couldn’t let the sheriff there know what Diaz had done to me because then the sheriff would know what I had done to him. So Diaz was released, we had nothing on him. But after he’d gone we found out that he had been working for Domenica Val Pando.’ She paused. ‘And probably still is. So, right now, although he is a little lower in the pecking order, I believe that Erubiel Diaz may well be our golden ticket.’

  3

  Gary walked back into the office. ‘All done?’

  ‘Yup,’ said Ren.

  ‘Number one on our Fifty Most Wanted,’ said Gary, pointing to a photo of a man with long, thin, greased-back hair, balding at the front. He had fuck-you eyes and a nose that looked broken, re-set and broken again. His face was hollowed out. He had two shaven patches of white hair high on each cheekbone and a downturned slit for a mouth. ‘This piece of shit,’ said Gary, ‘is Jonah Jeremiah—’

  ‘Jim Jams,’ said Ren.

  ‘Jonah Jeremiah Myler,’ Gary finished, ignoring her.

  ‘Priiiceless,’ said Ren.

  ‘Caucasian, DOB 08/12/57,’ said Gary. ‘Myler springs up in a different city every few months, preying on vulnerable teens and setting up short-lived “cults”. He grooms the kids for sex. He has young followers, so he gets them out on the streets. And he waits behind the scenes for the disenchanted youth to show. They may not always use the same name for their sect. Names to date: Crystal Wakenings, Army of the Risen, The Witness Gathering, Divine Seers of the Watchful—’

  ‘You are making them up,’ said Ren.

  ‘You couldn’t make them up,’ said Cliff.

  ‘And The Watchful what?’ said Ren. ‘That’s a lot of seeing and watching. The Watchful Observers. Divine Seers of the Watchful Crowd of Onlookers. Divine Seers of the Watchful Blind…’

  Gary ploughed on. ‘Don’t be fooled by Myler’s gaunt face. He’s not as feeble as he looks.

  ‘Next up is number two, Francis Gartman, African-American, DOB 01/15/83. First degree murder, aggravated robbery, drugs, sexual assault on a minor.’

  Gartman looked like someone had paused while inflating his head to allow him to pose for the photo. Every feature looked like it was about to blow.

  ‘Those eyes are completely vacant,’ said Ren. ‘Soulless.’

  ‘Gartman is a former boxer,’ said Gary, ‘which translates in his case into giant man, huge strength. He’s had enough blows to the head for his frontal lobe to have left the building.’

  Gary stepped back. ‘Not as dramatic in my delivery as Agent Bryce no doubt was, but there’s our top five. Knock yourselves out.’

  ‘Ren,’ said Colin. ‘Call for you on one. She wanted to speak with a female. She didn’t give a name.’

  Ren picked up the phone. ‘This is Special Agent Ren Bryce. How may I help you?’

  ‘My name is Catherine Sarvas. I’m calling from El Paso, Texas. I saw your Most Wanted List on line this morning…’

  Ren slid her notebook across her desk. She picked up a pencil. ‘And do you have something you’d like to tell me, ma’am?’

  ‘I…yes,’ said Catherine. ‘Yes, I have. I do. I…’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry…I thought I could do this.’

  She hung up.

  ‘Short call,’ said Robbie.

  Ren nodded. ‘Weird.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘To give me a little flicker of hope on a dreary Monday.’

  ‘Are you going to call her back?’

  ‘I’ll give her a little while. El Paso…What’s going on down there?’

  Ren spent Monday lunch-times in the offices of Dr Helen Wheeler. The psychiatrist all lunatics should have: intelligent, warm, caring, wore great shoes you could admire while avoiding your issues.

  Until Ren was diagnosed bipolar at twenty-six, she had never guessed that there was anything wrong with her. Mental illnesses were for the mentally ill. It seemed like one minute she was the youngest FBI agent to go under deep cover and blow apart an organized crime operation and the next, she was lying in her pajamas on the sofa, eating junk food, crying, not answering her phone, drinking, obsessing about all the regrets she had in her life, wondering what point there was in doing anything again. Ever.

  Her older brother, Matt, suggested she get help. But he already knew what was wrong with Ren. So he brought her to his computer one evening and gently opened a checklist on a psychiatry website that covered her symptoms: the despair, the exhaustion, the sofa, the hopelessness. Ren had looked up at Matt and shrugged. ‘That’s just depression, though. Everyone gets like that.’

  Matt had scrolled down to the mania checklist: I have lots of energy. I feel amazing. I want everyone else to feel amazing. I want to go out and party. I love everyone. I know everything. I feel creative. I’m working hard. I’m talking too quickly. I’m loud. I’m impatient. I’m exercising. I’m alert. I’m swearing. I’m invincible. I’m hypersexual. I’m overspending. Check, check, check, check, check…

  Ren had cried her heart out. ‘This is so depressing. My entire personality can be reduced to a checklist. If I buy lots of shoes, it’s because I’m nuts. If I’m having sex five times a day, it’s because I’m nuts. Me and two million other losers. And it’s not that I thought I was special or unique, but there is something so grim about fitting into this formula. It’s like we’re some fucked-up alien race. I mean, did you read all that shit? It affects every part of my existence. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t be fixed.’

  Matt had cried too and explained that it may not be fixable, but it was treatable. He told Ren that she was unique and smart and loving and funny and generous and all women have too many shoes and that she was beautiful and he loved her to bits. And she loved him too. Because Matt had also read that telling Ren all this could come back and bite him. Because there was a high risk that someone bipolar would shoot the messenger; at some point, maybe not the same day or maybe not the same year, they would turn to the person who wanted to help them the most and scream, ‘This is all your fault. If you hadn’t told me all
this, I would never have known, and I would have been happy just the way I was.’ And then they would scream, ‘You. Ruined. My. Life.’

  Before that year was out, Ren had fired every one of those razor-sharp words at Matt and they had struck his heart. Ren did, indeed, shoot the messenger. And with a true bipolar flourish, had come back six months later, laden with guilt and gifts, to apologize.

  Ren had tried different psychiatrists and psychotherapists since then, but when she met Helen Wheeler two years ago, Ren knew she had found her savior. Helen was in her early sixties, with a cultural awareness that spanned decades and created a bridge to all her patients. On Ren’s first visit, Helen had told her, ‘I am a psychiatrist, not a mind reader. What you tell me is what I will know about you. And you can leave your brave face at the door. If you’re having a bad day, my office is the perfect place to have it in.’

  Ren checked her watch as she waited to be called in to Helen’s office.

  Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up.

  Helen leaned her head out the door of her office. ‘Come on in, Ren,’ she said. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘I’m…good,’ said Ren, sitting down.

  Helen smiled. ‘OK…’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘Did you see the news? It’s Most Wanted time…which is fine. It’s just…this year, it’s got Domenica Val Pando on it and I feel I’m being taken back years and…’ She hung her head.

  Helen waited.

  ‘It’s just…’ said Ren, ‘I guess…I was diagnosed at the end of that assignment and some part of me, I know it’s not rational, but some part of me thinks that if it wasn’t for that, I would be fine, there would be nothing wrong with me. And then…then there’s another part of me – and it’s so screwed up – that wants to be back there, because I was oblivious, I didn’t know how lucky I was to be sane. Or at least to think I was sane.’

  Helen smiled at her. ‘Ren, you are sane. And those feelings are understandable.’

  ‘But what makes no sense is that paranoia is the worst part of bipolar disorder for me, yet undercover work is a whole world of paranoia. You are lying all day every day and you’re never sure if you’re going to be found out. Give me depression over paranoia any day. Because I just…I feel paranoia is what will ultimately bring me down.’

  ‘Ren, nothing is going to bring you down,’ said Helen. ‘You are in control of all of this. And you are not alone. You have an entire team working with you. Good people, from what you tell me. So, rely on them, Ren.’

  Ren nodded. ‘I can’t stop thinking about the assignment, though. I told this terrible story to gain someone’s confidence and get into her life – I sat on a park bench crying to Domenica Val Pando, telling her I had lost my four-month old baby…’

  ‘That is part of undercover work, Ren. You were doing your job.’

  ‘I know, but I look back sometimes and I think “How could I have done that?”’ Ren shook her head. ‘Nothing to do with Val Pando personally – she’s a piece of shit – just, me. How could I have done that?’

  ‘It was your job.’

  ‘I know it’s what I signed up to do,’ said Ren. ‘But I guess I get scared at how easy it was for me to do it. Undercover work is such a rush – the better you are, the greater the high. The more you find out, the more you want to find out. It’s addictive. You go to bed at night, you write notes, you give them to your contact agent. He’s making a case, he’s happy, you’re happy. But I was still playing the role of Remy Torres, a fake name in a fake life. She was like part-me, part-stranger. So…in a way, you never know what she’s capable of.’ She paused. ‘And when it’s over and you bring your real self into the equation, when you’re away from whatever group of dirtbags you’ve been investigating, you’re faced with how good a liar you were and how well you manipulated people. And you tell yourself that the ends justify the means. But sometimes the means just make you feel dirty.’

  ‘OK, take some breaths.’ Helen handed her a box of Kleenex.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ren. ‘Oh sorry, I’ve pulled out the whole lot. It must be a sign. I’ll be here weeping all day.’

  ‘I’m sponsored by Kleenex,’ said Helen. ‘It’s written on the back of my blouse.’

  Ren laughed through the tears. ‘I honestly don’t know why I’m crying.’

  ‘Ren,’ said Helen gently, ‘Remy Torres did not take you down with her. Here you are, Ren Bryce, over ten years on, successful, stable, still pursuing these people, not turning into them.’

  ‘Still pursuing,’ said Ren. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You are so hard on yourself,’ said Helen. ‘You’re doing great. Stop beating yourself up. Get back to that office this afternoon and kick some butt. Like you always do.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll try.’

  When the session was over and Ren was driving back to work, she could feel her anxiety drifting away. She smiled.

  Helen’s room always felt like the furthest room from the crazy house.

  4

  Ren walked back into the bullpen, took off her jacket and put her purse on the floor.

  ‘Did you all go out to lunch?’ she said.

  ‘Yup,’ said Cliff. ‘Someone’s got to feed these investigative brains.’

  Ren pointed to a brown paper bag at his feet. ‘Did you get anything wrapped to take home to your dog that you would now be willing to hand over to one of your hungry colleagues?’

  Colin rolled his eyes. He reached out to answer the phone on his desk.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ said Cliff. ‘It’s half a steak sandwich.’

  ‘I owe you,’ said Ren.

  She looked down at her file tray. ‘Hey, what’s this?’

  ‘I left it there for you,’ said Cliff. ‘It’s Francis Gartman’s alleged lady friend…’

  ‘Slash woman of the night.’ Ren looked at the picture, scanning the details.

  ‘Yup,’ said Cliff. ‘We need to find her.’

  Ren nodded. ‘Sure, I’ll take a look at this.’ She rested her left hand on the neatly folded waxed wrapping of the sandwich. She could smell steak.

  ‘She’s running scared,’ said Cliff.

  ‘Did someone call in?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cliff. ‘Her broken-hearted mama.’

  Ren sucked in a breath. She looked down at the photo of Natalie Osgood, the pretty African-American girl with the bruised, vacant eyes and the tousled red wig. ‘Sweetheart, let me find you before that piece of shit does.’ Ren pushed her finger under the fold in the paper and slid the sandwich toward her.

  ‘Ren,’ said Colin. ‘Line three. Sounds like your El Paso woman again.’

  I am not meant to eat today.

  ‘Hello,’ said Ren.

  ‘This is Catherine Sarvas again.’

  ‘Ms Sarvas—’

  ‘Mrs. I’m…married.’

  ‘Mrs Sarvas,’ said Ren. ‘Are you all right?’

  The woman let out a sob. She was struggling to breathe.

  Please don’t hang up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m so sorry for this.’

  ‘Please,’ said Ren. ‘There is no need to apologize. Please, take your time. I’ll listen to you whenever you’re ready to talk.’

  Catherine sucked in a breath. ‘Thank you.’

  Seconds passed.

  ‘I saw your Most Wanted list on the internet,’ said Catherine. ‘And I wanted to let you know…’ She started to cry. ‘Oh, God…I was raped.’

  Ren had heard women say that they were raped before and no matter how many times she heard it, it caused a visceral reaction – a recoil.

  ‘He is number five on your list,’ said Catherine.

  Number five. Ren glanced up at the board, for a moment forgetting the new order. Oh my God.

  ‘Erubiel Diaz,’ said Ren. ‘Number five, Erubiel Diaz.’

  ‘I recognize his face.’

  His hideous face. Ren’s hand hovered over the page. Every phone in the office seemed to be rin
ging. It felt disrespectful, the wrong place to listen to what Catherine Sarvas had to say. Ren pressed the phone to her ear. ‘Take your time, Mrs Sarvas.’

  Eventually, Catherine Sarvas spoke again. ‘Maybe you’ve heard about my family. My husband is Gregory Sarvas?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said Ren. ‘I’m not familiar with your husband.’

  ‘Oh…’ Another pause. ‘Eight months ago, my husband, Greg, was shot dead near our home in El Paso. He had been driving our sons home from school.’ She paused.

  Ren waited, but all she could hear was Catherine Sarvas’ breathing. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  She quietly typed Gregory Sarvas’ name into Google. Hundreds of hits. She did an image search. She clicked on one of the photos. It was a wide shot taken from behind a pale gold SUV with all its doors open. There was something beautiful and artistic in the angles and the light. Then the headlines: Murder. Shooting. Shot dead. Cold blood. Gunned down. The beauty and light of the photo was quickly gone.

  ‘Our sons…Luke and Michael…were in the SUV with Greg,’ said Mrs Sarvas. ‘They’re still missing…’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Sarvas.’ She glanced at one of the articles. Luke, 17, Michael, 15.

  ‘I can’t even…I can’t talk about my family right now,’ said Catherine ‘I…just wanted to…help.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘So…were you also there in the SUV? You were raped?’

  ‘No, no. It was two weeks before that.’ Catherine sucked in a breath. ‘I saw the photograph of that man on your list and I had to call. I came across it by accident. But I knew it was him, right away.’

  ‘Did you report the rape at the time?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t bear it. I was…’ Catherine started to sob.

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘It was so terrible,’ said Catherine. ‘He was waiting in the…it was so…’