Phoenix Feather (17 page)

He and Jess entered the interview room. Bryan took the seat across from Syler while Jess stalked around behind him. The guy edged closer to the table, unsettled by her stance.

If only criminals could imagine detectives going home after work and rolling around on the floor with nieces and nephews, we’d lose all power in an interrogation.
Bryan had to hide his amusement. Jess was good with the predator routine, like a lioness eyeing her prey, but only willing to toy with it and never go in for the kill. Bryan played it more like a rabid dog, barking and snapping, until the suspect was afraid he might get rabies.

“Franky, you’re a busy little business man,” Bryan said nonchalantly, and flipped through the pages of the file.

Franky let out a stuttering chuckle, and then turned his face to stone. “I want a lawyer.”

Bryan flipped the folder closed with extra force. “No problem. Tell him we’re adding four counts of murder to the charge.” He and Jess headed for the door.

“Murder?” Franky exclaimed. “Whoa, I’ve got nothing to do with that.”

“Hey,” Jess snapped. “Shut up. We can’t talk to you without your lawyer now.”

“No, no wait!” Franky’s voice hit the right pitch for them to know he was serious. They turned around casually to face him.

“Are you taking it back?” Bryan asked, feigning confusion. “You don’t want a lawyer anymore?”

“No! No lawyer. I didn’t commit any murders.”

Bryan sat down again and Jess leaned against the side of the mirror, boring her eyes into Franky. “Well, there is a problem with that, Franky,” Bryan said. “You see, we found car parts in your shop that belong to these four cars.” He pulled out photos of the victims’ vehicles and laid them on the table. “And these four cars belong to these four women.” He pulled out the headshots taken on the autopsy table. Bryan shrugged. “You have to admit, this does not look good for you.”

“So let me ask you, Franky,” Jess said. “Did you kill them for their cars, or have you found a new hobby?”

“I didn’t know about this.” He shoved the pictures away. “I just strip the cars.”

“I believe you,” Bryan said, sounding sympathetic. “So who brought you the cars?”

Franky ran his hands over his head. “A guy. He likes to be called Skid, but I think his real name is Scott. I don’t know his last name, I swear!”

“Does he work for you?” Jess asked.

“No.” Franky scrunched his nose in distaste. “He’s a wannabe, plays around on the drug scene. A couple months ago he comes in and says he has a car he wants to unload and wants to know how much I’ll pay for it. I check out the car, pay him some cash, and that’s it. Then he comes by again, three times. I didn’t know where the rides came from.”

“What’s his last name?” Bryan asked.

“I don’t know! Come on, man, you know in my world we don’t go for those kinds of details.”

“What does he look like?”

Franky leaned back. Sweat had started breaking out along his forehead. “Uh, tall, blond, muscular, like a Scandinavian soccer player.”

“Can you describe him to a sketch artist?”

Franky jiggled his leg under the table. “What do I get?”

Jess kicked the side of the table. “You get to not be charged as an accomplice.”

Bryan tapped the edge of one of the autopsy photos on the table.

Franky looked at it and cringed. “Okay, okay.”

Bryan gathered the pictures up and put them back in the folder. Thompson waited outside. “Thanks, man,” Bryan said.

Thompson nodded. “I’ll have my guys interrogate the others we arrested, see if any of them can give additional information on this Skid.”

“I’ll contact Narcotics, see if they’ve heard the street name before,” Jess said.

Bryan beat the folder in his hand rhythmically. “With our guy’s favorite disposal site gone, he’ll need another. I’ll put out some calls to other departments, see what they can find on other chop shops between here and Lynnwood.”

The three of them went to work with a renewed energy. They finally had a name. A first name only at this point, which would make him harder to find, but a name nonetheless.

Chapter Fifteen

Trent climbed into the engine cab and got on the radio with Frank, who was back at the station.

“ES 17 passed inspection,” he said. It was one of the better elementary schools in the area. The more money they had, the more care they took with their students and property.

“High school next?” Frank asked.

“Yeah.” Trent marked off notes on the paperwork as Sam climbed into the driver’s seat and Keith into the back.

“Finally,” Sam sighed. “Why do these kids always have to come up and ask what we’re doing? I like the high school better; they all mind their own business.”

Trent shook his head. Sam always complained about kids, but he never acted rude to them, so Trent thought there had to be some compassion in there somewhere.

“Tell Sam he can do firehouse tours for the next six months until he likes the children,” Frank said over the radio.

Sam scowled.

“You know the feelings between him and the kids are mutual?” Trent suggested.

“Got a call,” Frank interrupted. “Emergency Medical Response: reported difficulty breathing.” Frank relayed the address. They were close, and would probably arrive first.

Sam started the engine and put on the sirens while Trent and Keith grabbed the gloves and masks they’d need to assess the patient. They were on scene in three minutes, outside a small coffee shop where someone was sitting on the ground surrounded by three concerned bystanders.

“Step back, please,” Keith said, and tried to nudge them out of the way.

Trent wedged himself past the onlookers and froze for a split second. Chris sat on the concrete sidewalk, face pale, his breathing shallow. It hadn’t even clicked in his mind that the address was only a few blocks from Chris and Phoebe’s apartment. Where were the girls? Trent knelt beside Chris and began checking for injuries.

Keith pulled out a clipboard to write down information. “What’s your name?”

“Chris…Anders,” he rasped.

“I know him,” Trent said. “Chris, can you tell us what happened?”

“I was on my walk. I got dizzy very fast, and the next…thing I knew…I was on the sidewalk.”

Trent checked his pulse; it pounded faster than normal. He checked Chris’s airway. It was clear, but his breathing came in labored gasps.

“Do you have any medical conditions?” Keith asked.

Trent stopped and exchanged a look with Chris.

“I’m dying of cancer.” He tried to smile as if it were a joke.

“Ambulance is a minute out,” Sam relayed.

“Trent.” Chris reached up and grabbed his elbow. “I didn’t expect it to be so soon…” Fear glimmered in his eyes now, and it threatened to be contagious.

“Hold that thought,” Trent said firmly. “I’m not a doctor. Where are Phoebe and Aidan?”

“Campus. Aidan’s…class, and Phoebe’s meeting with her thesis…advisor.”

“I’ll call them.” Trent looked up; the ambulance had arrived. The EMTs went to work putting in an IV line while Keith filled them in on the information he and Trent had already recorded. Trent had to step back, not because he wanted to—he would have stayed by Chris’s side—but the paramedics needed room to work. It couldn’t be this soon, he thought.
Not before Christmas.
He didn’t want to panic. His job relied on him maintaining a clear head in all types of crises. But that was his friend being placed on a stretcher, and it was very hard to keep his mind away from the nightmarish possibilities that were trying to break in and drown him.

“Trent,” Sam said. “Frank said go ahead and ride with the medics. We’ll clean up here and pick you up at the hospital.”

Trent could only manage to nod and squeeze Sam’s shoulder to convey his gratitude. He climbed into the back of the ambulance and assisted the paramedic with hanging the fluid bag and putting an oxygen mask on Chris. He still looked pale. He had a fever, which could have several meanings, and Trent was trying not to speculate. He got out his cell phone to call Aidan. Phoebe might have been the more appropriate choice, but Trent worried about her reaction and wanted Aidan there with her.

Chris pulled the mask off. “I don’t want to scare them. Lie. Tell them I slipped.”

Trent put the mask back on and gave Chris a stern look. “I don’t need that kind of ire.”

“You’d survive,” Chris said wryly.

“You’d get more pity.”

Chris moaned and tugged at the mask again.

Trent fixed his hand over Chris’s. “Keep it on.” With his other hand he dialed Aidan.

***

Her phone vibrated again. Aidan grimaced, and tried to covertly get it out of her bag. Even off to the side at the assistant’s desk, her movements were conspicuous. She frowned. Three missed calls from Trent. He knew she was in class…her heart rate quickened and she ducked out the side door, punching the redial as she went.

“Aidan?” He sounded serious—too serious.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You need to get Phoebe and come to Northwest Hospital’s emergency room. I don’t want you to panic, but Chris is on his way there now.”

It felt as though Aidan’s heart stopped beating.

“He passed out on his walk,” Trent continued. “He’s conscious and he’s not hurt, so we’ll just see what the doctors say.”

Aidan couldn’t speak. The floor dropped out from under her, her knees wobbled, and her lungs constricted without enough oxygen.

“I’ll be there,” Trent said.

He waited for her to be the one to hang up, which she finally did. She snuck back into class, grabbed her bag, and left; she’d explain to the professor later. She dialed Phoebe as she hurried across campus to the Psychology department. Phoebe would probably ignore her phone as well, in which case Aidan would just barge through the door to get her attention.

What was happening? She hadn’t thought to ask Trent. She supposed he wasn’t able to tell her much or he would have already, even though she had been practically comatose for the last part of the phone call. It hadn’t even been two months yet! What else could be cause for someone to go to the hospital? Aidan mentally kicked herself. Today her so-called superior mind failed to come up with an answer.

She found the hallway of offices and scanned the name plaques on the door. Again, her brain was fuzzy on remembering Phoebe’s professor. She spotted another student making their way down the hall and stopped them.

“I’m looking for Phoebe. Which office is she in?” At the grad level, all the students in the same department knew each other. The girl pointed to the one at the end of the hall. Aidan spurred forward and cracked the door. Despite the urgency, she did not want to make a scene. She caught confused looks as Phoebe and her professor looked up in surprise.

“I’m sorry. Phoebe, it’s important.”
 

Phoebe, who was much more prone to worrying, jumped up, her eyes betraying what she already thought might be the problem. She gave a hasty goodbye to her advisor and slipped out into the hall with Aidan.

“What’s happened?” she hissed, barely keeping her voice low enough to not raise alarm behind her.

Aidan’s level-headedness came swimming back to her now that it had to for someone else. She put her hands up in a gesture to calm Phoebe. “He’s on his way to the hospital.” Aidan’s voice came out much steadier than the thoughts in her head. “Trent’s there, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong yet.”

Phoebe’s bag started to slip from her shoulder. Aidan grabbed the bottom to hold it up until Phoebe readjusted the strap. “Is it bad?”

“He passed out. Trent didn’t sound upset. He just wanted to let us know to come down.” Aidan took Phoebe’s elbow. “I’ll drive.”

They hurried across campus to the lot Aidan had parked in that morning. She tossed her book bag into the backseat and started the engine before she’d gotten her seatbelt latched. They both remained quiet as Aidan pushed yellow lights and took tight turns around corners. Neither wanted to give voice to the horrors racing through their minds.

They arrived at the hospital and drove around the parking lot for ten minutes looking for a free space. Those precious minutes, trivial in any other circumstance, were now agonizing. Aidan could see Phoebe’s fingers growing whiter as they clutched her bag.

Please, just one space.

They finally found one. They half-ran across the lane to the emergency room entrance. Trent stood in front of the Restricted Access doors, waiting for them.

“Is he okay? What’s happening?” Phoebe blurted out.

Trent took her by the arms to steady her shaking. “He’s fine. It’s the flu.”

Aidan felt relief wash over her. The flu. That didn’t sound anything like her horrific explanations.

“He’s got a fever and he’s dehydrated,” he continued. “They’ve got him on an IV and some medicine. They’ve run some tests to check on everything else, but the doctor thinks he just got rundown really fast and bed rest will fix it.” He waited for that to sink in and for Phoebe to calm down before he let her go. “He’s in Curtain Two.”