Scott Rye

1

Suzanne Morley glanced down at her wristwatch to calculate her pace. Nine fifteen. Not bad but not what she wanted. Nine nine would be better, so she kicked it up a quarter of a notch.

Legs pumping smoothly, breath coming easily, a light sheen of perspiration on her arms, legs, and chest. The sun felt good on her face. It was high enough above the horizon not to blind her, plus, she’d be making the turn on her regular loop in just over a mile. The sun would be at her back then for the remainder of the run. This part of the run was perhaps her least favorite because it put her on Perdido Key Drive with its traffic, but the view was spectacular. Plus, it was only a couple of quick miles. The rest of her run would take her through protected neighborhoods on the back side of the island.

Suzanne ran three days a week, two short runs of five miles each and one long run of ten miles, unless the weather made it absolutely impossible, and that was a rarity. Practically had to be a hurricane to keep her from her run. She trained in the gym twice a week—hit it hard—took a long walk once a week and took one day off from training, usually rewarding herself by lounging by the pool or on the beach. The gym and the walk were fine, both part of Suzanne’s disciplined training plan, as was her strict diet, but it was the running she had come to love. Prince, her big chocolate Lab, accompanied Suzanne on her short runs. Wednesdays were reserved for long runs, though, and ten miles was too far for the dog. Suzanne was proud of how far she’d come with her training. At thirty-five, she’d been a pampered and slightly bored housewife, an occasional tennis player whose muscles had gone soft and who found herself winded after sprinting for a ball. Now, at forty-three, she was in the best shape of her life. She had run three marathons, four half marathons and a number of 10K races. Her arms looked better than most men’s, her stomach was hard and flat, and her legs were the shapeliest they ever had been. People told her she looked ten years younger than she really was.

The painter saw Suzanne up ahead to his left. She looked the same as she always did, eyes straight ahead, arms loose, running smoothly. She was wearing a black jog bra and form-fitting black running shorts, her mahogany hair held in place by a sun visor. As he passed her, he discreetly admired the muscles in her arms and legs. “Bitch is strong,” the painter said to himself, and he grinned, delighted by the feeling that he possessed a naughty secret. He drove past the woman and began humming a little tune.

Suzanne paid no attention to the van in the far lane as it passed her headed east. She stared straight ahead, her eyes on the far horizon, breathing steadily, playing the little numbers games she always did as she ran, counting steps, counting her breaths, aware of but not looking at the glittering waters of the Gulf off to her right, the undulating white dunes on both sides, focused on what lay ahead, always focused on where she was going, not on where she was at the moment. Suzanne was always pushing ahead.

The painter pulled onto the shoulder of the road but left the engine running. He stepped down from the cab of the van and pulled open the sliding door, rummaging around among a scattering of tools for a moment before retrieving what he wanted. Careful not to look back down the road, he turned instead and squatted by the front tire.

Suzanne saw the van pull off the road up ahead and the driver get out. He was wearing what looked like dirty coveralls. Then he was fooling with the front tire. Must’ve had a flat. Later, she would wonder why it hadn’t seemed strange to her that the van had crossed the oncoming lane to pull over. The van looked like any number of similar vehicles that always seemed to be on Perdido Key these days, ferrying workers to and from construction sites. And prior to that, the ubiquitous vans had shuttled workers hired by one of the big oil companies to and from the beaches, monitoring for tar balls in the sand or foaming sludge washing up on the shore. The driver stood as Suzanne approached. He was still looking at the tire, an old-fashioned tire iron, one that looked like a big metal cross, in his hands. He glanced up and smiled at her as she neared.

“Where’s your dog today?” he asked in a soft voice.

The warning bells sounded immediately in Suzanne’s head. She made a ninety-degree turn away from the van in an effort to flee north, into the dunes, but a sudden and intense pain between her neck and right shoulder brought her crashing to her knees. She cried out once, and then it felt as if her entire body were on fire. Her face was in the sand; there was sand in her mouth and nose. She tried to resist but was unable to move. Suzanne felt herself being grabbed first by the hair and then under the arms, and then she was face down on a sheet of Visqueen, aware of the strong smell of paint. The man was kneeling on top of her, doing something to her wrists. Rough hands pulled a piece of duct tape across her mouth. Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut, a single thought running through her head. I am going to die. I am going to die. Oh, God, please don’t let me die.

* * *

Detective Lieutenant Nick Vargas sat in front of what had been his desk until a few days ago, aware for the first time of just how uncomfortable the hard plastic guest chairs were. He was doodling in a notebook instead of paying attention to the man seated across from him, Lieutenant George Goode. Goode was talking and had been for some time.

“Are you paying attention, Vargas?” Goode asked. “Because you don’t seem particularly interested in the fact that your situation has changed drastically and that your days here may be numbered.”

Vargas looked up from his doodling. Goode was a decade older than Vargas, possessed of a long nose set in a narrow face. His hair was thinning, a fact he tried to hide by means of a careful comb-over. Goode had come up through the ranks, but he was a pencil pusher. Word had it that he had suffered a beatdown by a suspect and had had his weapon taken away during a scuffle when he had been a patrolman. He had managed to get an administrative job after that and had been able to secure a series of desk jobs over the course of his career, which had included a stint in the Professional Standards Section, the Department’s internal affairs division.

Goode was acting officer-in-charge of the Pensacola Police Department’s Perdido Key precinct, its smallest and western-most precinct, and tasked with policing the newly established “Beat Twelve,” which included all but the western tip of the sixteen-mile-long barrier island.

Nick had been appointed the first officer-in-charge of the precinct, as much a punishment as it was a reward. He was a decent cop and a better detective, but his anti-authority attitude and willingness to cut corners had put him at odds with his boss in the Criminal Investigations Division, Captain Gordon Campbell. Rather than firing Nick, the chief of police had banished him to the underfunded precinct, saddling him with the Department’s dregs, but Nick now had been relieved as officer-in-charge, at least temporarily, due to a Professional Standards investigation. The division was looking into charges that Nick and another officer who later had been killed in the line of duty had been involved in a bar brawl in Warrington, an area best known for its taverns, tattoo parlors, pool halls, trailer parks and meth labs. The fight, in which Nick allegedly had failed to identify himself as a police officer, had resulted in the hospitalization of two men, one of whom now had brought a brutality lawsuit against the Department.

Goode was talking again. “The only reason that you’re not on suspension now is because of the Zimmerman case. And, frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if that didn’t warrant a second look.”

Nick looked up from his drawing again. He was good-looking in an exotic way. His paternal grandparents had fled to Florida from Spain back in the 1930s, but Nick had inherited his dark good looks from his mother, Marina, a Ukrainian national of Tatar descent. The look he now gave Goode was anything but pleasant.

“The State Attorney ruled the shooting justified. Case closed. The guy was a professional hitter. He killed at least seven people that we know of, including one of our own. Three of them right here on Perdido Key, two in town and two in South Florida. Given the opportunity, I’d put him down again.” Nick snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

Goode blinked at Nick and considered him for a few moments before speaking again. “Look, Vargas, I don’t know how long I’ll be the OIC here. I don’t know how long you’ll be assigned here, but the fact is, I’m in charge now. You’ve been running this place in the most haphazard manner I’ve ever seen.”

He looked down at a printed schedule on the desk in front of him. “You haven’t rotated your officers’ schedules once. You’ve had…” He glanced down before continuing. “… Jones… on nights since you started operations here. You can’t keep the same officer on nights forever.”

“Officer Jones prefers nights. He’s my weak link. He stays on nights where the only harm he can do is to his cholesterol level.”

“You aren’t listening, Vargas. You’re not in charge any more. I want you to rewrite this schedule and move Jones to days. Put either…” Goode referred to the schedule once more. “Put either the newby when she reports or Morales on nights.” He pronounced the name as “more rails.” Goode pushed the schedule across the desk toward Nick.

“And I want all officers present at both the beginning and end of their shift. There appears to have been no proper passdown at lineup since the precinct was established.”

Nick shook his head. “George, there are three sworn officers here. Me and two patrol officers—three, once we get Officer Phillips’ replacement. Plus a single dispatcher who forwards her calls when she leaves for the day. We don’t need to do all that chickenshit stuff. We don’t have time for it…”

Goode had stiffened. “As long as I am your superior, you will refer to me as Lieutenant Goode. Now, go re-work this schedule.”

Nick stood. “You’ll never be my superior, George. Rework it yourself. Or stick it up your ass. Either way’s fine with me.”

He walked out, past Mabel, the dispatcher, who was now trying to put up at least a semblance of not having eavesdropped on the entire conversation.

Nick bent and petted Samovar, his black Labrador retriever that was still recovering from two gunshot wounds. Her vet had prescribed the equivalence of bedrest for the dog, and she spent her days lying on a sheepskin in the precinct’s main reception area. To allow her hindquarters to heal, Sam had to be supported by a canvas belly band that enabled her to walk and to squat without putting too much weight or pressure on her pelvis and back legs.

Once the vet had stopped the bleeding, Sam had not been in mortal danger, but there had been some question as to whether she would ever walk again. Sam seemed to comprehend the situation and, for a dog that lived to play fetch, run, and swim, she had been remarkably compliant, content to lie on the sheepskin and accept assistance when she needed to go out. And, despite the fact that both Mabel and Officer Noe “No Way” Morales slipped Sam treats throughout the day, she had been put on a strict dietary regimen and appeared to have slimmed down, the vet having expressed concern that any excess weight could delay or prolong the healing process.

Goode stood at his door, watching Nick. He started to speak, stopped, and then went ahead, probably against his better judgment but still attempting to assert his authority.

“That’s another thing, Vargas. This is not an animal hospital or a dog-sitting service. I like dogs as much as the next guy, but your dog is not a service canine. She has to go.”

Mabel stopped pretending to read her email and stared at Goode open-mouthed, hand at her collar. The phone rang, and Mabel made no attempt to answer it. No Way appeared in the doorway of the cramped office he now shared with Nick, his normally inscrutable features twisted into a mask of hostility.

Nick looked up from where he was squatting and still petting Sam. He smiled at the new OIC. “George, the last person to fuck with my dog wound up in the morgue.”

Goode’s face turned a deep shade of red. “Are you threatening me, Detective?”

Nick’s smile faded. “I’m telling you that this dog took two rounds for me. And nobody is going to remove her. End of story.”

He stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go out on patrol.”

Mabel had answered the phone and was listening to someone on the other end. She began snapping her fingers in Nick’s direction, but his back was towards her as he opened the door to leave.

The dispatcher put her hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece.

“Lieutenant!” she called.

Nick and Goode both turned and at the same time asked, “Yes?”

Mabel looked from Nick to Goode and then said, “A man just reported his wife as missing.”

Whatever he was, Goode was no detective. He motioned for Nick to take the call. Nick ducked back into the shared office and picked up. He spoke with the man, a Pensacola lawyer named Morley, who repeated to Nick that his wife was missing.

“How long has she been missing, Mr. Morley?” Nick asked as he reached for a pen and a fresh notebook.

“I’m not sure.”

“How’s that?”

“I mean, I don’t know when she went missing. I just know that she didn’t show up to take our maid home today.”

Nick put the pen down. “Can you clarify that, Mr. Morley?”

“Suzanne has a maid come in for half a day on Wednesdays and Fridays. Just to straighten up a little and do laundry, you know?” The man sounded defensive about having domestic help in the twenty-first century.

“Anyway, our maid lives in Belmont-DeVilliers. Suzanne runs in the mornings and then takes Gracie home after lunch. Only Suzanne never came back from her run.”

Nick looked at his watch. “Could she have stopped somewhere along the way? Gone to a friend’s house and let the time get away from her? It’s still fairly early.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Morley said. “Suzanne is very… driven. This is her long run day. She runs ten miles every Wednesday. You could set your clock by Suzanne’s schedule.”

“All right, Mr. Morley. Do you know your wife’s exact route?”

“What?”

“The route that your wife runs. You indicated that she sticks to a schedule. She must run the same route every Wednesday.”

“No. No, I don’t know her exact route. I just know that she runs the ten miles on Wednesdays and five miles on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Cross-training on Mondays and Fridays, you know. She runs marathons.”

Nick explained that, without conclusive evidence to the contrary, a person wasn’t considered missing until he or she had remained out of touch at least twenty-four hours.

“What about amber alerts, things like that?”

“Well, children are a different matter, Mr. Morley, surely you can understand that. Tell you what. Give me your address. I’ll stop by and speak to your maid. We’ll let our officers know to be on the lookout for your wife. Do you have a recent photograph you could email me?”

“No, nothing like that. Not at my office. Wait. Sure, I’m not thinking clearly. I can forward a couple of photos from Facebook. Would that work?”

“As long as the photos are recent and clearly show your wife’s face. A head-on shot works best.”

Nick gave Morley his email address, and Morley passed along his home address. “I’ll meet you there,” Morley said.

Nick rang off and then stuck his head in Goode’s door. He explained the situation.

Goode nodded. “Right. Go check it out. Take Officer Morales with you.” Once again, he mispronounced the patrolman’s name. “Better to respond to a false alarm than let the woman lie in a ditch somewhere for hours before starting the search.”

Nick nodded. “Okay… Lieutenant.”