James Swain - The King Tides

Daniels’s rental sat beneath a lonely palm tree. He popped the trunk to find a soft-sided leather briefcase lying atop a clothing bag. The briefcase’s flap had come open, and papers were spewed across the trunk. He started putting them back until a name across the top of a page caught his eye.

His own.

The hairs went up on the back of his neck. He got into the rental and started the engine, and with the AC blowing in his face, read the file Daniels had pulled on him.

She had left no stone unturned. There was a report dating back to his high school days that included his report cards plus write-ups of several disciplinary problems, including the time he’d toilet papered the school with his pals.

Next up were his service papers. His missions with the SEALs were classified and would remain that way, but Daniels had still managed to get her hands on psychological evaluations that had been conducted when he’d enlisted and the week before he’d been discharged, when the navy doctors had determined him mentally fit to return to society.

The navy doctors had taken a hard look at his last mission in Somalia. He’d embraced every part of being a SEAL and had hoped to be promoted to commander, until that fateful day when he’d shot a little Somali boy with explosives strapped to his body. While a member of his team dismantled the bomb, he’d tried to stop the boy from bleeding to death. The boy hadn’t pulled through and died in his arms.

He had been overcome with grief. In war, there were two options — you could run away, or you could fight. Only this poor kid didn’t have those choices. Either he would be blown to bits by the bomb strapped to his body, or a SEAL would shoot him to death.

It had haunted him. For days he’d lain awake at night, replaying the scenario to see if he could have handled things differently. He’d decided that he’d done the right thing. He’d saved the lives of his team, and no one could fault him for that. Yet it had still felt like he’d passed through the gates of hell, and he’d decided to leave the military.

Next were his police files. These were extensive. He’d worn a uniform for five years, and his performance had been reviewed by his superiors every six months. He’d been an undercover detective for ten more, where he had also faced six-month reviews. Daniels had gone through these reviews thoroughly and dog-eared the pages that contained complaints filed against him by citizens where there had been hearings. In each case, a panel had ruled in his favor, and the charges against him had been dismissed.

The last pages of his police files listed the various commendations he’d received during his time on the force. Being a SEAL had given him an edge when dealing with crisis situations, and he’d been decorated for bravery on three occasions. When he’d retired, his boss had written a letter praising his heroism and unselfishness. That was in his file too.

Last up were the missing kids’ cases he’d worked for Team Adam in the past two years. The team’s director had reviewed each of the investigations he’d handled and given him high praise. Except for the toilet paper incident, there were no black marks against him.

He stuffed the pages into the briefcase and went back inside. The elevator was temperamental, so he took the stairs to the second floor. As he reached the landing, he had an unpleasant thought. Daniels had read his files while flying to South Florida from DC. She knew that he’d served his country with distinction as a SEAL and been an exemplary policeman, yet had treated him like a criminal while she’d trashed his condo. Those two things didn’t go together, and made him wonder what her motivation had been.

He found the special agent by the vending machines on the second floor and handed her the briefcase.

“Anything turn up?” he asked.

“Yes. Rusty worked as a substitute teacher on Long Island twenty years ago and got caught fondling a kid,” she said. “The town where it happened is still in the process of transferring their paper records to digital, so it wasn’t in the NCIC database.”

“How does that change things?”

“It means I’m not going to cut him a deal.”

“Are you going to tell him that?”

“Hell no. I’m going to show him the torture photos of a young black girl, and get him to confirm they’re the same as the ones that Creepie sent to him. Then I’m going to search his place and get my hands on his computer. If I’m lucky, I’ll get an email address for Creepie and hunt him down.”

“Is Creepie the prize?”

“Yes, he is.”

“He’s a serial killer, isn’t he?”

“Right again.”

“And he has a partner.”

“Go to the head of the class.”

“You’ve been chasing this guy for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Too long.”

Every sting was designed to catch a certain criminal or groups of criminals. The Cassandra videos had been created with the sole purpose of catching a serial killer, and he finally understood what was behind Daniels’s fury. Serial killers never stopped killing, and each wasted hour or day could result in the loss of a victim’s life.

“What kind of soda did Rusty say he wanted?” Daniels asked.

“Diet Pepsi,” he said.

She bought a Diet Pepsi and then perused the snack selections.

“What do you think he likes to eat?” she asked.

“Get him a bag of Fritos,” he said. “If he doesn’t want them, I’ll eat them.”

Daniels bought the chips, and they walked down the hall to the interrogation room. She punched a code into the keypad, and the door clicked open. Rusty sat in his chair wearing the same dead expression. Daniels placed the snacks on the table, and his demeanor changed. Ripping open the bag, he began stuffing the chips into his mouth.

“You must be hungry,” Daniels said.

“Starving. I haven’t eaten since this morning,” Rusty said.

“Here’s what I’m going to do. When we’re done, I’ll buy you a sandwich from the Subway down the street. Does that sound like a plan?”

“That works for me.”

Rusty finished the chips and washed them down with the soda. The walls of resistance had lowered, and he was ready to play ball. Rusty mistakenly believed that by cooperating, Daniels would ask a judge to go light on him, but in fact the only deal he had was the one he’d made with the devil long ago.

Daniels opened her briefcase and removed a manila envelope. Out came five photographs of the black girl who’d been hog-tied. She placed them in a row on the table so they faced their suspect.

“Let’s get started,” the FBI agent said.

Daniels got a search warrant, and they set out for Inverrary Resort, where Rusty rented a one-bedroom. Lancaster was hungry, and he persuaded Daniels to pull into a McDonald’s, where he ordered a quarter pounder with cheese and a large fry.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” he asked.

“I’ll just pick at yours.” She filched a french fry and pulled out of the drive-through. “I noticed that you looked through my briefcase. Find anything of interest?”

“It wasn’t intentional. Your papers were all over the trunk, so I put them back.”

“You must have seen the background check I did on you.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“You’re quite the Boy Scout with all those medals and citations,” she said.

He placed the french fries beneath her nose. She grabbed several more and stuffed them into her mouth. She couldn’t talk with her mouth full, so he pressed her.

“You knew that about me before you came to my condo this morning,” he said. “Yet you still chose to treat me like a common criminal. I’d like to know what you saw in those reports that made you think I was a bad guy.”