M Sellars - Love Is The Bond

She reached into her pocket and extracted the two compact flash cards then dropped them into Ben’s palm.

“That all of it?”

“Detective Storm,” the agent spoke up.

“Just a minute,” he snapped in return. “Felicity?”

“Yes, that’s all of it,” she replied. “Rowan, give him the log.”

I handed over the small notebook but kept my mouth shut.

Ben stepped back and scanned the activity on the parking lot then yelled, “Yo! Harrison. Over here.”

Across the way, a tousle of blonde hair poked up from beneath a trunk lid. The young woman was turned away from us and was wearing a jacket emblazoned with the words “CRIME SCENE UNIT” across the back. She turned around, and with a confused expression creasing her face, she pointed at herself and mouthed the word “me.”

“Yeah, you,” Ben yelled. “C’mere.”

“Detective Storm,” the FBI agent started in again. “You need to consider…”

“Fuck that,” he spat. “What I need ta’ consider is that I called ya’ in as a courtesy since the stiff is a federal judge. Other than that, it’s still a homicide that falls under local jurisdiction, and right now Major Case is gonna handle it. You wanna help, great. You wanna take over, fuck off.”

“Yes, sir?” the young woman spoke up at Ben’s side, interrupting before the agent could respond.

He turned to her immediately. “Yeah, look, Harrison…”

“Detective Storm!” the agent demanded.

Ben glared back and held up a finger as he declared, “I’m talkin’ ta’ Harrison right now.”

“Huddleston, sir,” the woman offered.

My friend looked back to the woman, creased his brow, shook his head, and then said, “What?”

“My name is Huddleston, sir. Not Harrison.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” he replied with a dismissive wave. “I need ya’ ta’ take these to Murv. Tell ‘im to bag ‘em and process ‘em.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied as he handed the cards and log to her.

“…And stop callin’ me sir. You’re makin’ me feel old.”

As she hurried off we heard her reply, “Yes, sir.”

“Now,” Ben continued, turning back to the FBI agent. “You were sayin’?”

“Detective Storm, we assumed that since you called us, we could count on your cooperation.”

My friend planted his hands on his hips and gave a quick nod. “Cooperation, yeah. Rollin’ over and playin’ dead, fuck no. Once we get the pictures processed out, you want copies, no problem.

“Now if you wanna go in there right now and make your own scrapbook, have at it, but ya’ better get a move on before the coroner pulls the body.”

“Detective,” the agent attempted to reason with him, “As you said, you are dealing with a federal judge here. Hammond Wentworth is a very influential individual, and there are circumstances here that should remain confidential.”

“Listen, Agent…?”

“Drew.”

“Agent Drew, what ya’ got here ain’t circumstances, it’s a DEAD federal judge. He’s not gonna influence anybody anymore.”

“There is still the matter of how and where he was found,” Drew objected.

Ben was starting to get angry now. “This ain’t like sweepin’ another vice bust under the rug. This is a homicide.”

“I’m aware of that, but I’ve been in there. I know what the situation is. Those photographs could be very embarrassing…”

“Is that all you’re worried about?” Ben snapped.

“No, not entirely, but they are definitely an issue.”

“Well, don’t get all worked up about it,” my friend replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. “I’ll make sure we wait a few days before we put ‘em out on the fuckin’ internet, now why don’tcha go chase a terrorist or somethin’.”

“Thanks for not handin’ over the pictures to the Feebs,” Ben said to Felicity.

“Aye, no problem,” she replied. “I wasn’t about to.”

“Where’s Constance anyway?” I asked. “She wouldn’t have dreamed of getting pushy like that.”

I was referring to Constance Mandalay, an FBI special agent we had worked with several times in the past. Upon our first encounter, she had been much like Agent Drew. In fact, she was even worse. Within the course of that first investigation, however, she had done a complete about-face. She went from being a hard-nosed femme fatale out to prove herself to being a good and trusted friend. And in Ben’s case, ever since his divorce, she had become something even more.

“Talked to her last night. She’s still in D.C. Will be till the end of the week prob’ly.” He let out a harrumph before saying, “Yeah, I’d sure as hell rather be workin’ with her on this. But even if she was here right now, they’d most likely assign someone else.”

“So that means you two are still seeing each other then?” Felicity asked.

“Off and on, yeah,” he shrugged. “Right now. Kinda on. She’s been in D.C. for damn near a month though, so it makes it kinda hard.”

“Sorry.”

He shrugged again. “Nothin’ ta’ be sorry ‘bout.”

We were standing next to my friend’s Chevrolet van, keeping out of the way while waiting for the medical examiner to clear the scene. The vehicle was in far better shape than it looked from the outside, and he went to great pains to keep it that way. The side door was presently locked in the open position, and Felicity was perched just inside on the floorboard, putting away her camera equipment.

After a brief quiet I switched the subject. “So, you were right, Ben. Something’s definitely off kilter in there.”

“You go Twilight Zone?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, but that didn’t keep me from feeling some things. Felicity too.”

“Yeah, I keep forgettin’ that you get all freakazoid on me now, too,” he said, looking over at my wife.

“Once, Ben. Just one time,” she stressed without looking away from the task at hand.

“That’s enough for me,” he replied. “So whatcha get?”

“There was definitely sex involved,” I offered.

“Well yeah,” he grunted. “That was kinda obvious. Wentworth, or somebody, shot his wad all over the floor looked like.”

“There’s more than that,” Felicity interjected, looking up. “It’s something palpable… Still.”

I knew what she was implying with that last word, even if Ben didn’t.

“I hate to tell you two this, but if ya’ walk in any one of these rooms, it just plain smells like sex. That’s nothin’ new. They don’t rent rooms by the hour here for corporate conferences if ya’ know what I mean.”

“Aye, but this is different,” my wife added.

“Different how?” he asked.

“Intensity. Urgency.” Felicity shook her head.

He shrugged. “Okay. But like I said, that’s all kinda obvious just from lookin’ at the scene. Got anything else?”

“Fear,” I offered. “Or lack thereof, I should say.”

“Come again?”

“From the looks of things, he was executed, right?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s how it looks.”

“Well, if someone had me bound, blindfolded, and a gun in my mouth, I’d be terrified,” I offered.

“Join the club,” he said.

“That’s just it, Ben,” Felicity told him. “There was no fear in that room. Only arousal.”

“How do ya’…” He shook his head as he caught himself and allowed the rest of the sentence to fade away. “Forget it. So there was no fear, eh?”

“None,” I confirmed.

“And that tells us what?”

“I don’t know for sure,” I answered with a shrug.

“Yeah, well no offense, but I think ya’ know what I’m gonna say ta’ that.”

I nodded. “Uh-huh. It doesn’t help.”