James Swain - The Program

“How do you feel about that?”

Vick started to reply, then stopped. Rising from her chair, she went to the door, shut it, then sat back down. “DuCharme’s an asshole. He also thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Personally, I’d rather not work with him, but I think Moody has a valid point.”

“You don’t want DuCharme jeopardizing your investigation. Get rid of him the moment he starts acting up. Understand?”

Vick’s face reddened. She mumbled “Yes, sir.” and nodded stiffly. She acted flustered, and it made Linderman wonder if he’d made the right decision in turning the case over to her. There could be no hesitation or second-guessing when dealing with evil. He stared at the web site she’d created to catch their killer.

“I tracked down the person Mr. Clean called from the pay phone this morning,” he said. “His name is Eric Drake. He lives in Jacksonville, and works as a guard at Florida State Prison in Starke.”

“Mr. Clean called a prison guard?”

“Yes. According to Drake’s phone records, he’s received several hundred phone calls from Broward County over the past twelve months, all from different numbers and no number twice. A rather odd pattern, don’t you think?”

He watched Vick’s reflection in the computer screen. She started to reply, but bit her lip instead. He who hesitates is lost.

“Drake must somehow be connected to these crimes,” Vick said. “One of us needs to fly to Jacksonville, and talk with him.”

“I agree.”

Another pause. Come on .

“I think I should stay here, and monitor the web site traffic in case Mr. Clean posts a comment,” Vick said. “Would you feel comfortable interviewing Drake? I know that today is the anniversary of your daughter’s disappearance. I can get another agent to go if you’d rather be home with your wife.”

Did he want to be home with Muriel, sharing this miserable day? Or would he feel better putting the screws to a suspect, and not thinking about Danni? The answer was as obvious as it was uncomfortable for him to accept, and he rose from his chair.

“I’ll go,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He walked out of the office. She met up with him at the bank of elevators, and touched the sleeve of his jacket. The gesture reminded him of Muriel trying to break down his stony resolve, but never quite getting through.

“I’m sorry, Ken. I know this must be hard.”

“Thank you, Rachel.”

An elevator came. He stuck his foot in the door instead of getting on.

“I have a suggestion to make,” he said. “There’s an ex-cop named Jack Carpenter you should get in touch with. Carpenter once ran the Broward Sheriff Department’s Missing Persons Unit, but got kicked off the force for being an avenging angel. He specializes in tracking abductors. He might have some insights on Mr. Clean.”

“What kind of insights?” Vick asked.

The elevator door was trying to eat his foot. He kicked it hard, and sent the door back. “Mr. Clean is treating his victims well for a period of time, then killing them. That doesn’t follow any pattern I’ve ever seen. Maybe Carpenter will know what it means.”

“How do I find him?”

“Carpenter keeps an office over a bar in Dania called Tugboat Louie’s. Call the bar, and ask for him. Use my name if you’d like.”

“You said Carpenter’s an avenging angel. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term.”

“It’s someone who believes in justice more than the law.”

He stepped onto the elevator and hit the button for the ground floor. Vick remained in the hall, looking slightly bewildered. He wondered if he’d cut the cord too soon, and if she’d be lost without his guidance. He watched the door close in her face.

“I’ll call you once I land in Jacksonville,” he called out.

“Please,” Vick said.

The sun was setting as Vick pulled into Tugboat Louie’s. The press conference had gone smoothly. DuCharme had managed to talk for five minutes without stepping on his dick. The detective had announced the launching of the web site, and asked the public to help them catch Mr. Clean. It was the right message to be sending out, and Vick felt like she’d done everything she could to set a trap for their killer.

She crossed the parking lot smelling warm beer. It reminded her of her first weekend in college, when she’d drank so much at a party that she’d passed out. A roommate had told her this was a sign of alcoholism, only Vick had known otherwise. There had been no booze in her house growing up, her father a strict Baptist minister opposed to having fun. Getting shit-faced had been nothing more than a late awakening.

Louie’s was a madhouse. It was happy hour, and pretty young women were dancing on tables to the jukebox while men in suits wildly clapped their hands. A smiling middle-eastern man wearing a black bow tie and a white cotton shirt greeted her.

“Some ID, please,” the smiling man said.

It was not the first time Vick had been carded in a bar. The smiling man examined her credentials as if they might be fake, then handed them back.

“I’m looking for Jack Carpenter. I called earlier,” Vick said.

“Ah, yes. I remember you now.” He unhooked a chain in front of a narrow stairwell. “Go upstairs, last door on the right.”

She glanced into the bar before going up. U2's Joshua Tree was on the jukebox, and the place had gone wild. She tried to imagine herself dancing on a table with her skirt hiked up and a bottle of beer in her hand. Maybe in another lifetime, she thought.

Upstairs smelled like low tide. The door to Carpenter’s office was ajar, and she rapped lightly on the frame.

“Come on in,” a man’s voice said.

She pushed the door open with her foot. Jack the avenging angel stood at the window on the other side of the room, the lights from Louie’s marina dancing on his rugged face. Tall, lean and beach-bum handsome, he wore faded khakis and a Tommy Bahama shirt missing several buttons, his skin as bronzed as a penny.

“I’m Special Agent Vick. I called earlier,” she said.

“Is special your first name, or agent?”

“It’s Rachel.”

“I’m Jack. Nice to meet you. Make yourself at home.”

She shut the door behind her. A brown, tailless dog crossed the office and sniffed her shoes. Growing up, she’d owned a dog named King who’d never been allowed inside her house. Many a winter night had been spent on the back porch with King shivering beneath a wool blanket. She petted Carpenter’s dog.

“Pound pup?” she asked.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“They respond differently to affection.”

“You’re very observant. Have a seat.”

Vick sat in the folding chair in front of Carpenter’s desk. Her eyes fell on the photographs taped to the wall behind the desk. Nine girls, three boys. In the margins were dates written in black magic marker that stretched back ten years. One was of Danni Linderman, her lips spread in a thin Mona Lisa smile. Vick had seen photos of Danni before, but not this one. The resemblance between her and Ken was unnerving. Same high forehead, same mouth, same intelligent eyes. Had Vick not known better, she would have thought they were twins.

“Do you think she’s still alive?” Vick asked.

Carpenter quizzed her with a glance.

“Danni Linderman,” she explained.

“I never think those thoughts,” he said.

He sounded like one of her instructors at the academy. Until a body is found, you must assume the victim is still alive. She took a deep breath.

“Perhaps I should explain why I’m here.”

“Please.”