Max Collins - Fate of the Union

“Mom’s expecting you, Mr. Reeder,” Christopher said, in a mid-range voice that also summoned memories of his dad. “Come in, come on in...”

“Make it ‘Joe,’” Reeder said, taking off his gloves.

But the response was, “Yes sir,” as the younger man stepped aside, taking Reeder’s lined Burberry and hanging it in a closet of the wide foyer.

An expansive living room was on the left, kitchen straight ahead down a hall toward the back, while to the right a staircase curved to the second floor, with the den/home office at right. The house was immaculate, just as he remembered it, though he hadn’t been there in years, a feeling underscored by well-maintained furniture that hadn’t changed in decades. That time machine feeling again...

Beth, again in the black silk blouse and black slacks but absent the jacket, appeared at the living room’s arched entrance, a tumbler of amber liquid in hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she smiled upon seeing him.

“Thanks for coming, Joe,” she said, as her son looked on with concern.

Beth seemed sober enough — he’d never known her to be a heavy drinker — but there was something as liquid about her walk as the Scotch in her glass. She waved with a tissue-stuffed hand for him to follow her into the living room.

The south wall, to his left, was almost entirely a window onto the front yard. Sheer curtains were drawn, but heavy drapes remained open, the world out there hazy. He faced the west wall, dominated by a fireplace above which was mounted a flat-screen TV with some mini snowmen sitting on cotton on the mantle; a pair of matching sofas were perpendicular to the hearth, a black enameled coffee table between them, a lidless cardboard box of plastic police evidence bags sitting somewhat awkwardly on top of an oversize art book.

His pleasantly plump blonde hostess sat at one end of one sofa, her son settling in next to her, Reeder sitting opposite.

“Have you spoken to the police?” she asked, too casually, between sips of Scotch.

“Just on the phone,” Reeder said. “Had a conversation with Woods, the detective in charge, on the way over here.”

“The whelp still thinks Chris killed himself,” Beth said, and had another sip, as if to wash away the bitterness. “You agree with that assessment?”

“That Woods is a whelp? That might be premature. Wait till I’ve been face-to-face with the man and ask me again. Did Chris take his life? Highly doubtful... but I need to find something to convince Woods to take this investigation seriously.”

Christopher said, “What investigation? It’s already a closed file.”

Beth ignored that, setting her tumbler on the coffee table. “What do you hope to find?”

Reeder answered the question with another. “Was Chris still using a laptop?”

Christopher grunted a laugh. “You kidding? He never switched to a tablet, just kept lugging that antique everywhere.”

“Is it here? In the den maybe?”

Beth gestured to the cardboard box. “Isn’t it in here?”

Christopher quickly said, “We haven’t gone through those things of Dad’s. Couldn’t quite... you know, face it yet.”

Reeder said, “I asked Detective Woods and he said there was no laptop on the inventory of effects found in the motel room.”

Frowning, Christopher asked, “Where is it, then?”

“Could be a clerical glitch,” Reeder said, then nodded toward the box. “Go ahead and check, would you, son?”

Christopher rose and did so, hunkering over the box, then looked up and shook his head. “Not here... I’ll check the den.”

And he went off to do that.

Beth was lost in thought.

Reeder said, “Something?”

She nodded. “I’m positive Chris had the laptop with him, when he left for work, that last day. Might be at his office.”

“All right with you if I go have a look?”

“I’d be grateful if you did,” Beth said, and gestured to the cardboard box. “His office keys should be in there.”

“Did he ever use the home computer?”

“No. That’s strictly mine, in my sewing room upstairs.”

Christopher returned, reporting no luck in the den.

Beth said, “Joe, why don’t you take the whole box with you. If it would be of any help.” She met her son’s eyes. “Is that all right with you, dear?”

“Take it, Joe,” Christopher said. “Maybe you’ll find something worthwhile in there. The police didn’t even try.”

Reeder thanked him, then went to the box and began riffling through the evidence bags. Right away, something jumped out at him — a cell phone. Not Chris’s smartphone, rather a cheap flip phone, obviously the burner Chris had called him on.

A question popped into Reeder’s head, one that should have occurred to him sooner — back in field-agent days, it would have. And the police should have asked the same question: What did a man who was about to commit suicide need with a burner phone?

Reeder sat back down and asked them both: “Can you think of any reason why Chris would have needed a burner?”

Beth said, “A what?”

Christopher answered: “A prepaid cell phone. Something you use once or twice and throw away... right, Mr. Reeder?”

“Right. Was that something Chris might’ve used on the job?”

Shaking his head, Christopher said, “The kind of investigation Dad normally got involved with wouldn’t require anything like that. Last few years, he mostly did small-business and industry analyses, recommending security systems and procedures.”

Reeder asked Beth, “You last saw him on Monday?”

“Yes, when he left for work.”

“Did you hear from him after that at all?”

She shook her head. “The next thing was the call from the police the next day.”

What the hell had gone wrong enough from Monday morning to Tuesday night to make Chris trash his own phone, pick up a burner, and call Reeder on a “life and death” matter? The answer clearly wasn’t suicide.

Chris Bryson had been on the run.

On the run from what or whom, Reeder couldn’t say. Yet.

Then another thought struck him, also one that might have come sooner back in his field-agent days. Maybe Chris had called Reeder out of concern for his family’s safety as much as his own.

He looked from mother to son and back again. “Beth, is there somewhere you can go for a few days? Somewhere no one could track you?”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

“If Chris was murdered — and it was made to look like a suicide — the likely reason is he’d found something out... possibly something about this person, place, or thing called ‘Sink.’”

Alarmed, she asked, “How would I know anything?”

Christopher said, “Dad might have told you.”

“Darling, he never shared anything about work with me.”

“Mom — how could his murderer or murderers know that?”

“You’re right, Christopher,” Reeder said. “Short of a family friend, they couldn’t. And, Beth, he did mention that word to you — ‘Sink’ — if not what it meant. I would feel better if both of you weren’t easily accessible for a while.”

“I agree,” Christopher said. “Mom? What do you say?”

Beth just sat there looking from her son to Reeder and back, a woman still dealing with her husband’s death only to have this unexpected contingency sprung on her.

“But... where would we go ?”

Christopher somehow summoned a small smile. “How about Key West? I’ve never been there, and neither have you.”

“Why Key West?” Beth asked, clearly reeling.

He put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “ Because we’ve never been there... and if we’re going into hiding, why not at least be warm? Plenty of tourists to blend in with, too.”