1
‘That lady died.’ Special Agent Ren Bryce turned to Everett King, one of her newest colleagues, an ex-trader, financial and IT expert, and quick, firm friend. ‘The one from the crash at Sky Ridge Medical Center. No one came forward to claim her, no match with any missing persons …’ She shook her head. ‘Rodeal reckons she was held captive somewhere for months at the very least: she had rope burns on her wrists, bruises on her ankles as if she’d been shackled, she was starved, beaten. But they found nothing in the neighborhood canvas. They ran her details through the system – nothing. Imagine that’s your life … tortured and neglected to death.’
‘Like your liver,’ said Everett.
Ren was shaking a bottle of Fiji to help dissolve the two Alka-Seltzer she had broken into it.
‘My liver is well tended to,’ said Ren.
‘Like a captor tends to his captee.’
‘Stockholm Syndrome.’ She took a drink. She had already drunk a bottle of freshly squeezed pineapple juice. Hangover Cure Supreme. The Alka-Seltzer was a rarely required second step. The previous night was a blur of bright lights, colorful drinks, and dancing on chairs and half-empty dance floors with two girls she had met at her bipolar support group two weeks earlier. They had presumed that, like them, she was unlucky enough to be a bipolar-loved-one wrangler, not the wranglee. That was often the case. Ren didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t want to correct them. She just wanted to party. The women were at the support group to learn how not to enable their loved one. Instead, they were fine-tuning the art of enabling a stranger. But there was no law against it. Ren smiled to herself: there should, in fact, be laws to fully support it.
Ren had been off her meds for three months.
‘Did you see the video of the crash?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Rodeal was quite the hero – dived for his wife, totally saved her life, broke his arm in the fall. Sexism in Emergencies: it’s not all bad when a man thinks women need to be saved.’
‘It was his wife …’
‘I’ve dealt with him, work-wise,’ said Ren. ‘I walk away with a twitch in my eye. Sometimes I think he expects me to be the one serving the refreshments.’
‘Oh, baby girl, you always servin’ up the refreshment!’
‘And you keep topping up those glasses, handsome man.’
‘God help this guy,’ said Everett, nodding toward the glass panel of the interview room where murder suspect Jonathan Briar was perfectly framed. Briar’s fiancée, twenty-three-year-old Hope Coulson, had now been missing from their Denver apartment for twenty-eight days. Briar had ignited public suspicion with the first dopey words out of his mouth when asked about her on live television: ‘Aww … I’m sure she’ll be back,’ he said, smiling like an idiot, next to Hope Coulson’s weeping parents.
‘He doesn’t yet know that he meets a lot of the criteria for the Ren Bryce Book of Wrong,’ said Everett. ‘Stoner – check! Skinny dreads – check! Mouth too small – check! And my second favorite: rat-colored hair – check! I mean, rats are gray. His hair is mousey.’
‘Rats are creepier.’
‘And my all-time-favorite,’ said Everett. ‘Eyes overly almond: check!’
‘Because I like almond-shaped eyes,’ said Ren. ‘Too almond, though – that’s a problem.’ She looked at Everett. ‘I’m a nightmare. I know. Judgey McJudgicles.’
‘On the upside of his issues,’ said Everett, ‘every time he appears on screen or in print, the line of volunteer searchers grows.’
Hope Coulson had captured the public’s hearts. She was a sweet, blonde, kind-hearted kindergarten teacher, a volunteer for everything from painting the ladies’ nails at her local retirement home to delivering Meals on Wheels to the housebound, to being stationed at First-Aid tents at community events. At one time, Jonathan Briar looked like nothing more harmful than a guy who was batting above his weight. Now, he was looking like a killer.
Ren drank the rest of the Alka-Seltzer, then held a hand to her stomach.
Ooh. Not good. Drank too quickly, despite best efforts.
‘You drank that way too fast,’ said Everett.
‘Ugh.’ She threw the empty bottle in the garbage. ‘OK. Shall we dance?’
‘We always do.’ He turned the door knob and let Ren go first.
Jonathan Briar almost jumped from his seat. ‘Did you find her?’
So dramatic. So forced.
Ren shook her head. ‘No, Jonathan. No, we did not. Not yet.’ She sat down. ‘Jonathan, I’m Special Agent Ren Bryce, and this is my colleague, Special Agent Everett King. How are you holding up?’
Briar shrugged. ‘I’m OK … I guess.’
‘Let me explain who we are,’ said Ren. ‘Agent King and I are members of the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. Not to alarm you – we do handle all kinds of crimes – but we are technically a violent crime squad. We’re multi-agency, meaning there are FBI agents like us, and there are detectives from DPD – that’s Denver PD, along with members of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, Aurora PD, etc.
‘We have to consider that Hope may have been the victim of a violent crime. Of course, we don’t know that yet. I understand you’ve been questioned by DPD—’
‘Every day!’ said Jonathan. ‘Every day since she left.’
‘Left?’ said Ren.
He shrugged. ‘It’s exhausting.’
Not my point. ‘You said “left”,’ said Ren. ‘Do you think Hope just left?’
Jonathan looked away, shrugging again. ‘It’s better than thinking anything else.’
‘Back to what I was saying,’ said Ren. ‘We’re talking to you today at the request of Detective Glenn Buddy at Denver PD, and because some new evidence has come to light.’
‘What evidence?’ said Jonathan.
‘I want to show you a photograph of your fiancée, Hope,’ said Ren, ignoring the question. She set it down on the table. ‘Well, actually it’s a photo of you and Hope. When was this taken?’
Jonathan swallowed. ‘Christmas just gone. At my mom’s house. Why?’
‘You look really happy,’ said Ren.
‘We were,’ he said, nodding.
Were: past tense.
Jonathan blinked, but there were no tears.
‘Now,
