Guilty Photographs Page 5

  “Can you send them to our FCCA records department?” Coolidge added.

  “Absolutely, anything my team and I can do to help,” Detective Rios said. He seemed enthusiastic aside from his tired look.

  “You’ve done well, Detective. Thank you. I know since this is a senator this case has been taken out of your hands and onto ours,” McKinley said.

  “No worries, this is less work for me. I knew this was a high-profile case the minute dispatch gave the address 366 Palazzo Street,” Detective Rios said.

  “We’re going to our office to get in touch with Frances and Dotty. By then Jonathan will have spoken to Frances and possibly Dotty,” Coolidge said as she placed her hands on her hips, looking at McKinley and Detective Rios.

  McKinley handed the detective their FCCA business card with Coolidge’s and his contact information.

  “All right, if anything shows up, I will let you both know,” Detective Rios said as he took the card and placed it in his breast pocket.

  “Thanks,” they said and walked through the crowd of reporters haggling for an interview and peering neighbors with their cell phones in hand trying to get a glimpse of the scene inside.

  McKinley was behind his laptop and the only sound in the room was the clicking of his keys on the keyboard and the occasional yawn that escaped him. He had some free time and decided to do some research. He was close, he wanted to believe. He would go back and forth from the computer to his notes scattered around his desk. He was working frantically trying to find her, attacking every lead like a starved wolf. He didn’t want to give up and his partners would frown on what he was doing but he wanted to know her whereabouts. He couldn’t afford a private detective and he figured with his investigative skills he could find Monroe.

  The federal building was seven stories high with a major division occupying each floor.

  Bush entered McKinley’s office and slammed a stack of files on his desk, which was already covered with files on the senator’s case. Not to mention his private detective hobby which seemed more like a job.

  “McKinley, when are you going to tidy up this mess?” Bush asked as he looked around at McKinley’s office and all the work piled everywhere. “Wait, don’t tell me you’re working on your sister’s ‘case’ again? Dude, that’s what caused us to stay stuck in this spot for so long. Not to mention the countless reassignments it cost us. Look, I know she’s your sister, but you need to give it a rest; at least hire a professional who can do it without it getting in the way of their ‘real’ job.”

  Bush was concerned about McKinley and thought that he had an obsession with his sister’s case. McKinley knew Bush cared for him but it seemed that Bush was beginning to get tired of McKinley’s lack of concentration on their work.

  McKinley sighed. He knew Bush was right. He was going in circles trying to find his sister—Monroe. “I know, I’m sorry, it’s just that—dammit. It’s hard not to know where she is. But you’re right, I’m being selfish and not thinking. I have dragged you and Coolidge into my troubles in my personal life and career.”

  “We understand, but you need a balance,” Bush said, patting McKinley on his shoulders.

  “Right, it’s time. I will mark it in my calendar as a reminder, to contact a professional private detective to locate Monroe,” McKinley said as he took his cell phone, unlocked the screen, and typed. Nowadays, McKinley had alerts for many things to keep him organized in his unorganized life.

  Bush looked around McKinley’s office once more and walked toward the window. After the big case they’d solved last month, McKinley, Bush, and Coolidge had all gotten promotions and the best perk was the bigger office with a better view of the city. McKinley’s previous cramped office was only big enough for one guest seat, a small wobbly desk, two small file cabinets stacked on top of the other, and a coffee maker that he placed on top of his minifridge stocked with his sports shakes, meal prep, and water. He also had a small trash can and a side table with his office supplies.

  He wouldn’t miss a thing from that tiny office, not even the fact that it was the quietest place on that floor. The fact that it didn’t have any windows was depressing and McKinley couldn’t believe he’d lasted all these years in that cramped space. He was glad to leave that spot for the next rookie, whoever that might be.

  “Hey, you guys okay? You seemed lost in thought,” Coolidge said.

  McKinley and Bush both turned toward the door as Coolidge stepped inside. “We were just admiring the view,” Bush said.

  “We don’t have time to admire, we need to catch a killer. Anyway, you left the door open, so I let myself in.”

  “I’ll make a mental note to keep my door locked,” McKinley joked.

  “Yeah, McKinley, that’s a good idea. There’re prying eyes and nosy people around here that we need to be careful of,” Bush agreed, catching McKinley’s playful tone.

  “Be it as it may, you guys were on the verge of crying reminiscing,” Coolidge followed suit. “Seriously, I’m glad for all of us. We deserve it after our hard work. But we have a case to solve and witnesses to interview.”

  Bush and McKinley nodded in agreement.

  “I’ll call Frances,” Bush said.

  “That’s fine. I’ll call Dotty,” McKinley said.

  “Then that leaves me with typing the report,” Coolidge said.

  McKinley would’ve preferred the writing but he knew his browser would’ve shown his research involving his missing sister, and right now was not the time for family affairs.

  Chapter 5

  “Cousin Nixon, why are we driving today?” Reagan asked as she furrowed her forehead.

  “I have a business meeting right after I drop you off and if we walk like we normally do, I’m not going to make it on time,” Nixon told her. He knew his four-year-old cousin Reagan picked up on a lot of things and he needed to be careful when he spoke to her, as well as when she was within earshot of his conversations with others.

  It was six thirty in the morning when Nixon looked at his watch, and the meeting was at eight. He had plenty of time but he liked to be early.

  “Oh, I like walking to daycare better,” she said, looking up him.

  “Why is that, sweetheart?” he asked her, meeting her gaze as he smiled at her.

  “’Cause I get to talk to Mr. Thompson, and he gives me a doughnut, then I pet Sporty, Mrs. Clint’s puppy, then I get to see people walking, running, on skates, and see funny things when we walk,” she said as she counted each item on her fingers, nodding at each item as she counted.

  Nixon grinned. Reagan was too smart for her own good. He lifted her in his arms and kissed her cheeks, feeling the smoothness of her olive skin. Her short brown curls shaped her round chubby face. Her big brown eyes brightened every time she was excited and saw something she liked.

  He placed her down, grabbed her soft little hand, and walked down the hall toward the elevator.

  “You have everything in your backpack?” he asked her as they waited for the elevator to arrive.

  “Uh-huh,” she said as she nodded, curls bouncing.

  “Use your words, Reagan,” he cautioned with a serious tone.

  “Yes, Cousin Nixon. Mommy puts everything in my backpack when you take me in the morning when she works early.” She shimmied and her backpack moved along with her, making a rustling sound against her small back.

  “Your mom has good ideas,” Nixon said, smiling down at her. He loved Reagan as if she were his daughter. If he were to have any children, he would like his own daughter to be just as vibrant as this little girl.

  Nixon had taken in his cousin Lori and her daughter Reagan while she was on the hunt for a new apartment. Her lease was up and she hadn’t been able to find something in a better neighborhood in time. He didn’t mind taking Reagan to daycare. It gave him an excuse to wake up early and go for his morning run. Except today he had another important matter to tend to.

  He double-checked that he had the jump drive in his jea
n pocket before he left the building. He didn’t want to make it to the meeting, only to return home because he had forgotten the main object of the meeting. He was meticulous and organized as a rule, but it never hurt to make sure.

  “Cousin Nixon, the elevator is not coming,” Reagan said, concerned, and she pressed the down arrow vigorously.

  “You’re right. You want to do something fun?” he asked her as he checked his watch to make sure he was on schedule. His watch read six forty-five, which gave him enough time to change his route.

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding as her big brown eyes brightened with excitement.

  “Come on, hop on my back, we’re going on a ride from the eighth floor to the bottom floor in six minutes,” he told her. He kneeled down and Reagan jumped on his back and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “You can do it that fast?” she said with excitement.

  He nodded. “Yep.” Although Nixon couldn’t see her face he heard her giggle.

  Since he couldn’t take his usual run that morning, he decided that running down the stairs with Reagan on his back was a good alternative.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes!”

  “Okay.” He set his timer and ran down the eight flights of stairs. Reagan giggled and bounced the entire way down.

  Once he reached the bottom floor, he caught his breath, placed her down and looked at his timer. He’d actually done pretty good—he had two minutes to spare. It was now six fifty. He kneeled and Reagan placed her feet on the tile floor in the lobby and when she released her grip around his neck he stood. He opened the large door and holding Reagan’s hand stepped into the warm morning.

  “That was fun, Cousin Nixon. We have to do it again tomorrow,” she said, prancing.

  “Maybe we should, but now we have to run to the car,” he said as he looked at her, releasing her hands.

  “Let’s make it a race. Ready, set”—she took off—“go!” she said, halfway to his car.

  He caught up to her, knelt by her side, and tickled her.

  “That wasn’t fair at all. You ran before you said go,” he told her with a smile.

  She laughed.

  “I won,” she said triumphantly.

  “Yeah, we’ll call it that.” He opened the rear passenger door and placed her seat belt around her chest. He got in the car and drove to the daycare, which was not too far from his place.

  He arrived at her school at five past seven and her ballet teacher, Ms. Lake, was waiting outside for the girls to arrive. He parked in front of her school and she opened the door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wright. You’re here early,” Ms. Lake said with a soft tone.

  “Yeah, I have a few things I have to do this morning,” Nixon said gripping the steering wheel as he nodded.

  Ms. Lake was a petite blonde woman. She wore her hair in a tight bun that pulled her face back, stretching her features, giving her an arrogant look, when in fact she was the sweetest person. She took ballet seriously and stood as if she were ready to plié at any time.

  “Good thing you brought her early. We have practice this morning. Did you bring your tutu, Reagan?” Ms. Lake asked her.

  Reagan unzipped her backpack, opening it wide. She looked inside and rummaged through her things in there. “Yes, Ms. Lake.” She pulled it out of her backpack, spilling the contents inside onto the cement sidewalk where they stood.

  “Oh, Reagan.” Ms. Lake sighed, looking at Reagan’s things spilled at her feet.

  “Sorry, Ms. Lake,” Reagan said, looking up at her.

  Nixon opened his car door to assist.

  “No worries, Mr. Wright. I can handle it from here,” Ms. Lake said before Nixon could protest.

  Nixon nodded and watched as Ms. Lake kneeled and gathered the discarded items from Reagan’s backpack and stuffed them back inside.

  “It’s okay, Reagan, you just have to be careful, all right?” Ms. Lake said.

  “Yes, I will be careful, promise.” Reagan nodded, looking down at Ms. Lake, who was now zipping her backpack closed.

  “Good.” Ms. Lake smiled.

  Ms. Lake handed Reagan her backpack. “See you later, Cousin Nixon,” Reagan said as she waved goodbye.

  “Later, sweetheart,” he said as Ms. Lake took her hand and walked her toward the other girls standing safely underneath the awning.

  It was now ten past seven. He had enough time to make it to the Topaz Café on Frenchmen Street.

  He arrived at seven twenty and waited in his car to make sure that this deal was legitimate. The café didn’t open for another ten minutes, which gave him time to sit and scope the scene. The café had clear floor-to-ceiling windows decorated with finger-painted coffee mugs and muffins. Having dark-tinted windows afforded him the advantage of looking without seeming like a creep. The barista was inside moving tables around and arranging three chairs per table, placing extra sugar shakers on the tables, straightening the cash-out lane, and wiping the surfaces of debris.

  A tall slim man wearing a hat and a suit and holding a small briefcase sat outside the café. He searched through the briefcase and began to read a sports magazine. Nixon presumed this man was his contact.

  Nixon waited until the café opened and the tall man headed inside. Nixon turned the car on and parked his car in the next street over and walked toward the café.

  He entered, ordered hot tea, and casually walked over with his drink to his contact, who was sitting on a bar stool with a high top table, next to the window, sipping coffee.

  “You’re late,” his contact said, flashing a gold tooth.

  “I’m on time,” Nixon told him as he casually looked at the time—it was seven fifty.

  His contact looked like a middleman acting like the boss. Nixon could tell by the flashy gold watch that shone on his thick brown wrist, the rings on his fingers, the several thin gold chains that peeked from his cream-colored dress shirt, and the old scuffed brown shoes. The real boss would have shiny shoes and at least two guards with him, Nixon thought.

  “Where’s the merch?” the man asked, looking directly at Nixon.

  “Where’s the cash?” Nixon retorted, leaning back against the chair.

  “Right here.” The man patted his chest. “Where is it?” he repeated, furrowing his brows.

  “In my pocket,” Nixon responded, not breaking eye contact. He mimicked the man’s gesture of patting his chest.

  The man whipped out a dull yellow medium-sized envelope and slid it toward Nixon.

  Nixon grabbed the jump drive from his pocket and slid it toward the man.

  They both grabbed their prize at the same time.

  Nixon opened the envelope and the scent of fresh cut crisp paper unleashed from inside. He peered inside the envelope, touched the bills, and confirmed that they were real.

  At the same time the man took his briefcase and pulled out a small laptop, brought it to life, and inserted the jump drive in the USB slot to inspect the information.

  “Good stuff. My… I mean, I’m pleased with the information in the file, but there’s one file missing,” the man said. He wasn’t too confident with himself and Nixon thought he looked past him. But Nixon decided to study the man further.

  “Cut the shit. Where’s your boss? The arrangement was for him to come, not for his incompetent sidekick to make the trade. I deal with the boss or the rest of the valuable information is gone with me.” He was done playing this game. Nixon was used to perfection and order. He disliked when things didn’t go as planned. His hands balled underneath the table but he wanted to maintain his composure.

  “I am the boss.” The man gritted his teeth.

  “Bullshit! Either he shows up or I leave. It’s seven fifty-five, which means he has five minutes before I leave with the information and the deal is off.” Nixon slammed his open palms on the table, which caused the cashier to look in his direction, alarmed.

  The man looked past Nixon and nodded. Nixon turned and noticed another man standing in the fa
r corner dressed similarly to the guy in front of him. “Fine.” The man grabbed his phone. Moments later a limo approached the café and the man’s phone vibrated on the table from a call. The man answered the call and hung up.

  “He wants you to go to the car,” the man said in low tone.

  Nixon looked at him, grabbed the envelope, and headed outside.

  The humidity was spiking and stepping outside from the cool air indoors hit Nixon like a ton of bricks. Nixon approached the car cautiously and the car window opened.

  A short man in a thick accent motioned for Nixon to come inside the vehicle.

  He looked around and hesitated to go inside. “Why?” Nixon asked him as he stood from a distance.

  “Because if you don’t get me what I want, I will get what you treasure. Does Our Little Unicorn Princess Daycare ring a bell?” he said with a grin. His eyes were black and glinting with menace.

  “Fuck,” Nixon muttered. The door unlocked and Nixon looked around as he reached for the handle. He opened the door reluctantly and slid in the back seat of the limo, sitting next to the man who had just threatened his family. Threatening his family was something Nixon didn’t take lightly.

  As Nixon surveyed the inside of the limo, he saw another one of those pretend boss sidekicks sitting across from him. The scent of cigarette smoke permeated the air and he felt his throat dry and his eyes water from the polluted air. Nixon was thankful that neither one of them were currently smoking.

  “Give me the rest of the files,” the boss man said. He extended his hands toward Nixon, expecting Nixon to comply.

  Nixon looked at the boss man’s hand and raised a brow. “How do I know it’s you that I’m supposed to give this file to?”

  “Because I’m the one. I set the rules, I contact you, I get what I want, and we go our separate ways,” he said nonchalantly as he tilted his head and retreated his hands with a smirk.

  Nixon skimmed him over. There was something odd about the entire ordeal. Goosebumps rippled throughout his body and he felt uneasy and skeptical. He looked at the time; seven fifty-seven.