“Another Woman Has Vanished!” flashed across the TV screen on the wall of the Ashborne Police Department. A couple officers stood by watching, arms filled with file folders. The female news reporter was giving the details of the most recent missing woman. Perhaps a link to the other women that have gone missing; same bus route through the city, around the same time with and similar physical descriptions. They didn’t get the information about the codes sent to their phone around the time of the disappearance. Anne had those secretly stored away in a file.
Ashborne, located between two rivers, had spilled out on each side with each decade of human occupancy, with the old money in the North and in the downtown condos in tall high-rises. The middle class gravitated to the South and East, with the poor to the West. The Police Department had been in an old brick building for as long as Ashborne existed as a city, around the turn of the last century, with the most recent remodel being over twenty years ago. The conference room was no-nonsense, ringed with worn black swivel conference chairs surrounded by glass panels. The chief said it was so he could keep an eye on things.
Detective Anne Sullivan sat, her slim body on a five foot, six inch frame, leaned back in her chair, weaving back and forth, with her hands on the armrests, thinking, staring up at the squares on the ceiling. Anne usually didn’t wear make-up unless she had to go somewhere fancy, her hair was a mid-way down her neck, wavy, and dark brown just like her French mothers. She had it smoothed and controlled by a tight pony tail. Anne’s golden brown eyes drifted for a moment toward the screen, at the moment she had the picture of the same woman in a file on her desk. She sat with the team of detectives looking drained, deep shadows cast beneath their glazed over eyes, a mix of fatigue and determination etched on their faces. She went from face to face, most of them counting the days till vacation, longing to leave the ambiance of old coffee and anxiety, and where the names of missing women would become just a ‘work thing.’ Anne straightened herself and rubbed her temples as she leaned forward, pushing the pictures back in the file and closing it in front of her. It has to be connected to the Thomas’ was written in her bold cursive in the notebook in front of her.
“All right,” Chief Inspector Alexander Ruiz began, his gravelly voice cutting through the murmur, his bald head shone under the fluorescent light and his swollen hands held the opening edges of his worn navy colored suit. “Okay team, we have another victim. Detective Morales, you have some information for us.” Ruiz put on a smirk on his face, his armor, and his tone became laced with wit and biting mockery. No one paid attention, everyone had turned their attention to Detective Benjamin Morales at the other end of the table. He demanded more attention with his sensuous jaw tight from the tension of the day, his salt and pepper hair slicked back, and steel-grey eyes that reminded you of a battleship. His gaze lingered on Anne, biting into her soul, even at a distance. Anne remembered their last argument leaving the bar. “You’re gonna get all you deserve, Anne.” A smirk formed on her face, “I’m sure you’re right,” she replied, turned and went toward her car. He didn’t understand how it’s like to lose a fiancé, the one you want to spend the rest of your life with, their last breath blowing past your face stained with tears, their blood staining your blouse, arms trying to hold on as long as they could, screaming when they took him away. It was the end of her and a rebirth of emptiness without any desire to get close to someone ever again.
Morales flipped open the notebook in front of him. Anne tried to keep her visual attention on the files in front of her. “We’ve got five confirmed victims in the last six months,” He threw a case file that slid across the table toward Anne who caught it before it hit the other files in front of her. “We have received many responses to the call for information, but nothing that has led to anyone or anywhere the missing women could be, so far. The most recent victim fits the MO of all the other women; twenty-one years old, same bus route, heading downtown to work. Her phone pinged off the station then disappeared.”
Anne had the case details memorized, she dreamed about them. She studied each case file thoroughly, their routines she could draw by memory. She read witness statements of drivers and bystanders, interviewed by herself and others. Did the victim speak to anyone on the bus or if they noticed anything out of the ordinary along their routes? Were they alone? Did you notice anyone following them? None of the information was of any help to the team. Anne would show them the code, but no one recognized it.
Anne interjected, her voice steady but laced with urgency, ignoring his glare. “I am still working on the code. I need the key and haven’t had any luck yet. I’ll figure it out.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Ruiz frowned, rubbing his temples. “Thank you, Anne.” His gaze bore into her. The stale air grew thick, all eyes set on her. She took a deep breath, letting the words twirl and play themselves in her mind. Ruiz continued as background noise. Anne didn’t hear him dismiss everyone. She was last to leave and headed to her desk.
Anne couldn’t shake the feeling in the pit of her stomach. She flipped through the pages of her notebook again, flipping it open to a page. She had her own theories, something that came to her, but she couldn’t put her finger on what she knew. A bold set of words were underlined in red sat on one of the pages — Cindy Thomas, the matriarch of the richest and most powerful family, not just in Ashborne. Any time she brought them up, her boss became quiet, a warning hovering in the silence.
“I know you’re obsessed with them,” Anne stared at him and pursed her lips together, “be careful with your accusations, Anne,” he told her, “they have a long reach and the end may be more than your career.” She looked at the floor. Maybe it was her bias against the rich and ruthless, but she could live with that. She also knew her boss, Deputy Chief of Investigations Gideon Mathers, who didn’t like her. He made it clear on occasion. His voice was deliberate and cutting. She knew she was walking a tightrope every time he had demanded her presence in his office. He was broad-shouldered and intimidating to most, even Anne. It was like being in trouble with her Marine father. “How can they not be involved, sir? I have heard their name on many occasions with informants and criminals.”
“Yeah, maybe, but you need to focus on your job, there has to be someone who saw something. Until we have any definitive links to the family and the evidence to support it, we can discuss it.” He picked up the phone and waved his hand at her to leave the office.
“I am looking into warehouses and companies that operate here and overseas.” Anne replied. Ruiz grunted and nodded his head as the person answered on the other end of the line.
The low rush of conversations dimmed as she stared at the lines of code from text messages. She tried a few more ideas, ones that jumped at her but failed, crossing it out with thick pencil marks. She sat hunched over her notebook, her pencil tapping against the page. Her eyes darted across the rows of symbols. She wrote out rows of the alphabet. She shifted them around, trying to unravel nonsense. She threw her pencil down and it hopped toward the edge of the desk. It looked like she was losing her edge, a frown sat on her face. No one paid attention as they were busy with their own work and counting the minutes before they could head toward the bar down the street.
Anne let out a sigh, someone might be able to help. Eddie “Flick” Monroe, an informant, a typical low-life, but usually brought valuable intel, including the rumors about Cindy Thomas and her son, Josh. Eddie always seemed pleased when he got too close to her, trying to touch her. The stale air and the smell of desperation around her became suffocating.
Anne took out her phone and scrolled to a number with only one letter — F. Eddie Monroe, AKA, ‘Flick,’ never made her wait. He earned the nickname ‘Flick’ because of his habit of flicking his cigarette even when it wasn’t lit. A wiry man in his late thirties, only a couple years younger than Anne, but time didn’t treat him well, with a perpetual five o’clock shadow. His deep dark brown eyes had a tendency to dart around, like he was looking for an escape route, skin weathered and his hands perpetually stained with grease. For legitimacy, he odd jobs in auto shops. Anne knew he had his hands dirty both physically and metaphorically, always trying to embed himself in the criminal world of Ashborne. Anne was always shocked at the amount of knowledge he kept in that musty head of his. He attributed it to expectational intelligence and the fact he liked to be in the background, like a shadow, he heard people talk about their plans, but no one noticed. He did have a bad habit of being cagey as he spoke, like he was always hiding something, but a girl had to take what she could. She needed to trust him and convinced herself on a few occasions how valuable he was to her and that it will pay off in the long run. It wasn’t for her glory, but for justice.
He responded after a few minutes with an acceptance to her request to meet, but required a financial incentive this time. She stared at her phone in thought before replying, “How much?”
“I need five thousand dollars and I can get the information for you,” came the reply.
“Let me see what I can do. 10:30 pm, usual spot,” she texted back. Now she needed to find Ruiz and get the money. It would take a bit of time to process. It was going to be a long night.
With a provocative smile, she found another number in her phone with an exclamation point next to his name.
