In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel (10 page)

Constance ripped open a creamer and poured it
into the steaming mug of coffee. Then she tore the tops from a pair
of sugar packets and dumped them in as well. The caramel clouds of
diluting cream were already losing their billowy shapes as she
dunked her spoon and gave a quick stir.

She lifted the cup by its handle, then pursed
her lips and blew across its rim before taking a tentative sip. It
was still a bit too hot, so she placed it to the side for a moment.
Letting out a quiet sigh, she experienced the moment of
self-condemnation she had already known was coming.

She needed to stop feeling sorry for herself.
She knew the score the day she entered the academy at Quantico. She
had chosen this career because it’s what she wanted to do, and that
hadn’t changed just because she didn’t like the timing of an
assignment. Given some of the things she’d witnessed in her time as
a field agent, she could easily find far better reasons to hate her
job. But she didn’t. Sometimes it gave her nightmares, yes. But she
was never one for walking away from a puzzle.

Especially not until it was finished.

She had to take the bad with the good, and
she knew it, even if it meant not spending the holidays with Ben.
She sighed again, but this time it was out of resignation mixed
with a tenuous sort of contentment.

“Everything okay, hon?” the waitress
asked.

Constance looked up, not quite startled but a
bit surprised since she hadn’t heard the woman return. “Yes… Fine…”
she replied. “It’s just that it’s already been a long day.”

The woman gave her a knowing nod as she
placed a short glass in front of her. “Tell me about it. Here’s
your grapefruit juice, hon. Your breakfast should be out in just a
couple of minutes.”

“Thanks.”

When she was once again alone, Constance
pulled out her cell phone and thumbed in a speed dial code, then
tilted her head and tucked the device beneath her hair and up
against her ear. After the third ring the speaker clicked and she
heard a gruff voice say, “This is Ben Storm. You’ve reached my
phone. I ain’t here. Leave a message.”

“Ben, it’s me,” she said after the beep.
“Looks like we have to put our plans on hold. I’ve been sent out of
town on an investigation and I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be
back. I’ll call you later.”

Constance hung up then glanced at the time on
the small screen. Ben was probably still in the shower right about
now, which would explain why he didn’t answer. It felt later to her
than it really was, probably because she’d already been up and
working for several hours.

She slipped her cell back into her pocket,
then shifted in the booth and pulled a large envelope out of the
faux leather portfolio lying at her side. She’d had time for no
more than a quick glance at it earlier before getting started on
her four-hour journey north. The SAC had called her in at
oh-dead-thirty for a briefing so spotty that it gave new meaning to
the word, and until now every moment since had been rush, rush, and
more rush. In fact, when she’d first arrived in his office her hair
had still been slightly damp from her shower. Fortunately, he
hadn’t seemed to care, or even notice for that matter.

She leaned against the padded back of the
booth’s bench seat and unwound the string on the interdepartmental
envelope. Considering what she’d been told during the meeting—which
wasn’t much—the packet seemed a bit light and that was a concern.
Starting from scratch with a new investigation was one thing, but
this one was supposedly ongoing and as she understood it, had been
for several years.

With an involuntary frown tweaking her
features, she withdrew a sheaf of papers, most of which appeared to
be reports filed by other agents over the span of the case.
Protruding slightly from the top edge of the thin stack of official
documents was a laminated sheet. Constance thumbed through the
papers and extracted the rigid page.

Sandwiched inside was an aged photocopy of a
section of newspaper clipping. A hyper contrasted picture took up
the majority of the page, but it was really nothing more than black
and white shapes with very little detail. The most you could tell
was that it looked like there might be one or two people, and maybe
a house pictured—then again maybe not, the quality was literally
that poor.

There was no caption, nor was there any story
beneath the photo. Constance rummaged through the papers once again
searching for any other laminated pages, but she found none. She
then slowly flipped through them a third time, keeping her eyes
open for un-laminated copies just in case. Still nothing.

“Here you go, hon,” the waitress’ voice hit
her ears again.

Out of habit, Constance turned over the short
stack of documents, placing them face down on the seat next to
her.

“Thanks,” she said, forcing a smile as she
looked up at the server.

The woman in pink shook her head. “You work
too hard, young lady. You’re going to give yourself
indigestion.”

“It comes with the job,” Constance
replied.

“Well at least try to relax a little and
enjoy your breakfast.”

“I will.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I think I’m good. Thanks.”

“Okay, hon. I’ll check back with you in a
bit.”

Constance waited until the woman was back at
the counter and busy filling a coffee mug for another patron who
had just arrived. Only then did she slip the laminated sheet out
from beneath the other papers and flip it face up.

She held the landscape copied page by the
short edge and stared at it again. She checked the opposite side,
but found nothing, so she flipped it back over and continued
staring, purposely cocking an eyebrow and pursing her lips into a
thoughtful frown. Other than the blown-out, useless picture, the
only thing that remained on the page was a headline and the
dateline of the story. At least those words were still legible,
even though they were less than crisp around the edges; a fault of
the copier technology of the day, from the looks of them.

The dateline below the photo read Hulis, MO -
December 26, 1975.

The sensational, six-column, two-inch block
headline overhead proclaimed, MERRIE AXEMAS.

C
HAPTER
8

11:03 A.M. – December 22, 2010

Sheriff’s Department

Hulis Township – Northern Missouri

“HRRMMPH…”

The curious grunt that issued from the
sheriff was accompanied by the popping creak of springs as he
shifted in the wheeled desk chair he currently occupied. After
staring silently at his visitor for an extended measure of
heartbeats, he pursed his lips thoughtfully, then rocked back in a
slow arc before finally allowing himself to slump the last few
inches and fall heavily against the backrest.

FBI Special Agent Constance Mandalay stood on
the opposite side of his desk, her credentials held forth,
displayed in a well-practiced manner. The portly, uniformed man
opposite her didn’t seem particularly interested in the badge and
ID, but she wasn’t going to put them away just yet, even though she
had identified herself verbally upon entering. She simply held his
gaze, intent on establishing her authority as a federal
officer.

Audibly matted against the tense quiet of the
room, the chair popped and let out a dull twang as it settled under
the sheriff’s now cantilevered weight. Constance wondered to
herself if one of the springs had finally surrendered for all
eternity. It wasn’t that the sheriff was morbidly obese or anything
of that sort, but he definitely looked like he had done hard time
at the dinner table. However, the real reason for the thought was
that the piece of furniture looked like a broken relic from the
post World War II 1940’s. Of course, when you got right down to
outward appearances, so did the man sitting in it.

Sheriff Addison Carmichael let out a second
harrumph, then raised an eyebrow and drew in a deep breath as he
twiddled a pencil between his fingers. After a moment, he absently
drummed it on the duct-taped arm of the heavy-framed chair while
using his free hand to groom the gray-white thicket that lined his
upper lip. Finally, forcing a long sigh out through his nose, he
tossed the freshly sharpened #2 onto the stack of papers filling
his blotter and then gave the petite FBI agent a shallow nod.

“Go on and put your badge away, honey,” he
drawled. “I already know damn well what they look like.”

Constance quickly slid her index finger to
the side and flipped the worn leather case shut, then slipped it
into the inner pocket of her blazer.

“Sheriff Carmichael, I’m sure you know...”
she started.

He interrupted. “Skip.”

“Excuse me?”

“Skip,” he repeated. “Everybody around here
just calls me Skip. Always have. If you’re gonna work with me, you
might as well too.”

“I see,” Constance replied with a nod. “Well,
Skip, as I was...”

“Where’s Agent Drew?” Sheriff Carmichael
asked, speaking over the top of her once again.

“Agent Drew was reassigned,” she answered
after an annoyed pause. “In fact, he’s no longer with the bureau’s
Saint Louis office.”

“Yeah, guess I’m not surprised. They send me
a different Fed every year.”

“Actually, you were supposed to be meeting
with Agent Johnson, but he came down with the flu.”

“Well, he would’ve been a new one too.” He
shook his head. “So you pulled the short straw this time, eh?”

“I was assigned to this case if that’s what
you mean. Is that a problem?”

“Dunno,” he grunted. “Is it?”

“It shouldn’t be.”

He huffed. “I actually kinda liked Drew. He
had a sense of humor.”

“As I said, Agent Drew has been reassigned.
Besides, my SAC thought a fresh set of eyes might be in order.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “They always do. That’s
exactly what Drew said when he showed up the first time. And Agent
Keene before him... I could go on. You make number five, ya’know
that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So now, as usual, I’ve gotta waste my time
bringing you up to speed.”

“Not necessarily. I’ve read the file.”

“And so did the four in front of you, sugar.
Let me ask you this: Did you learn anything with all that
reading?”

Constance bristled slightly at the
condescending
sobriquet
but allowed it to slide for the time
being. “I’ll admit, the file is a little sparse on hard
information.”

“That’s because we don’t have any. Besides,
readin’ and knowin’ are two different things, young lady.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a quick study. Like I said,
it really shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Woulda, coulda, shoulda... You Feds are all
a bunch of damn parrots with the same vocabulary, you know that?”
he grunted, then gestured toward a wooden chair. “Well, since
you’re here, go on then... Sit down.”

Constance sighed. It appeared this man still
wasn’t taking her seriously, so she dug in. “I think I’ll stand,
thank you.”

The sheriff snorted. “Yeah, right... Go on...
Take a load off.”

“Really, I’m fine. If you’ll just...”

“Listen, sugar,” the sheriff interrupted yet
again. This time he rocked forward in the chair, then rested his
elbows on the paper-strewn desktop as he tilted his head down and
looked at her over the top rim of his glasses. “I know what you’re
doing, and I ain’t got time for your little bureaucratic,
girl-power bullshit.”

“Excuse me? My what?”

“Position and power, honey. Basic psychology.
Right now you’re trying to prove that you can write your name in
the snow bigger and better than anyone else because you’re a woman
with a badge who has something to prove. On top of that, you’re
showing me that you’re the one in charge because you work for the
FBI. So look...I get it. You’re a Fed, I’m a small town cop. We’re
all one big happy family as long as you’re on top. Fine. But I’m
here to tell ya’, you can stop dancin’ because I’ve already done
this waltz with every damn one of your predecessors.

“Now...” He waved his finger at her then
thrust it toward the chair. “Since you’re standin’ there in a pair
of brand new high heels, and we both know you’re dyin’ to sit down
because your feet are killing you, quit tryin’ to prove that you’re
the alpha bitch in this pack and just park it.”

Constance stood her ground and snapped, “I
take it you have some sort of problem with women, Sheriff
Carmichael?”

He shook his head and replied in an
exasperated huff. “Damn, you’re a piece of work... First off, I
said call me Skip. Secondly, hell no, I don’t have a problem with
women. I love ‘em. I even married one. Got three daughters too.

“What I do have a problem with, however, is
people wasting my time playing games like you’re doing right now.
So either sit your ass down or get the hell out of my office,
Special Agent Mandalay. Your choice.”

Once his diatribe was finished, the sheriff
picked up his pencil and returned his attention to the paperwork at
hand, as if Constance wasn’t even in the room.

Well, at least he was paying attention
enough to catch my name
, she thought to herself while
continuing to stare at him long enough for the second hand to make
a quarter orbit around the clock face. Personality-wise, Ben—the
homicide detective she’d been dating for some time now—was a
younger version of the sheriff: gruff, opinionated, and more than
willing to speak his mind. He definitely hadn’t been mellowing with
age, either. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she was stuck in
some sort of Dickens-inspired nightmare and the Ghost of Christmas
Future was torturing her with a glimpse of what may come. She gave
a small shudder at the thought and then shook it off.