The Strategist (6 page)

There was a hard yank on her shoulder and for an instant she thought it was Gracie trying to pull her to safety. But Gracie was lying motionless at her feet.

The sight of her dead dog instantly pulled her out of the dream.

The light that she woke up to wasn’t nearly as bright as the one had been in her dream. But it blinded her just the same. She felt a throbbing in her shoulder and realized that something had indeed yanked at it. She instinctively called out to Gracie, then to George.

But when the circular beam of light that had been shining in her face suddenly shut off to reveal a massive silhouette standing directly above her, she realized that ne
ither one of them were coming.

CHAPTER 10

I
f Dale Rooney had his way, he would live in a two room cabin cloistered deep in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of southern Colorado; so far removed from anything resembling civilization that even the world’s most sophisticated GPS wouldn’t be able to find him. He imagined a simple life of living off the land, surrounded by trout-filled lakes, lush evergreen trees, and limitless space for his German Sheppard Ike.

But in sixty-seven years of life, Dale rarely got his way. He knew there would be no frontier living with Ike the German Sheppard. Dale didn’t even have a German Sheppard. What he did have was a house in the city that he wished he had sold fifteen years ago, a wife who somehow convinced him not to sell it, and a little runt of a Pomeranian that she seemed to love a hell of a lot more than she loved him.

Fifteen years ago, when he had considered selling, the neighborhood was much different than it is now. There were no uppity neighbors who were young enough to be his children yet treated him with the reverence of a garden tool; no inflated property taxes because misguided parents insisted that their children’s schools have state-of-the-art everything; and no cars driving up and down his street all times of the night blaring that jungle thump that passed for music.

What Dale wouldn’t have done for the opportunity to go back, to act when he still had the chance. He would certainly have had that cabin by now – with his wife and Pomeranian or without them.

But now he was stuck here. And as much as he may have fantasized about it, there would be no escaping the uppity neighbors, the high taxes, or the jungle music.

Of everything that was wrong with his neighborhood, the music bothered him the most. It was especially bad last night. He had dealt with the obnoxiously loud bass before, but what he heard outside his window a few hours ago bordered on criminal.

He had just fallen asleep on the couch, which he seemed to do a lot more of these days, when he was startled awake by what he thought was a sonic boom. He rushed to the window. When he looked outside he immediately saw the source of the noise. A light colored Chevy Impala that he instantly knew should not have been there idled in the middle of the street, its engine running and its stereo on full volume. Dale pressed closer to the window. The car’s windows were tinted, but he had no trouble imagining the kind of person who sat behind the wheel. Thankfully, he mostly only saw those kinds of people on television.

After thirty seconds or so, the car pulled up to the curb a couple of houses down. The engine continued to run, but the music abruptly stopped. A thousand alarm bells instantly went off in Dale’s head and he had the immediate thought of calling the police. But before he did, he decided to get a closer look. If he wound up needing to give the police a description, he wanted to give the most accurate one possible.

From his front porch he could see the car clearly. It was light gray or silver with four doors. Looking closer, he could see that the passenger’s side window was rolled down, though his vantage point did not allow him to see inside. His angle did not allow for a look at the car’s license plate either, which he knew he would need to write down. He had to get closer but didn’t want to leave the cover of his front porch, so he decided to go back inside to retrieve a pair of binoculars that he kept in the foyer closet. He liked to have them on standby specifically for occasions like this.

But as soon as he turned to walk inside the house, he heard the music start up again. By the time he turned back around, the Impala had pulled away from the curb.

Dale stepped off the porch and on to his front lawn, scouring the street like a surveillance camera. He kept watch until he was completely satisfied that neither the Impala nor its God-awful music was coming back.

When he finally made it up to his bedroom it was 12:56. He shook his head when he looked in the bed to see his wife Maggie spread eagle in the middle of it while Trinket the prized Pomeranian slept soundly on Dale’s pillow.

“Dale Rooney bites the dust again,” he said in a voice that he hoped was loud enough to wake up Maggie or the dog. Neither of them flinched.

Back on the couch, Dale fantasized about the cabin he never had, and the solitude he would probably never experience. He wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep or if
the fantasy was so real that it felt like he was asleep, but the next time he looked at the clock it was 4:17 a.m.

Dale never needed more than a few hours of sleep a night to function properly, so he got up, brewed himself a pot of coffee, and basked in the silence of the early morning. There was very little in Dale’s life that he would describe as ideal, but these early mornings came close. When the world was this quiet, it was almost like it didn’t exist. He was free to be alone with his thoughts; to dream of the life that could still one day be his.

This morning, he reflected on the strange car and the loud music and wondered if he should have called the police. He supposed it was possible that the car had a legitimate reason for being on his street – a late night pizza delivery, a boyfriend of one of the rebellious teenage girls across the street – but the car was just as likely filled with a bunch of gang-bangers casing the neighborhood.

As was usually the case with Dale, he waited too long to act. Calling the police would be pointless now. The car was long gone. If it was filled with gang-bangers casing the block, all he could do was pray that his wasn’t the hous
e they targeted.

Dale finished his second cup of coffee, then as was customary, especially on mild mornings when the rain or snow was kind enough not to interfere, he slipped on a pair of sweatpants, grabbed his wooden walking stick, and set out for a quiet stroll around the neighborhood. It was the absolute perfect time to go. Mo
st of his neighbors were still asleep, so he didn’t have to put on the tired act of being interested in them.

He whistled Bob Seger’s
Turn the Page
as he walked to the front door. But before he could make it outside he heard an unfortunate noise from upstairs that stopped him cold in his tracks.

Trinket started barking.

Dale rolled his eyes. Once that dog started, she didn’t stop. He knew what was coming next. Unfortunately, he didn’t have to wait long to hear it.

“Dale? Sweetie, are you awake?”

Maggie knew damn well he was awake, but he refused to answer her. The dog started barking even louder and now he could hear her paws scratching against the hardwood floor.

“Dale honey? Are you here?”

Dale grunted and walked to the base of the staircase. “Yes I’m here! What is it?”

“Would you do me a favor and take Trinket out? She’s really agitated and I think she needs to relief herself!”

“Come on, Maggie! You know that dog always gives me grief when I take it out!” Dale used the same argument every morning. It had yet to work.

“Please? It’ll only take a minute!”

Dale grunted again. It would have been easy for him to just walk out the door without saying anything, but he didn’t.
A willing accomplice to my own misery
, he thought as he braced himself for what he was about to say next. “Bring her down!”

Dale stood on the front porch holding a flashlight while the dog did her business in the bushes. He had learned to bring a flashlight along because Trinket had the most annoying habit of running away whenever she grew tired of sniffing the rose bushes or digging up his grass; and finding a black Pomeranian in the pitch dark of early morning is next to impossible without the assistance of a heavy duty Mag-lite.

Less than thirty seconds into her bathroom break, Trinket held true to form. Before Dale could take a step to try and stop her, she had bolted off the lawn and down the sidewalk.

Dale gave chase as fast as his artifi
cial knees would take him.

“Trinket what are you doing? Get back here!”

The dog briefly stopped to look at Dale, then ran up the steep, grassy hill of the house two doors down.

“If you think I’m climbing these stairs to get you, you’re out of your mind,” Dale snapped in between labored breaths.

When he reached the house he saw Trinket standing on the front porch. She was making that incessant ‘yip’ sound that was her version of barking. And it was about three octaves louder than usual.

“Trinket! Shu
t up and get back down here!”

The dog briefly stopped look in his direction then redirected her attention to the
house. The yipping continued.

Dale mumbled a string of curse words as he slowly made his way up the stairs leading to the porch. “I don’t know what you’re barking at, but if you don’t stop right this minute…”

When he reached the top of the stairs he saw exactly what Trinket was barking at.

The entire house was cast in a deep shadow of black. There was no porch light, no lights on in the house, even the street lamp in front of the house was out.

Yet, the front door was wide open.

Dale felt his blood run cold. He called out to the dog. “Trinket, get away from there.” But this time his voice lacked
anything resembling authority.

He vaguely knew the woman who lived here. From what he had gathered, she wasn’t particularly social, not with him at least. She was just another one of the young, upwardly mobile types who were taking over the neighborhood; a neighborhood that they saw as nothing more than a place to lay their heads when they weren’t working.

When Dale made it to the porch, he could see inside the house. It felt cool and empty, like no one had lived there for a long time. The alarm bells went off in his head again, twice as loud as before. And this time he knew he was going to act.

As Trinket stood next to him, still yipping, her eyes seemed to be focused on something inside. Dale stepped into the doorway, hesitated briefly, then stuck his head inside the foyer. For a moment, he could see nothing in the darkness. Then the natural light from outside began to filter its way in and he could make out objects: pictures on the foyer wall, an armchair, and end table with a lamp on top of it. Then he saw something else about ten feet away from the door. His eyes did a double-take, then a triple-take, yet he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. As he took another step inside, he finally turned on the flashlight. Sudd
enly the horror was very real.

The Dalmatian was lying on its side directly in front of the staircase, completely motionless. Were it not for the pool of blood, Dale woul
d have assumed it was asleep.

He stumbled backward as he put his hand over his mouth to stifle a scream. All he wanted to do was
run, but he knew he couldn’t.

With the flashlight turned on, Dale could now see a lot more of what had apparently happened inside the house. There was broken glass all over the floor. A potted plant had been smashed near the dog. The couch was turned over as was the dining room table and china cabinet. It was like a tornado tore through the living room and left nothing standing in its wake, not even the Dalmatian that he had seen so many times before.

He knew there were two dogs, but he couldn’t see the other one. “Where is it?” he silently mouthed to himself. The same place as its owner, he suspected.

Dale ran back onto the porch to dry heave, then scooped up Trinket and hobbled home to call the police. As he ran, he thought about the strange car, and his failure to act when he should have, and how his wife always talked him into walking her stupid dog – just like she always talked him into so many things. Mostly, he thought about that two room cabin in southern Colorado.

Right now it never felt so far away.

CHAPTER 11

D
espite a major bout of jet lag and a night of sleep that could best be described as inconsistent, Camille was out of bed, showered, and dressed by 6:15. The two hour time deficit and drastic change in scenery had done little to alter a morning routine that had been a constant since her days in the academy. Old habits, she was coming to discover, die very hard.

She smiled as she walked past her father’s closed bedroom door and down the stairs. When Camille was a child, he was usually gone long before she woke up. Even on days when he didn’t have to work, she was often awakened by his heavy footsteps padding down the staircase one to two hours before the sun made its first appearance. Now, six years retired from the daily grind of making his doughnut run in time for morning roll call, Paul Grisham had apparently found another way to enjoy the hard-earned fruits of his labor aside from regular trips to t
he driving range. He slept in.

You certainly earned it, big guy
.

Before she went to bed, Camille set the coffee maker to start brewing at six, the same as she had every morning in D.C. for the past eight years. By the time she came downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee had wafted into practically every corner of the house. As she sat
at the kitchen table, skimming the business section of the previous day’s newspaper and sipping on a cup of
Seattle’s Best
, she realized that this could have been the start of any other morning. But it wasn’t like any other morning. There would be no briefing from the Bureau chief, no psych profile to review, no bagel and cream cheese breakfast with Agent Sheridan. There was only a cup of coffee, an outdated newspaper, and the first full day she would face in a long time with absolutely nothing to do.

Despite her own lack of an agenda, she was positive her father would have something in store for her. As he had declared last night, her pity parade was officially over. He may have respected what she had gone through and supported her decisions along the way, but he also fully expected her to pull herself out of the murk that she had been slogging through, and to do it quickly. That meant no sitting on the couch watching General Hospital while she half-heartedly plotted her re-entry into the world of the productive. How far he was willing to go to ensure that such a scenario was never allowed to play itself out remained to be seen, but as long as she lived under his roof, Camille knew she would have no choice but to play along.

For now, she simply wanted to enjoy the stillness of a house that she had yet to fully reacquaint herself with. As she walked around each room, she tried to focus on something that would help re-establish her history with it.

In the kitchen there was the red and green vase that she made for her mother in eighth grade ceramics class. Despite its cracked rim and overall hideous appearance, someone always made sure there were fresh flowers in it; a tradition her father currently maintained with pink and red carnations. On the living room floor was the gold afghan that her mother shampooed at least once a month. On the mantle over the fireplace was the outstanding service award that her mother received from the Colorado Bar Association for her five years as a district court judge. Next to that was a picture from the 2001 Race for the Cure. Camille and her mother stood arm in arm at the finish line, both of them dressed in pink from head to toe.

In spite of an always radiant smile, the chemo had taken a major toll on her mother’s appearance at that point. Most of her hair had fallen out, and her once bright face was gray and gaunt. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer eight months earlier and signing up for the race had been her way of declaring war on a disease she was determined to beat. For that day, with Camille running beside her the entire three miles, Olivia Grisham did beat it. Early detection, a double mastectomy, and aggressive chemotherapy had given her hope that there would be many more races to run.

But there wouldn’t be. The cancer spread much faster than the doctor’s anticipated and had quickly become inoperable. Olivia died three weeks before her daughter was accepted into the academy.

When Camille decided to apply, her mother was the first person she told. Though she expressed initial misgivings the same as any parent would when their only child tells them she wants to be the next Clarice Starling, Olivia eventually embraced the idea. Whenever she found a story related to the FBI, she would clip it from the newspaper. When Camille shared her dream of living and working in Washington D.C., Olivia convinced Paul to start looking at houses in the area. Near the end, when the hospice nurses would visit the house, she always told them they had to work extra hard to keep her alive because her daughter was on her way to becoming an FBI agent and she planned to be there to see her first big arrest. She told them it would be one of the proudest moments of her life.

Unfortunately, that first big arrest came long after Olivia passed away; and nothing about it, Camille concluded, would have given her reason to be proud.

As she continued looking around, Camille realized that most everything here reminded her of her mother. She had been dead for nearly nine years, but the house was still decidedly hers. Camille knew that her father’s disinterest in changing the décor had very little to do with his lack of style. It had everything to do with preserving the memory of his wife. Keeping the house unchanged meant keeping her alive; just like keeping Camille’s room unchanged was his way of keeping her home.

But no matter how much her father tried, home could never be what it once was. Camille’s connection to it died along with her mother. And every year that she found an excuse not to come back, every Thanksgiving and Christmas she flew her father out to D.C., the cold reality that her mother would never be there to hug her stung a little bit less.

As she walked out of the living room, Camille finally understood why this house felt so foreign to her: she needed it to be that way. For as much as she wanted to feel the safety and security of being home, she knew that she had the ability to be little more than a temporary guest here. To try to be anything more threatened to open up wounds that she had neither the strength nor the will to endure. All it took was one glance at a decade old picture of her mother to remind her of that. Best to keep those memories locked away in that deep place along with every other painful thing in her life.

“So much for enjoying the stillness,” she muttered to herself as walked into her father’s office and sat down at the desk.

The room was filled with the standard memorabilia that came from twenty-seven years of being a first rate cop: service awards, pictures with four different mayors, a gold plated replica of his badge, and a framed retirement banner covered with the signatures of practically every member of the Denver Police Department. Her father was as respected as any officer in the department had ever been, and the testaments to that were on proud display all around her.

Of all the rooms in the house, Camille felt the most out of place in this one. In the past, it had been a source of inspiration for her. She spent countless hours staring at pictures of him in his uniform, reading the true crime books that lined his bookshelf, listening to dispatch chatter on his police scanner, and dreaming of the day when she would get to wear a badge just like his.

Now the room felt like a shrine that she was desecrating by her mere presence.

I really should have checked into a hotel
.

As she stood up from the desk, her eyes drifted to the bookshelf where she noticed that most of the true crime and procedure books she grew up reading had been replaced with historical novels and golf magazines.

But one thing hadn’t changed.

The handheld police scanner sat in the same corner of the top shelf as it always had. Judging by the thick blanket of dust covering its face, it probably hadn’t been touched in the decade since she last used it. By this point, it was more ornamental than functional anyway; another sentimental keepsake from a bygone era.

Camille picked it up off the shelf and sat back down at the desk. She blew away a mound of dust and hit the power button. To her surprise the green LED display lit up and the sound of crackling static emitted from the speaker. The 200 channel scanner could hone in on frequencies as far south as Houston and as far west as Los Angeles, but it was automatically set to pick up Denver police dispatch.

After about thirty seconds, the static gave way to the sound of a female voice.

“Corner of 12th and Logan. We have a Hispanic male, late forties, early fifties, possibly homeless, lying on the sidewalk, unresponsive. Need EMS support, over.”

“Copy that, twenty-four,” a male voice answered. “Stand by for fire rescue.”

After a few seconds of silence, a different voice. “Traffic lights on Colfax between York and Colorado Boulevard are malfunctioning. We have major tie ups in all directions. Requesting units to help monitor traffic flow.”

“Two one copy, we’ll send units that way now.”

It was the kind of garden variety chatter that one always hears on a police scanner. There were domestic violence reports, requests for back up on suspicious traffic stops, reports of elderly people in need of assistance because of chest pains. Before the Bureau, Camille could have listened for hours on end. But now that she understood the true nature of police work, and the fact that most of these calls would end uneventfully no matter how exciting they may have started out, there wasn’t much to hold her interest.

She left the scanner on the desk while she walked back to the bookshelf, hopeful that she could find something in her father’s book collection mindless enough to distract her for a few hours. She had begun skimming through a Tom Clancy nonfiction book about nuclear submarines when something came over the scanner that redirected her attention.

“This is six two eight, we’ve located the vehicle possibly belonging to the deceased in an alley on the 3800 block of Gilpin Street. Burgundy Range Rover, license 289 Alpha Charlie X-Ray. All four wheels have been lifted and it looks like most of the engine has been stripped.”

“Roger that six two eight,” a female voice responded. “Do we have confirmation that the SUV is registered to the victim?”

“Affirmative. The plates came back as a match. There’s a possibility the suspect or suspects may still be on site. Requesting additional units to secure the Range Rover and sweep the area.”

“Copy six two eight. Additional units are en route to your location.”

Camille dropped the book and ran over to the scanner. Burgundy Range Rover. The same as Julia’s. But there had to be hundreds of them in the city. Besides, why would her car be anywhere near 38th and Gilpin? She lived clear on the other side of the city.

Another voice on the scanner.

“Detectives have been dispatched to the original crime scene. Any word on the status of animal control?”

“Animal control is on scene but forensics has requested they not remove the dogs until their cause of death can be confirmed.”

“Roger that eight two. And there were two of them?”

“Correct. Dalmatians, I believe.”

Then a second feed cut in. “Be advised of increasing media and spectator activity outside the victim’s residence. We need units to cut off outside traffic over a three block radius starting at the 400 block of Monroe Street.”

Camille remembered the address that Julia left for her. 335 Monroe Street. An immediate shockwave of numbness shot through her body and she could no longer feel the scanner in her hand.

“Copy that. Additional units are en route to the original crime scene and forensics is standing by at the secondary site to survey the victim’s vehicle.”

After that, the scanner lost the frequency and went silent.

Camille stood frozen, desperately trying to process what she had just heard. She knew what her instincts were telling her, but no other part of her could begin to come to terms with it. Though there was no confirmation of the victim’s identity, the fact that he or she drove the same car as Julia, lived in the same neighborhood, and had the same breed of dog meant that coincidence should have been officially off the table as a possibility. But Camille held tight to the possibility anyway.

Fighting back the panic that was beginning to surge through her, she calmly walked into the living room and turned on the television. This time of morning, the local newscasts were primarily concerned with the traffic and weather and she had to switch between three different stations b
efore she finally found one actually reporting the news. After more bleak reports about the job market and an overblown account of the latest political strife in the Middle East, the scene switched to a high helicopter shot above a large, two story house that was roped off with yellow tape.

“We want to update you on a developing story we’ve been following involving a possible homicide in this home on the 300 block of Monroe Street,” the anchor said as the helicopter shot continued. “Police are now saying that an SUV possibly belonging to the victim has been found in an alley in northeast Denver, though that information has not been officially confirmed. Authorities have apparently identified the victim but are not releasing her name. What we do know is that a woman was found dead in the home sometime early this morning. Details surrounding that death are still not known, but sources have told 7 News that homicide detectives are on scene and are currently pursing tips related to the SUV. We will have continuing coverage of this developing story all morning and will pass along more information as it becomes available.”