6. 6
Miranda did an amazing job to get everyone in gear and have FIX Foundation’s offices look brilliant by the next morning. She even huddled all employees, telling them to be on their best normal human beings behavior. She gave a speech most NFL trainers would envy. Everyone is busy working and I’m nervously pacing up and down between desks on the floor.
“Pacing won’t make the time go quicker,” Chester says, who’s busy trying to find the missing kids again. Sleeping did him good, and we’re on the same brain wave lengths again. He’s grumpy though, because Miranda told him to turn his music down to a volume where nobody can hear it blasting out of his headphones. The volume he usually sets his music to can’t be good for his hearing, but he won’t listen to me when I talk to him about it. Perhaps it’s because he can’t fucking hear what I’m telling him.
“I know that, time is time, there’s no way to make it go faster. I’m just… working on my daily steps.”
He snorts. “Yeah, because you’re so good at sitting still and not being busy the whole goddamn time.”
I give him my best glare. He has a point though, I’m terrible at doing nothing. It makes me nervous. Physical exercise has always made me feel better, it’s my drug of choice. And it helps that I have to stay fit for the work I do. I don’t want to admit that I’m just nervous for the FBI to come. So if sitting still makes me nervous, and the FBI coming over makes me nervous, then not sitting still will surely help me feel less… nervous.
“Why don’t you go work out some?” he asks.
“Not enough time, I don’t want to be all sweaty when they arrive.”
The floor we’re renting in the Wells Fargo Center has its own gym and showers, so my tac-team can get in all the workouts they need. There seriously isn’t enough time to go there, it’s a quarter to ten. So I just keep pacing up and down. I don’t even know why I’m so fucking nervous in the first place. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve dealt with the FBI. It is the first time however, that I’m dealing with them in a strictly professional capacity.
A tiny dinging sound at Miranda’s desk notifies her that someone wants to be let in, and she buzzes them in. Guess this is it, they’re here. It’s like I’m in the field right then. My nerves evaporate and I’m focused on what’s happening. I stop pacing up and down, and sit myself down on the edge of a desk, the embodiment of professionalism. Sometimes I wonder if it’s normal that I can flip my switch just like that.
A tall man with dark hair and a woman with long black hair in an intricate braid walk in. They’re dressed in civilian clothes, which I guess is normal for agents when they’re not on an actual assignment. Miranda points them in my direction, and they walk straight over. I stand up when they near me, walking the last few steps to them.
“Are you Miss Wilder?” the man asks in a deep, grumbling voice that resonates somewhere deep inside me, making my head snap up. When I look him in the eye, I am met with the most vibrant green eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s like they’re made of emeralds. Not just the color of it, but the actual fucking stones. They’re shiny and glittering and I’m mesmerized. I snap out of it, remembering who I am and what I do.
“Yes, I’m Abby Wilder. Please, call me Abby,” I manage to say. I force myself to look away from the man, afraid I’ll get lost in his eyes again if I stare too long. I stick out my hand and the woman grabs it first.
“I’m Special Agent Winona Luta with the FBI’s behavioral analysis unit. This is my partner, Special Agent Beckett Sanders. You spoke to him on the phone.”
Ah yes, grumpy pants, who I had a weird conversation with because I thought it was Remy calling me back. I scrape my throat and try to force myself not to think about it. We’re here on serious business. One uncomfortable phone call and a pair of pretty eyes don’t change the fact that they’re here to talk about twelve dead women. That thought alone sobers me.
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” Special Agent Luta asks.
“Sure, we can go up to my office.” I point to my office door with my forehead, and we simultaneously start moving in its direction. Chester gets up as well, obviously coming along and being included in the conversation. Agent Sanders turns back, glaring at Chester.
“Just Miss Wilder will do,” he says, and while I feel his voice in my stomach, Chester is not getting left out again. That’s where I draw the line.
“Mister Von Liechsenfield will be joining us,” I say in my most icy voice. “Whether he’s in the room or not, he’ll be told everything I hear in there. He probably knows more about the case than you do.” I deliberately use his last name, because whether or not he likes it, it makes an impact. Not just because of his family, but also because the FBI has heard of Chester von Liechsenfield. More than once they’ve contacted us and asked him to stop hacking their servers. There’s also been occasions they’ve asked him for his help. So fuck Special Agent Sanders in a fucking special way for looking at my friend in such a condescending manner.
Special Agent Sanders comes to a standstill and crosses his arms in front of his chest, eyeing Chester from top to toe. He’s wearing baggy jeans with holes in them and a t-shirt with Ozzy Osbourne biting off a bat’s head. Perfect picture of professionalism.
“What the hell is punk-boy going to add to this conversation?” Special Pain-in-my-Ass Sanders asks.
Before I can verbally wipe the floor with him, Special Agent Luta lays a hand on Sander’s forearm, making him look at her. “He’s the hacker,” is all she says.
Chester walks past both agents, climbs up the three steps to my office and gives them a grin so wide it makes me laugh out loud. A sour-looking Agent Sanders follows him, while Winona is smiling behind his back. I’m curious as to how their partnership works. I enter my office and close the door behind me, only to find Chester sitting in my desk chair, his legs stretched out and crossed on my desk. He’s looking way too happy. This isn’t cutting it. If he wants me to be the boss, he has to let me play the part.
“Move,” I snap, and he gets up, his eyes never leaving Special Agent Sanders’. He gets up and plants his ass on the edge of the desk, while both agents sit down in the chairs that are in front of my desk.
“So, what did you want to meet about?” I ask as I sit down myself, giving them my best cool glare.
“We’d like to hear about the body you found and the pictures you got.”
“Bodies,” Chester says.
“It hasn’t been confirmed there were multiple bodies,” Special Agent Sanders says.
“Oh cut the crap,” he says, “there’s a special behavioral unit here and we both know more than one body has been excavated from that house.”
“And how exactly would you know that?” he asks my friend.
“I’ve read all the files,” he admits.
“They haven’t been published yet.”
“Well gee, mister.”
“Did you get into the police and the FBI servers?” Special Agent Sanders asks as he eyes Chester suspiciously.
“Maybe, maybe not. Innocent until proven guilty.” He looks fucking smug as he tells this. “Catch me and I’ll admit to all I need to admit to.” Sanders cocks his head like he’s accepting the challenge. Agent Luta and I watch each other with a bemused look. Seems like we’ll have to be the grown-ups around here.
“So, now that you’re done with your pissing contest, can we get to business?” I’m not just sounding bored, I am actually bored at this point. I catch Winona smirking at me. I like her already.
“Let’s just say that Chester is up to speed.” He stares at me and gives me a curt nod, letting me know that he’ll be bringing me up to speed as soon as he can.
Special Agent Luta takes over the conversation. “So, we’ve found that when DNA results came back and we started getting names on the victims, they came from a few of the surrounding states. They’re taken from all over the area.” Special Agent Sanders is giving her a scowl. I don’t think he agrees with his partner’s assessment to tell us so much. “We’ve run facial recognition on the photos you were sent, and they match the victims. Even helped us to identify the last body we couldn’t get a DNA result on.”
She sits back in her chair, sighs and mournful eyes find mine. “These women have been through a lot. Peri- and post-mortem. Now don’t get me wrong, we’ll figure this out. That’s our job. What we can’t figure out however, is why the killer sent you a box of pictures.”
That’s a question that’s been bothering me as well. And I can’t figure it out.
“I don’t know. My best guess is that the Unknown Subject I saw fleeing the house was actually the killer. And now he’s taunting me. Is this something serial killers do when they get away?”
Special Agent Luta shakes her head. “They do so when they’re known to the media, when part of the rush is the recognition from cops and news outlets. Outsmarting them and getting away with it. This kind of killer? That doesn’t want to get caught? That hides their dirty little secrets in the dark? They don’t taunt. They flee. And when they almost get caught, they hide and go dormant.”
My heart starts pounding. This doesn’t add up, something is off. Something’s hinky, just like I thought when I was at the house where the bodies were buried. Chester pushes himself off the edge of my desk and stands closer to me.
“It’s obvious though, isn’t it?” His voice is softer than it was moments ago, when he was trying to get a rise out of Special Agent Sanders. “The killer has a type, and she looks just like them.”
Fuck, now that he has pointed it out it’s so obvious. They do look like me. My heart is beating so hard I can hear it. Literally hear it. All the women in the picture were about my age, had black hair and dark eyes. That describes me. How did I not see it? Am I going to be his new obsession? Am I the next to end up buried in some basement, just another missing person on a list of unsolved cases? Over my dead body.
I force myself to take a deep breath for four, hold for four, breathe out for four and hold for four again. The breathing in itself is kind of a mantra I use to calm my mind down. Robin taught me to use it years ago and I’ve been grateful to her for it ever since.
The agents are silently communicating with looks alone. Did they not see the similarities before? Or didn’t they look up what I looked like beforehand so they couldn’t have known?
“Okay, so now what? Should I now be worried he’s coming after me?”
Chester places a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve already upped the security everywhere.”
Special Agent Luta is chewing her bottom lip, thinking. “I don’t think he’ll come after you. He wouldn’t have sent the photos if he was going to be targeting you, he’d just go after you instead of letting you know he’s coming.”
Agent Pain-in-my-ass is nodding along to everything she says. He’s extremely quiet. I take their word for it. If I’m not being targeted according to them, I’m willing to take their word for it. Not that I know if their word is worth anything yet, but we’ll figure that out. And by that, I mean I’ll let Chester do a thorough background check on them to see if they’re good at what they do.
“So it’s definitely a he?” I finally say.
Special Agent Luta nods. “It’s very atypical for these kinds of killings to be at the hand of a woman. That, and with your description of the Unknown Subject we’re fairly certain is the killer, makes us believe that it’s a man.”
Chester snorts. “Well, at least that eliminates 50.8% of America. Got more than half ruled out already.”
“If he’s an American citizen, you mean,” Special Agent Sanders counters, and the two of them start their pissing-match all over again. Before they can take it any further, I ask what I really want to ask.
“Can you get me a list of the names of the victims?”
I make sure I make eye contact with both of the agents. I need them to understand how important this is.
“We can’t divulge details of an ongoing investigation to you,” Special Agent Sanders says.
“Why?” Special Agent Luta asks me, eyeing me with curiosity rather than plain dismissal. It earns her a glare from her partner.
“Because I need this whole thing to stop centering on that coward killer. I need to know the names of the innocent women he murdered, and I need them to stop being nameless faces that stare at me in fear. I need to get to know them, so I know who to avenge.”
Special Agent Luta slowly nods, never taking her eyes off of me. I can see the same fire burning there as I can feel burning away inside of me.
“Special Agent Sanders will email you the names,” she says and gets up. “Thank you for your time, Miss Wilder, Mr Von Liechsenfield. We’ll keep in touch.”
When they leave my office and closed the door, Chester turns my desk chair such that I’m facing him.
“You know I can get you those names, right?”
“Yeah, but I want them to give it to us. I want our hands clean with this case, Ches. I mean it. Keep your nose out of it.”
He just shakes his head, flips me the bird and walks out of my office. Yeah, I guess that was too much to ask.
It’s almost four o’clock the next day when I pull up next to a building in a bad part of town. It’s the address Remy texted me for our date and I’m a little confused as to what we’re doing here. The possibility of him illegally harvesting my organs crosses my mind, but I don’t know why that’d have to happen in a bad part of town. Besides, my gut tells me I can trust him and I’m going with that. You know, trusting my gut I’ll not be losing my guts. I park my pick-up truck in a tight space on the side of the road, right in front of the building.
It’s an apartment complex with a few blacked-out windows on the ground floor. The lettering says it’s called ‘Pour Tous Dancing Studio’ and I’m surprised to see it’s the address I’m looking for. A crease appears between my eyebrows as I’m trying to solve this puzzle. Curiouser and curiouser.
I walk through a hallway with walls that are filled with black and white framed pictures of various dancers. There’s only one door at the end of the hallway and I hear music coming out. It’s a sweet tune of a French song I don’t know, but that makes me feel serene. I gently open the door until there’s a crack I can look through. A group of girls in ballet suits ranging from ages six to eight are doing grand pliés at the bars in front of a huge mirror. At the front of the row is Remy, in black sweatpants and a gray tank top. He’s giving the girls instructions, as he calls them out by their names. His eyes flit to mine and a huge smile covers his face.
“We’ve got a visitor, girls,” he says, speaking to his disciples. “Say hi to Abby for me, please.”
“Bonjour Abby,”all the girls chant. Fuck, that’s cute. A little too pink and girly for my liking, but cute nonetheless.
“Please, come in, we’re just finishing up. Have a seat,” he says as he points his chin to a bench on the side of the room. I reluctantly walk in, feeling extremely out of place in this dance studio with kids when I sit down in my leather pants and my black top that’s more lace than anything else. The bench is so low, my knees practically reach my nose as I try to make myself comfortable.
Remy claps his hands, shows the girls how to place their hands and feet to do a proper pirouette and then encourages them all to practice. There’s one girl at the end of the row with a full head of black curls, that keeps on falling over after she spins, and then giggles like a little maniac. It’s contagious. When Remy reaches her, he crouches down in front of her.
“Grande ballerine Lucy,”he says in a soft voice. “I see you’ve got the landing down to a science. Well done.” I watch his face through the mirror behind him. Little crow’s feet surround his eyes as he watches his student. “Now, for your next adventure, try placing your foot a little more like this.” He gently turns her foot a little and she watches what he does like a hawk. “Want to try?” She nods, grinning widely. “Commence.”
She tries and does a perfect pirouette, without falling over. A feeling of pride warms my belly. Remy praises her and then tells all the girls to pack up their bags, keep practicing, and see them again next week. They all call ‘Au revoir, Remy’ when they leave the room and I swear these must be the most well-behaved kids in all of Portland.
When the last girl leaves, Remy focuses on me and comes over to me.
“So, this is your big plan? See you all sweaty and interacting with cute kids? Because while that might work on every other woman, I might turn out to be a bit harder to impress.”
“Yes, this is my big plan. Should I get sweatier or more kids to win you over?”
I snort as I let my eyes glide over his body. “Sweatier for sure.”
He laughs and sits down on the couch next to me.
“There’s not really much sweating involved with teaching some juniors. So either I’m already failing miserably, or this isn’t my big plan.” He drinks some water out of a bottle and then puts it back in a big black sports bag.
I eye him curiously as he pulls a smaller bag out and places it between us on the couch. Another tiny bag gets pulled out of the smaller bag and I’m starting to think that this is like one of those Matryoshka dolls but with bags.
Unpacking the tiny bag, he pulls out a container filled with plump and ripe strawberries. He puts them on the floor between us. Then, he pulls a bottle of wine out of the smaller bag and sets it on the bench between us. From his sports bag, he takes out two plastic cups.
“Voilá, my big plan.” He keeps using these French words, but his accent is completely American. The other week at the mayor’s ball I wouldn’t even have thought he has French roots, but they must be there somewhere. He uncorks the wine and fills both our cups, handing me over and tapping it against mine.
“Santé,”he says as his vibrant blue eyes bore into my eyes.
“Cheers,” I answer, taking a sip and grimacing.
“Not a wine girl?”
“Nope, give me a good barrel-aged whiskey over some stuffy wine any day of the week and I’ll be a happy girl.” He snorts.
“Stuffy wine? This is a Sauvignon Blanc, there’s nothing stuffy about it.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t taste like whiskey.”
A panty-melting smile covers his face. “Can’t argue with logic like that.”
I look away, because he’s way too charming and I’m afraid to get sucked into his allure. I stuff a strawberry in my mouth, just to have something to do. It’s the weirdest date I’ve ever been on. I’m here in my leather pants, in a dance studio, eating fruit and drinking wine with a dance teacher in his workout gear. It’s different from the standard dinner though, which seems like a plus.
“Tell me, why’d you want to have a driver pick me up?” I ask him, because that’s a part of the puzzle I can’t seem to solve.
“I’ve always learned that if you ask someone out on a date, you pick them up. I wanted to show you this place, but I couldn’t be here and pick you up myself, so I thought a driver would be a good solution.”
He takes a strawberry out of the container, plays with the crown a little before picking it off and then stuffing his own mouth.
“Why show me this? Why not just take me out to dinner?”
He takes a moment to think, then gets up and walks over to the other side of the room where a musical installation is. He taps on his phone and the opening notes to Lotus Flower by Radiohead fill the room. He walks back over to me and holds out his hand, waiting for me to grab it. The three seconds I take to hesitate, he just reassuringly keeps standing there, waiting, no trace of any doubt in his face that I will not take him up on his offer.
He walks me to the middle of the dance floor and just like at the mayor’s ball, he starts leading me through dance movements I didn’t know I had in me. The closeness and the warmth of his body create a huge distraction, until he finally starts answering my question.
“When I met you last week, running into you with Chester, at the mayor”s ball, I felt like I had some explaining to do.”
He dips me so low the tips of my long raven black hair touch the ground and he spins me.
“That world, Chester’s old world, the world of money… It isn’t mine. I never expected to ever run into Chester there. The hookups we had were about a lot of things, but money has never been a part of it. So when you found me there, in my fancy suit, as an obviously loaded guest, surrounded by all these rich pricks… It’s me, but it isn’t me.”
He lifts me up like I weigh less than nothing, and in a reflex, I wrap my legs around his waist. Instead of abusing the situation, he keeps going through a series of modern dance moves, like his body is one with the music.
“I was born into money. Self-made money. Both my parents worked hard for it and they were good at it. They wanted me to take over the business. But me? All I cared about was dancing. And I fucking excel at it. When I left Oregon to dance professionally for a dancing company in New York, they broke all ties with me. Told me to come back when I was ready to get serious.”
He slowly lets me drop back down, letting my body slide over his, as our eyes stay locked.
“So when I made this donation to your company like all I am is my money, I wanted you to see this. I needed you to see me. The money I inherited? I don’t give a crap about it. I bought this studio, I give free dance lessons to all who are willing to come.”
My eyes fall on his mouth. He has full lips. Sensual lips, with a slight red gloss from the strawberries we just ate. I pry my eyes away, and immediately drown in the blue of his eyes again. He visibly swallows and then spins me so my back is pressed to his.
“I needed you to see me, at least once, because I think I’ll regret it until the day I die if I wouldn’t at least try with you.”
Now it’s my turn to swallow. I can see our reflections in the mirrors and we lock eyes through it. I can see the connection between us. It’s so strong it’s almost palpable. He spins me back, my front touching his front. He’s a good foot taller than I am, and whereas I’m all petite, he’s not. He’s lean but muscular, a real dancer now that I think of it. The song comes to an end, but we just keep standing there.
“How does it work?” I ask him, my voice thick and husky.
“What? The dancing?” The tension breaks as I chuckle.
“No, this. Me, Chester. How does it work for you?”
When The Party’s Overby Billie Eilish starts playing, and Remy dips me again before he starts leading me through the steps, pushing me back and taking me where he wants to go. He makes sure to look at me before he answers.
“To me, a body is just a body. A tool I can use to create my art. Whatever body parts are involved have nothing to do with what I find attractive, which happens to be a genuine connection.”
His words resonate in my stomach, my heart pounding in my chest even though Remy is doing most of the work in the dancing department.
“Somehow, being a ballet dancer, a contemporary dancer, people assume you’re gay. Sometimes I think it’s the dancers’ own fault. When you equal touching to attraction, dancing becomes intimate. Too intimate. I think some of the women I dance with need to distance themselves from that intimacy, for whatever reason. It’s easier to believe I’m not attracted to girls to begin with.”
“Which you are?”
“Which I most certainly am,” he says, as he pulls my hips against his and I can feel the evidence of that statement. I don’t know what kind of magic he used that I haven’t felt it during our dancing before this point, because there’s a lot to feel. When I find that we’ve fallen still, I look up at him through my eyelashes and my cheeks heat. What the hell? I’m not the blushing type. I’m the kind of girl that takes what she wants. Once I remember that, I act on it. Standing on my tiptoes, I crash my mouth onto his. His strong arms hold me tighter than they already were as our lips meet and tentatively seek out one another.
It’s a soft kiss, a sweet kiss. Not at all what I’m used to at all. While his hands were all over me during our dancing, he sticks to decent parts of my body right now. The frailness he kisses me with infuriates me. I softly bite his lips, coaxing a moan from him and making him pull back.
“Easy there,” he says while his chest rises quickly, like he’s trying to catch his breath. I miss his touch and don’t understand why we stopped kissing. But if I’m being honest, I don’t understand much of this attraction between us anyway.
He takes a step back and lets his forehead fall onto mine. The room comes back into focus when the last notes of the song reach my ears, leaving us standing there in the silence between songs. Remy takes a deep breath, grabs my hand, and starts pulling me in the direction of the bench again.
“Come, drink some more stuffy wine with me and then we’ll go to one of the food trucks around the corner to eat something.”
Ah, that sounds more like my kind of thing.