Chapter 10
“ N o. Atta. You can’t!” Diana’s response to my plan is interwoven in laughter. “I won't let you. This is your dumbest idea yet. Their season’s halfway over and you’re the least flexible person I know.” She continues laughing, likely envisioning me alongside Corky and Bennette lifting my leg in the air with little success.
“Oh, come on. I can’t be that bad at it.”
“Yes, yes, you can. Cheerleading is not for your kind.” Diana looks like she wants to give me even more reasons why I shouldn’t go through with my idea and join the cheer squad to get closer to Bennette and Corky and her tone tells me she’s just quoting reasons I’ve previously given, like I’ve listed them off more than a few times. “What happened to you? You always give Erica a hard time every year when she asks you to join,” she continues. “Joining the team just to have an in with Corky isn’t like you at all. Why would you need an in with Corky in the first place?”
“What if I am good at it?”
“But you’re not good at it. I’ve seen you dance. Erica will have an aneurysm if you tell her. You’re the last person she would expect to join. In fact, you’re the last person I’d expect! Are you sure this isn’t a weird way of getting revenge on her? Are you going to join and then mess up her routine? Did she mess with your cassette tapes again?”
I bite my lip knowing cheerleading is out of character for me in any alternate dimension. I wouldn’t have been caught dead cheerleading back in high school nor had any interest in it as an adult, but circumstances are different here. How else am I supposed to get close enough to Bennette and Corky to figure out what’s going on with Ben? And I was flexible enough. Special agent training required serious physical strength. I’d been in the best shape of my life for the last five years. I would catch on quickly. Cheerleading shouldn’t be a problem for someone who takes jiu-jitsu classes on the side to keep fit for the job, right?
“It’s not revenge. I promise. I just need to figure out what’s going on between Ben, Corky, and Bennette.”
“Wait, what?” she whispers. “Something’s going on between them? Is that why Ben’s not talking to you because you suspect something between Corky and Ben?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I need to figure out. You could join me,” I whisper back, offering to include her in my scheme.
“I could just ask Ben, you know. I doubt Corky will divulge all of her secrets to you just because you joined the team. And no thanks, if the cheers were done to Def Leppard and AC/DC I might consider it, but until then I’ll pass,” she says with a satisfied smile on her face.
“You could ask Ben. But if he’s avoiding me, do you really think he’ll tell you what his deal is when he knows you’ll just turn around and tell me?” I look over at Ben to make sure he’s still distracted by Bennette, which he is. “I can at least try to weasel my way into a conversation and see if one of them will spill, plus Erica’s cheer captain and I’m almost positive she’ll let me join.”
Diana keeps her voice at a low whisper. “Yeah, you’re right. He never tells me anything anyway. You know I’m going to make fun of you from the sidelines, right?”
“I don’t doubt it,” I say, laying my hands to the side in an attempt to once again grip the wood bleacher’s edge bruised from years of bums encroaching on it.
The assembly skits continue and as I stare into the open gym filled with scattered students, a thick block of a hand lands over my knuckles and then curls its fingers between mine. My insides choke all at once.
These hands aren’t Diana’s. Her hands are thin and delicate, not massive and bony, and sending a flare-like distress signal up my veins to my heart. I’m frozen, unable to look to my side to see whose hand is currently dominating mine. I have a heightened urge to slap it with my other hand, but I’m not here to make a scene, so I rub my free hand back and forth against the wood grain seat full of pencil markings to contain myself.
My lower lip clings to my teeth with intense indecision, as I debate fight or flight mode. I manage the courage to roll my eyes to the side until I find a familiar chalky soda pop colored tee. It’s Evan. Evan has hijacked my hand.
If only I was well versed in quietly escaping awkward situations. That would come in more handy at this moment than what the FBI in-service trainings had taught me. I stretch my fingers in his palm until he lets them free, then smile as I stretch my arms wide behind both his and Diana’s backs, exaggerating my yawn to really sell it. Thankfully, the assembly is dismissed before I need to explain and I cling on to Diana with a life-saving grip as students trickle down the steps like we’re all leaving the grounds of a mosh pit.
“Atta!” Evan inadvertently brushes up against my back, allowing him to conveniently slap the shared note back into my hand from behind. “Your doodles were pretty, but you forgot to answer me and give me a time,” he says, sliding through a few bodies to try and face me. I turn my head to find him and my lips unintentionally squish up against his back, staining his shirt with the tinted lip stain Erica gifted me this morning.
“Oh yeah,” I manage, staring at the pink smudge on his shirt with a weak gaze, unsure of how to let him down with all these people sandwiched up against us. He’s going to be upset enough about the coming rejection, whenever I get to it—no need to tip the cow with news of a stained shirt too.
He’s sucked back into the crowd and I swallow embarrassment for not breaking whatever he thinks we have off and for the stain he’ll find later.
Burr oak and Kentucky coffee trees greet us at the turn before Diana pulls up to Marcie’s freshly cut lawn outside of their two-story home. Since Pops is currently living on a trail on the tallest mountain in Africa, she must have mowed today or had one of the boys do it.
Diana’s car tires screech against the curb.
“Good luck with your cheerleading manipulation speech. Call me after you get your sister’s reaction. I want all the details. Oh, and ask your mom if you can spend the night this weekend.” Diana pulls out a pick from her glove box and starts combing her short curls.
“You going somewhere after this?” I ask as she checks herself out in the sun visor mirror.
“Taking my sis to see Mom at Miner’s Diner. We get free apple pie and ice cream on her break today. You’ll come over after school tomorrow, right?”
“Sure,” I say, waving her off with a carefree motion before she speeds off like a comet disappearing in a noisy blink.
“Excuse me, miss.”
I turn around to see who’s calling me.
“Special Agent Suarez, was it?” The neighbor cop who lent me a ride just a couple of days ago approaches me in uniform.
“How have you been?” I say holding both elbows with my hands, arms crossed in a comfort position. Diana’s comment about Officer Berrett and his escapades with girls in the mountains creeps into my mind and I mentally slap myself for finding him even slightly attractive upon our first meeting.
“I’ve been well. Tell me, are you on assignment here? You looked like two teenagers riding up in that car just now.”
“Oh yes, I am. That’s my friend. She’s a bit reckless.” I let out a nervous laugh. It was going to be hard to maintain a double life here without curious neighbors finding out I actually attend high school and that my FBI badge won’t show up on the Bureau registry if anyone tries looking.
“Have you lived here long? My wife and I moved in a few weeks ago.”
“I hope you like it here,” I say, not answering his question.
If this cop was interested in me, I needed to keep my distance. Now didn’t seem like the time to be involved with the neighbor who was actively looking to cheat on his wife.
“Did you get to where you needed to be the other day? I heard there was an incident with Colorado’s infamous crime family in addition to the Hee murder that day. The details aren’t yet out, but the Hee murder report says it was multiple stab wounds,” he says. He must be interested in more information related to the case, otherwise, he wouldn’t be continuing this conversation right when I felt like it’d hit a dead end.
“Multiple stab wounds,” I mutter under my breath in anger. Death is death, but slower forms of death are the crueler kind. Watching that Pop-Tart-vomit-inducing video of this very form of torture made me come up with this conclusion. “Just like Marigold,” I let slip from my mouth, quiet enough I doubt the neighbor cop even heard.
Despite the many unpleasant things I’ve witnessed in the last few years, I catch myself in a zoned out daze recalling the facial expression of a man with the greatest possible amount of fear in his eyes, still alive and unable to speed up the inhumane process being forced upon him as each person took turns stabbing and removing parts of him one at a time. My head shakes back and forth in opposition in front of Officer Berrett.
“Yes, thanks for the ride. It seems I owe you one.” I spit the words out quickly and matter-of-factly after realizing my commenting on a case is better left inside my head while standing in front of this cop. Even though his kindness was greatly appreciated the other day, I needed him to stay out of my business, so I leave it at that.
“By any chance have you been introduced to Deanna?” Officer Berrett asks, boosting his chin so that he stands in front of me with a new elevated posture. His reversal of an expression, now mirroring Rolf from The Sound of Music after he greets the Captain and offers a Nazi salute, concerns me.
“I have not. Is she your wife?” I wait for an explanation.
“No. She's just an acquaintance who’s familiar with a few people over at the Bureau. Have you been following the Hee case? Our Golden department was involved the other day and I wondered if you’ve touched it since it was moved from local police to the Denver Bureau,” he says.
This time I shoot him a wide smile—the complete opposite of what I would typically do in this situation—encouraging him to provide more details, as many details as possible in fact. The idea that I could use this opportunity to learn more about the Denver Bureau—my workplace—before my time sounds too good to pass up.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss,” I say, trying to speak instead with my eyes. I want them to say “speak freely though.”
His lips squirm in place and then rev back up as if he understands.
“Bill Hee, the director of the EPA was killed yesterday after his visit to Coors Brewery. According to the report, a suspect has not been named so far. They’re interviewing anyone on site that day since it happened as he was leaving the factory. It’s going to be an extensive investigation I bet, so if you’re involved, I wish you the best of luck,” he says, swapping his motorcycle helmet for the police hat.
“Are any of your officers still involved,” I reply, trying to get as much out of him as possible.
“Some of them are. Yeah. They’ve met in Denver for the last two days now. I know you can’t say much, but since you’re my neighbor and all, I couldn’t help but wonder about your involvement.” I look over at our muted-sand-colored house to find a purple Buick sliding into our driveway, eggy fumes emoting from its muffler and I get the urge to end this conversation before it turns into some flirtation plot to get me to ride with him into the mountains.
“I can’t say much about the brewery, but I’ll be in the area on assignment for a while,” I respond. I can feel my FBI badge carving a cavity into my stomach the way it’s tucked into my denim skirt waistband, reminding me that my badge carries no authority in this alternate universe. I give my side a little wiggle so that it rests into a more comfortable position. I’m sure it looks unprofessional, but was professionalism even regarded in this decade? His tan pants are clinging to his thighs with magnetic hold, so I don’t know who’s more unprincipled here, me or him? Anyone willing to wear those shouldn’t be able to call themselves a respectable government official.
“Since I’m obligated to keep my status a secret, I must request that you don’t mention what I’m doing here to anyone.” I add. He didn’t owe me anything; on the contrary, I owed him, and also forfeited secrecy in exchange for a motorcycle ride, but I need him to stay out of my business.
“Of course,” he says, sliding an unbuttoned shirt sleeve up his arm so that it exposes his forearm as he turns to the sound of crunching grass.
I spot a familiar inked outline just below his elbow as he scratches the area. Officer Berrett has a tattoo. And it’s not just any tattoo. I know this symbol well. I confirmed it from Google’s search results and copied the design multiple times on the back of the note Evan passed me. The Marigold Company insignia—crystal shaped petals, same emblem border and all—is inked on his skin.
Officer Berrett belongs to Marigold!
If Officer Berrett is involved, Marigold must have had its foot in the Golden Police Department all these years. And Officer Berrett mentioned he has connections at the Bureau. Has Marigold had a tight hold on my department since the eighties?
The heavy realization that Marigold has been dropped on me like a nuclear bomb not once but twice now disturbs me. This time it’s with blaring warning sirens in the form of body ink, alerting me that I must do everything I can to stay away from the neighbor cop.
I suppose as long as Officer Berrett doesn’t suspect me of anything, I might have a chance at surviving the rest of the week in this alternate universe.