Page 62 of Dirty Daria
I don’t have a savior complex, and I’m not looking to play that role in their lives, but on some level, I feel like this is all up to me. I can ask Daria for help, but her solution will be to take Tremblay out, as well as any other players she comes across in his game. I respect her need for vengeance, but I can’t legitimately condone the outright killing of a suspect while employed by the FBI. Which means, right now, I’m at a point where if I don’tseeit happen, then it didn’t.
And I’m not about to tell the higher-ups what’s going on with Reed. He’ll be censured at best, fired at worst. And I have faith in him that he will rebound from this. He’s just taking it harder than any of us anticipated, the fact that Tremblay is such a waste of a human being, as well as his not seeing it while it was happening. And, truth be told, I’m sure the latter is much harder on him.
In the meantime, I’m happy to take up the slack, I know that Reed would do it for me. Which is why while everyone else is sleeping on our plane ride home, I’m reviewing my daily log notes from the trip and pontificating theories, no matter how outrageous; trying to establish connections between anything and everything that I can.
One thing I’m certain of, no one tried to kill Tremblay in Maldives. And taking him out while he’s traveling is always going to be easier than when he’s at home. Or visiting a drop house at a pre-determined time or, shit, attending his own wedding reception. Which leads me to believe that the second “warning” was fake. A failed assassination attempt by cutting the bowtie instead of the neck is flimsy at best as it is.
Except, what would Tremblay gain by faking it?
Protection?
Maybe. But he hired his own bodyguards anyway.
Attention?
Sure. But is it the right kind of attention? Especially with Laurel’s family in the picture.
Alibi?
I click my pen against the pad of paper, thinking on that some more. Daria stirs from where she’s curled up next to me, her head resting on my shoulder. I don’t want to disturb her, mostly because I don’t want her to move. I like having her here next to me. Also, I don’t think she ever gets enough rest. She works her ass off at the bar, works her ass off to find Katya’s killers, and now that we are back together, I’m going to be one more demand on her time.
I reach my left arm around her and pull her into me, she snuggles down further, her head almost in my lap. I adjust the flip table and the overhead light so neither are in her face nor bothering her. Then continue brainstorming as I stroke her arm with one hand and keep on writing with the other.
Alibi?
Okay, but alibi for what? We already know he’s guilty of kidnapping and drugging the girls. We have more than enough evidence on that. Has he done something else we aren’t aware of?
Two things keep niggling the back of my brain. One, Quinn was supposed to have been drugged at around the same time that Daria and I heard those guys talking about “getting” a curvy girl with a nice rack, before going into the Fun Zone. Two, Tremblay went to the same place the very next day.
What if girls are kept somewhere on site and Quinn was supposed to have been “saved” for Tremblay until the next day? It’s a theory I can get behind, but it would imply that he is much more involved in this than he let on. At this point though, that wouldn’t surprise me.
One thing is for sure, the day after we get home, I’m bringing Tremblay in for questioning again. And this time I’m not letting him go until I get solid, verifiable answers from him.
29
Reed
We’ve barely been home a day and already Mack is bringing David in. It’s like I can’t catch a fucking break. Mack doesn’t get it; the bureau chief doesn’t get it; I don’t want to see David again. I don’t want to talk to him or hear his flimsy ass excuses for why he’s an asshole. I just want to do what we’re going to do—whether that be arrest him, kill him, or let him go—and be done with it.
But we aren’t doing any of that yet. Instead, he’s coming in again for questioning. For no good reason. We aren’t going to get anything more from him. This is all a waste of fucking time. What’s worse, the chief wants me to question David. Mack can be in the room, but I’m to take lead. Like mine and David’s shared history is going to make David give us more information than he ordinarily would or something.
What a joke.
I pull into the large lot of the local FBI branch. It’s an unassuming building from the front, you’d never know this is where we are. Made up of dark gray stonework with black tinted windows all around, and a front “lawn” with green grass and marble address marker that doubles as a water feature. A wrought iron fence with spiked tops stands about ten feet high, with one entrance/exit protected by a remote-controlled gate and collapsible steel bollards.
Our offices are located on a corner hilltop where two sides of the building face the street and the other two sides face our parking lot and sloping hillside. The benefit being we can never be snuck up on. Not that I think we ever would be, but I guess you never know.
“Wow, you might have showered before you came in today. Or at least shaved.” Mack gestures to me, I flip him off in return.
“I showered, asshole.”
“Well, you definitely did not shave. Or brush your hair.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does, Reed.”
“Well, I don’t need David thinkinghematters.”
