Time of Death - Alex Barclay

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      Ren’s boss, Supervisory Special Agent Gary Dettling, had given Misty security clearance for the week, so she could spend it in the office, instead of Ren’s temporary motel home.

      When Gary Dettling set up The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, the maverick in him chose a building that was a piece of Denver’s agricultural history. The Livestock Exchange Building, red brick, four stories high, was one of the few buildings in Denver that had its original interior: polished marble floors and grand mahogany staircases. It started out as home to the Denver Union Stockyard Company and one hundred years on, still kept a link to its roots; the Colorado Brand Inspectors’ office was on the second floor, Maverick Press was on the third: cowboys still had a home in the Livestock Exchange Building.

      Gary Dettling was the straightest maverick Ren knew. He had created something that shook things up – a multi-agency task force – yet he ran it with a tight grip on the reins. The nine-man one-woman team worked from a bullpen. There were no formal partners, but two years earlier, within months of Ren Bryce starting there, she had fallen into a natural group with the three men who sat around her – Cliff James, Colin Grabien and Robbie Truax. A filing cabinet to Ren’s left and one to Colin’s right created a subtle break in the room to seal the deal.

      Ren secured Misty in her quarters and headed down the hallway to her office. She threw her coat on the stand by the door and hung her gray suit jacket on the back of her chair. Her work wardrobe was always a slim-fit black or gray suit, a top in whatever color matched her mood in the morning, and black three-inch heels. Years earlier, Ren had bought an Armani pant suit after a drunken lunchtime date. She had no idea where it was, but the forgeries – expertly made by her mother, Kitty – were holding up well.

      Cliff James was the only person in the office when Ren arrived.

      Cliff was ex-Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, fifty-two years old, a big warm bear with a face set to permasmile. Happy family life, happy man.

      Ren turned to him. ‘My motel room is the type of place a man called Randy would take a girl called Bonnie in his pick-up on a Friday night when her trucker husband, also called Randy, is out of town.’

      ‘Does it have a heart-shaped bed?’ said Cliff.

      ‘To Randy and Bonnie, every bed is heart-shaped.’

      ‘God bless them and the illegitimate offspring Randy-the-husband will unknowingly have to bring up as his own.’

      ‘The good news, however,’ said Ren, ‘is that I am leaving. I will soon have in my possession the keys to a beautiful home on Mardyke Street, straight out of Olde Denver.’

      ‘How did you swing that?’

      ‘My mom’s friend, Annie, is in need of a housesitter.’ She paused. ‘Desperate need, clearly.’

      ‘What? You’d be a great housesitter,’ said Cliff. ‘Clean. Rarely home. Avoids the kitchen. Excellent firearm skills …’

      ‘I like the way you said “clean”.’ Ren smiled. ‘I note, also, that “tidy” didn’t go along with it.’

      Cliff glanced at her desk. That was all it took.

      ‘Where is everyone?’ Ren checked her watch.

      ‘Two separate robberies in the wee hours.’

      ‘Lucky escape for me.’

      ‘Yeah, because being here today will be a whole lot more fun,’ said Cliff. ‘Hey, here it is. He pointed at the television mounted on the wall in the corner and hit the volume on the remote control. Gary Dettling was standing at a podium, flanked by officers from Denver PD and the US Marshals Office.

      Gary was athlete handsome, taller than all of them, dark-haired, loved by cameras. Ren had read posts on a 9 News forum from women who prayed for him to get a regular slot. Ren worked with him every day. She smiled at the screen. And you still do nothing for me. And please let it stay that way.

      ‘Agent Dettling, can you tell us a little more about The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force?’ said the reporter.

      ‘Just that it’s fabulous,’ said Ren.

      Gary was nodding at the reporter. ‘The Safe Streets Violent Crimes Initiative was set up by the FBI in 1992 to tackle violent gangs, violent crimes and the apprehension of violent fugitives.’

      ‘Violent, violent, violent,’ said Ren. ‘Do you have any idea how brave we are?’

      Cliff laughed. ‘My neighbor’s kid, he’s about sixteen years old? He thinks we help little old ladies cross the street.’

      Ren shook her head slowly. ‘Safe Streets is not a great name, though …’

      The reporter’s voice struck up again. ‘So, this is about pooling resources?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Gary. ‘The task force is FBI-sponsored, so we have access to all the FBI’s resources, but we also benefit from local law-enforcement knowledge, and we’re working together as one unit, instead of each agency taking care of individual cases that may overlap. It saves time, money, and it’s proven to be a very successful formula.’

      ‘You bet,’ said Ren. ‘Two people at Safe Streets are currently and fiercely protecting the city of Denver and beyond, as he speaks.’

      ‘Three,’ said Robbie Truax, walking in and putting his knapsack on the floor beside his desk. Robbie was a former Aurora PD detective. He was Ren’s pal; kind, wholesome, blond-haired, blue-eyed, healthy – an elongated boy scout. He was also a strict Mormon – no caffeine, no alcohol, no swearing, no sex before marriage. Robbie was the 30-Year-Old Virgin.

      The TV screen flashed quickly across the first few lines of faces on the Fifty Most Wanted list. A stab of anger hit Ren.

       When the hell did this change happen?

      Gary picked a few fugitives from the list, pushed by producers, as always, to choose the most glamorous cases – the fallen-child-star fugitive, the murderous teen, the homecoming hooker … The Crimestoppers number scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Ren stood up and went over to the office gallery of the Fifty Most Wanted, pinned across a huge corkboard on the wall.

      Cliff checked his watch. ‘Ren, don’t bother – Gary will be back in a half-hour. He said he’d go through it all when everyone’s here.’

      ‘Well, let me just do this—’ Ren began grabbing pins from the photos and stabbing them into the top five faces as she re-arranged them.

      ‘Easy tiger,’ said Cliff.

      Gary slipped quietly into his office without visiting the bullpen, but Ren had seen his car drive into the lot. She paused outside his door. Despite her years at Safe Streets, there were still times when she took a moment before going in. Gary’s office was like a Dutch minimalist armchair – handsome and elegant, but you wouldn’t want to stay in it for too long. It was as if it had been designed as a quick stop-off on your way to solving a case.

      Ren knocked. Gary didn’t respond. If someone said jump, Gary Dettling, wouldn’t say ‘How high?’ He would probably never jump again for the rest of his life.

      Ren leaned an ear to the door.

      ‘Come in,’ said Gary.

      He was sitting at his desk. Ren imagined him there on his first day in the job, carefully flattening out a sheet of graph paper and marking in the exact location of each piece of furniture and drawing red circles with Xs through them over any spot that would typically hold a personal touch. But Ren knew that the polished mahogany, the pristine blue carpet, the sharp lines, the austerity did not define the man. It masked him. Gary was not just head of the Safe Streets Task Force, he also trained the FBI’s UCEs

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