Ionshaker (Part I), Felix Timothy [fox in socks read aloud TXT] 📗

shrink, right?”
“So you just copy and paste the culpability to the husband?”
Nicole rose from her chair too.
“You’re such a genius,” he answered sarcastically then smiled.
“Do you have any clue where to find him?”
“I don’t have any hobbies aside from catching bad guys. I don’t know about you but this is kind of my thing.”
“Really?” she asked, slightly tilting her head in feigned concern.
“Really,” he replied confidently.
“Hmm, I have a suggestion for you.”
“I’m listening,” he said looking straight into her eyes.
“Start with the easier hobbies like…”
“Like…?”
He leaned on desk to face Nicole. Likewise Nicole leaned on the desk to gaze straight into his eyes and paused for about two seconds before saying, “Dating women…you know those people you meet on the street wearing skirts with long hair…”
“End of chit chat, I’m not going there with you again.”
He pulled away from the table.
Nicole straightened up with a wide smile on her face and walked to the door, but just before she disappeared in the hallway, she turned to him and said, “Chicken.”
But you’d be so mistaken to think they were enemies. Their constant debating was a smokescreen, their thing, a code that only they deciphered.
True, since Nicole’s teaming up with Brett as his deputy, many times she had been forced to contend with his quirky and pushy personality, yet, she was positive that his heart was in the right place.
But regardless of the place his heart was, his personality sometimes if not most of the time got on her nerves. Moreover, they both understood that though their contradicting headstrong personalities was the reason they made a perfect investigative team, it was also the reason why they could never be attracted to each other.

* * *

Nicole was glad for having made the trip instead of just calling. Jordin Stevenworth’s office was something remarkable and from the moment she set foot in the office, she fell in love with it. It was lush and prettified with a range of decorative ingredients including expensive portraits on the walls, lustrous trophies, a richly textured and beautifully patterned red carpet, and a leather sofa where her patients gave vent to their demons.

If the money used to spruce up the office had come from Jordin’s own pocket, then her practice was on a roll.
“Hi, I’m Jordin but I guess you already know,” she said standing to extend her hand.
“Nicole Anderson, FBI,” she replied with a smile, extending her hand for the handshake.
“Make yourself comfortable Nicole,” Jordin smiled back as she sat.
“Thanks. You have a very nice office. Must’ve cost you a fortune, right?” She asked sitting but her eyes still roving about, admiring the office.
“A friend chipped in, couldn’t afford it on my own. So what brings you around?” Jordin asked as the warm smile on her face faded instantly.
“I came to talk to you about one of your patients.”
“Which one?”
“Brooke Woodley.”
“What do you want to talk about?” Jordin asked with a surprised look.
“Her issues,” Nicole replied crossing her legs.
“You mean her medical issues?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Sorry, my hands are tied by doctor-patient confidentiality,” Jordin shrugged her shoulders.
“I know all about that, but I’m still asking,” Nicole replied empathically.
“And why is the FBI suddenly concerned with Brooke’s psyche anyway?” Jordin asked flippantly.
“Because she was killed last evening and I need to find out who killed her,” Nicole answered quickly in similar manner and tone.
“Oh no! How?”
Jordin was shocked and Nicole gave her a few seconds to process before responding, “Shot at her house.”
Tears glistened in Jordin’s eyes, and for the following few seconds, she remained too stunned to utter a word.
Nicole had over estimated the doctor’s shock absorbers. She had assumed because Jordin was a doctor, she was used to bad news – no, not used to bad news – immune to bad news, yeah that’s the word - immune. She’d been wrong.
“Our relationship was more than doctor-patient, you know? We bonded and became friends,” Jordin said pulling out a handkerchief from her purse.
“I’m really sorry, Jordin. I didn’t realize you two were so close,” Nicole let a second skip before adding, “but you need to tell me if she mentioned anyone she was scared of.”
“No, she didn’t mention anyone she was scared of,” Jordin answered with a pitiful face.
“What about any random name, not necessarily that she must have been scared of the person,” Nicole asked softly.
“No one other than her husband.”
“Her husband? What about her husband?”
“Nothing alarming. She was just concerned that he was drifting away, like he didn’t love her anymore, you know - the usual marital insecurities.”
“That’s all she ever talked about?”
“Yeah, how he’d grown so secretive, always finding excuses to be far from her; work, hanging out with his boys, going to watch a game, that kind of stuff. She didn’t know why it was happening or what it meant.”
Nicole looked her straight in the eye as she asked, “Was he cheating on her?”
“I don’t know...” Jordin looked away, attempting to avoid the topic but it was so evident.
“If you know something Jordin; you need to tell me, no matter how trivial you think it is,” Nicole said softly but firmly. Jordin took a deep breath then answered, “Robin Ironside.”
“Who’s Robin Ironside?”
“His Ex.”
“Did the two of them ever have an altercation?”
“No, not according to my knowledge. You think Robin Ironside did it?” Jordin almost whispered.
“Let me worry about that. I’m going to leave you with my card, just in case you remember anything,” Nicole said getting to her feet.
“Sure.”
Nicole handed Jordin her business card, said some reassuring words, then left. As Brett hunted for the husband, Nicole would start hunting for Robin Ironside – the other woman in Trey’s life.

* * *

“Feds have started asking questions Brooke Woodley.”
“And?”
“I told them nothing.”


3


It was the morning after his wife’s murder and Trey Woodley was at a gas station paying for gas after having spent the night at a motel. He got into his car and blasted away in a hurry. He was so late. He had intended to be up by 7, but it was already 9:15.

After having had a hectic nine-to-five on the previous day, plus an arduous six-hour non-stop drive from LA, his body had simply rejected being pushed further and so he’d overslept. Of course he had had the easier option of flying to LA, but he knew it would have made things much easier for them - that is; the people after Robin Ironside’s life, to track Robin and him. Therefore for the sake of remaining off the grid, he’d been forced to use his car, that way his whereabouts would be a wild guess.

He hoped the morning would be different from the previous morning that saw things get a little heated between him and his wife. As he drove, a flashback of his fight with his wife the previous morning ran through his mind:
“What else do you want me to say? I was working,” still staring in the mirror on the wall in the kitchen hallway tightening his tie, Brett had lashed out at his wife.
“Yeah, right!” Brooke had hit back instantly.
“And what is that supposed to mean, Brooke?” He had asked as he turned to start walking into the kitchen.
“It’s supposed to mean you’re lying, because I called your phone and it was off, so I called your office and they told me you’d already left,” she had stopped arranging cups in the dishwasher to look at him as he entered the kitchen.
Totally pissed and with only a few inches parting the two of them he hit out, “What are you, my supervisor or my wife? I was working out of the office.”
“And what exactly were you working on out of your office, huh? You think I’m dumb? Let me tell you something fella, I know your job description, and all your duties are done in the office behind a desk,” like a CSI interrogator, she had kept pushing and pushing some more, and the man had neared his breaking point.
“Here’s the thing, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, I don’t have the energy for this,” Brett had said as he turned away heading to the kitchen door.
“It’s Robin Ironside, isn’t it?” Brooke had asked softly.
Instantly, he stopped turned, then asked,” Where does she come into this?”
“You’re not exactly denying it,” she had responded calmly.
“I haven’t seen or even spoken to Robin for the past one year,” still standing at the kitchen door, Trey replied quickly.
“You see the way you say her name? It says a lot…” Angrily, Brooke turned to the dishwasher and began rearranging the cups.
Brett made a step into the kitchen then asked, “Seriously Brooke, what’s wrong with you?”
“What is wrong with me?” Brooke retorted angrily banging a glass before she proceeded to yell, “There’s nothing wrong with me. The problem is you Trey.”
“Me?” In frustration Trey raised his voice too.
“Yes you and your secrets. In case you’ve forgotten we’re married Trey and married people don’t have secrets,” Brooke’s voice went a notch higher.
“And have you forgotten the part where married people actually trust each other?” Trey hit back angrily then turned and started walking away.
“Dinner’s at seven!” Brooke hollered just before he exited through the front door. That previous morning, he had left the house with a new appreciation for why he was paying for Brooke to see a shrink – her insecurity was her disease.

* * *

The Wilshire Federal Building had an expansive open office with many desks. It was also Brett’s playground, where he played his favorite game – hunting criminals. Fifteen hours had passed since 7:15pm of the previous night when Brooke’s murder had occurred with no sign of the ‘loving husband,’ and as more time passed Brett’s conviction that Trey Woodley was guilty intensified.
“I think I found something,” said a younger man in late twenties with rough unkempt hair, seeing through big horn-rimmed glasses, holding out a computer print out.
“What is it Jack?” Brett asked turning to look in Jack’s direction.
“Credit card payment.”
“Where?” Brett quickly asked.
“Between San Ramon and Danville.”
“Where?”
“Near San Francisco.”
“For?”
“Gas.
“Name of the gas station?”
“Quick Fill.”
“Time?”
“9:16 this morning.”
“Good work. Now get me the nearest traffic camera,” then, spinning in a chair, he called out, “Shirley?”
“I’m still right here Brett,” she shouted back.
“What car does he drive?”
“I’m on it!”
Finally, everything was falling into place.