Outlined in Ink

Chapter 1 In public relations, there was no such thing as a nine-to-five day. Press releases always had to get out, people had to be prepped for evening functions, and off the record calls needed to be made to reporters, officials, and anybody else who might have an interest in Aurora’s city government. At five o’clock, Jarrett Kessel wasn’t even considering leaving his desk. He still had a solid three hours of work ahead of him. On that particular Tuesday, with the autumn sun starting to crest orange and red toward the horizon, he wished for once he could slip away and have a night to himself. Especially after his cell phone rang. “Let me guess. You’re tied to your desk.” Hearing the voice of Detective Venice McCurry brought a reluctant smile to Jarrett’s face. It had been too long since they’d had a chance to hang out. Venice was perfect company, whether he needed someone to accompany him to an official function or wanted to go clubbing in the city. No expectations from either of them for anything s****l, and a fun friend to kill time with if the night turned out to be a dud. “Being tied to it would be an improvement.” He leaned back in his chair and stretched, grimacing when his neck cracked. “What’s up? No, wait, let me guess. You’ve won the lottery and you’re flying both of us to Rio for a month-long party to celebrate.” “I wish. You’d enjoy that a lot more than what I’m about to tell you.” “Uh oh. You make it sound dire.” “Depends on how you feel about interrogations.” “Oh, please. When was the last time a reporter stumped me?” “I’m not talking about reporters. I’m talking Feds. On their way to Aurora right now to question you.” Jarrett straightened with a painful snap, his hand going straight for his mouse. He clicked his email open with a frown, scanning it quickly for any hint on what this could be about. Federal involvement in local government only meant one thing. Corruption charges. During his tenure, they’d only dealt with one previous investigation, and that had been three years ago, during a different administration. He’d never gotten near the Feds, then. The entire matter had been dealt with by senior PR people. Apparently, he’d gained enough status to merit inclusion this time. “Who’s this about?” he asked, his eyes never leaving his screen. “Give me a hint here. You wouldn’t have called to give me a heads-up if you didn’t want me prepared.” “I know. But it’s not about anybody else in the office. They want to talk to you.” He froze. His mind raced, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what made him so important. “About what?” “Relax, okay? They’re just coming by because they want to ask you a few questions about a case they’re working here in Chicago.” “What kind of a case?” “A murder investigation.” “What?” His raised voice drew attention from Silas, two cubicles down, and Jarrett turned his back on him, lowering both his head and his voice to keep the conversation more private. “What’s going on, Ven? Who got killed?” “Look…” She had switched to the placating tone he’d heard her use on more than interested woman she wasn’t attracted to, the one that said Please don’t make this a bigger deal than it is. “We got pulled in as backup, to take in some computer hacker the Feds have been after for months. Only when we got there, the kid’s dead. Been dead for a couple days, looks like.” “I haven’t been in the city in over a week.” “Will you stop getting defensive, please? I’m trying to explain here.” His cheeks felt hot. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Just tell me I’m not a murder suspect.” “You’re not a murder suspect,” she repeated. “Unless you own the Lockeford Files.” “The what?” “It’s a comic strip. Online—www.lockefordfiles.com. They found a whole shitload of them printed up and saved on the guy’s hard drive.” “Never heard of it.” “Well, I think whoever does own it has heard of you. Or at least seen you, Jarrett. Because his superhero main character could be your younger brother. Dykstra saw it before I did, and the next thing I know, he’s blurting out, ‘Hey, that looks like your boyfriend, McCurry.’“ She sounded disgusted. “I wanted to pound on him right there. Asshole never thinks before he opens his big mouth.” Jarrett forgot about sharing her sniping about her narrow-minded partner and turned back to his laptop. “What was that address again?” He typed it in as she repeated it. When the front page loaded, his eyes widened. “Damn.” Venice hadn’t been kidding. Under the title banner was a series of sketches of a caped man in a variety of action poses. He was tall and muscular, with heavy brows and thick, wavy hair that highlighted the harsh sculpture of his face. A long, slightly hooked nose. The wide mouth with the too skinny upper lip. The strong chin that made his face look even longer than it was. The entire thing was done in black and white, except for one specific detail. The man’s eyes were sage green, colored in on every sketch. So were Jarrett’s. With the exception of the hair, he could have been looking into a mirror. Self-consciously, he rubbed his hand over his bald scalp. He didn’t regret shaving it off, not for a second, but whoever drew this was all too familiar with what he looked like otherwise. No wonder the Feds wanted to talk to him. If they considered this somehow pertinent to their case, it was a logical first step. “As far as I can tell, it’s just routine follow-through,” Venice said. “Their main interest seems to be the guy who owns the site. Right now, they’re scrambling for anything that’s going to help them find who killed their hacker.” “Okay.” He didn’t actually feel better about it, but he didn’t want Venice to feel guilty for warning him. “I know you can get in trouble for giving me the heads-up, so thanks. I appreciate it.” “Someone’s got to look out for you,” she said. “You’re too busy looking out for everyone in Aurora City Hall.” He smiled at her small attempt to lighten his mood. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” “I’ll hold you to that. Call me when you’re done. Unless you need bail, in which case, call one of your rich friends instead.” “Right, right.” Laughing now, he disconnected and set the phone aside, his full attention back on the computer screen. If Venice wasn’t going to worry, he wouldn’t either, though he still wasn’t comfortable with someone using his face in their art. The site seemed comprehensive, too, with an archive, a blog, and a forum, as well as the current strip emblazoned across the first page. Before he could delve deeper, the office door opened and a pair of matching suits stepped inside. Jarrett was too far away to hear them speaking to Tina, the intern who covered the phones after the receptionist left for the day, but he didn’t need to know what they were saying to recognize them as federal agents. He glanced back at his screen. Denying any knowledge of the webcomic could backfire if they checked his history, and if he admitted the truth about Venice’s warning, he’d get her in trouble with her captain for interfering with an investigation, as well as cast more suspicion on himself. Who needed a warning if they were innocent? Over the top of his cubicle wall, he saw Tina point in his direction, both Feds following her aim. Quickly, he clicked on the browser tools menu and cleared his history. He hoped it was enough. In fact, he hoped he was overreacting completely. He was back at work on the press release about the Deputy Mayor’s upcoming involvement at this year’s Farmers Fair when the two agents stopped next to his desk. “Jarrett Kessel?” He looked up with a polite, but warm smile, one he’d perfected long before coming to work for City Hall. “Yes, can I help you?” Though the suits were nearly identical, the men were not. The one who’d spoken was in his fifties, gray hair so closely cropped his bald spots were peeking through. His partner was closer to Jarrett’s age, a whippet-thin African American with a pencil moustache and an underbite. Both men wore matching frowns. “I’m Agent Yager.” He flashed his ID. FBI. “This is Agent Baptiste. Is there somewhere we could speak privately?” “Sure. Most of the conference rooms should be empty this time of night. Hang on.” He saved his document and closed the program, all the while keeping his features as unaffected as possible. Agents, reporters, they were all the same. Outsiders. Dealing with them was his specialty. They hung back as he stood. He left his coat draped over the back of his chair, testimony to anybody who might be paying attention that he wasn’t worried about this impromptu meeting, and led the way past Silas’s curious stares. His neck itched, knowing they watched his every step, but he stayed straight and never looked back. Not until he reached Conference Room C and held the door open for them to enter first. “I’d offer you coffee, but then you’d be forced to drink what I make,” he said with a rueful smile after they’d all taken seats. “I wouldn’t even wish that on the Republicans.” Baptiste cracked a little at his small joke, though Yager didn’t even blink. He might’ve been a Republican, and thus not found it amusing, but odds were better he was simply more seasoned. Jarrett didn’t take it personally. He’d used the same joke with Democrats as the punch line during the previous administration. It was all about showing solidarity for his current employer. “We’re in the process of investigating a murder in Chicago,” Yager said. “Anything we say here is to be kept completely confidential.” “Okay.” His earlier questions surged back to the foreground, though he kept his façade wary, like he had no idea what they were about to talk about. “It’s not someone from this office, is it?” “No, the victim is someone we’ve had under surveillance for some time. As far as we know, he’s completely unrelated to Mayor Durney’s activities.” Yager glanced at Baptiste and nodded. The other agent opened the file he’d carried in with him, took out the top piece of paper, and slid it across the table. “Can you identify this man, Mr. Kessel?” The paper was a black-and-white, eight-by-ten photograph of a young Asian man slumped at a corner table in some kind of coffee shop. A laptop was open on the table in front of him, his knobby fingers hovering on the keyboard. The kid was oblivious to whoever was taking the picture, and though a shank of straight black hair fell over one of his eyes, the hard set of his jaw conveyed intense concentration. He looked like any one of a hundred people Jarrett saw when he went out. Everyday. Average. Completely unremarkable. He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. Should I?” “His name was Duane Fong. Two years ago, he was hired as a freelance security expert for a money management firm in New York in an attempt to shore up their computer defenses in the economic downturn. He did his job, got a glowing recommendation, then went on to the next company. Nobody suspected any kind of foul play until a couple months ago when one of the firms had a crash and we got called in to help investigate what was going on. That’s when we discovered the various worms Fong had left behind.” “I thought you said this was about a murder investigation.” “It is. Fong’s dead. We found his body this afternoon.” Jarrett waited for further clarification, but neither man offered any. “So…what does this have to do with me?” He didn’t have to feign his confusion. Other than the comic strip, this entire story could have happened on another planet, outside of his entire sphere of influence. “Once we started suspecting Fong, we monitored his communications as much as we possibly could,” Yager said. “We didn’t get all of it. We know that. Fong was very good at falling under the radar. But one site kept popping up, no matter where he was. A site called The Lockeford Files. Are you familiar with it, Mr. Kessel?” “Not that I’m aware of, no.” Baptiste pulled out several more sheets and handed them over without a word. Jarrett recognized the title header right away, but the rest of the pages were photocopies of more of the strip. His face stared back at him from all of them, though the color that had been added to his eyes on the Internet was absent in the black-and-white copies. “I’ve never seen these before in my life,” he said as he flipped through them. He was glad he hadn’t looked further through the site; he had the advantage of truth on his side. The comic appeared to be some kind of ongoing saga—the adventures of this caped superhero known only as Sovereign. In one panel, he stood at the head of a conference table, warning the suits lining it on both sides that their corruption was at an end. In another, he stood at a window in silhouette, a smaller, slimmer man pressed lovingly into his side. Though Jarrett didn’t react, his blood went cold. Whoever knew his face well enough to draw it knew even more about Jarrett than most people. He was out, but he didn’t flaunt it. The public had no idea he wasn’t as straight as Durney. He hadn’t had a serious relationship since moving to Aurora, and all his dates happened in Chicago. Where Fong’s body had been discovered. “I don’t know this Fong,” he said, deliberately tearing his attention away from the comic. “And I’m not affiliated with this website, no matter what it might look like.” Yager nodded, though his unblinking gaze kept the accusation there between them, ready to be levied at a moment’s notice. “We’re already aware of who runs the site, Mr. Kessel. We’re here to ask for your help in locating him.” “You think he killed your guy?” “We think he’s got access to information that could prove vital in helping us resolve exactly what happened today,” Yager said smoothly. “So far, our efforts to find him have come up short.” Jarrett smiled. “You’re the FBI. If you can’t find him, why do you think I can?” Baptiste’s turn again. The page he slipped across the table this time was another photograph. “Because we believe you know him.” His first glance said otherwise. The picture was another candid, this one taken from farther away than Fong’s. A street scene, crowded with a wide assortment of people, but at its center, a sketch artist perched on a chair in front of a McDonald’s. His head was bent over a pad, a teenaged girl sitting opposite him. Though the picture was in black-and-white again, the artist’s spiked hair was startlingly pale, in stark contrast to darker brows. Denial was on the tip of his tongue when a detail caught his eye. It was small—the distance prevented any clarity—but a familiar shape was half-visible beneath the sleeve of the young man’s T-shirt. A hint of a shadow in the rectangular tattoo could have been a smudge, but it was enough to drive Jarrett’s gaze back to the artist’s face. A square jaw. No more baby fat. The fine nose, almost too delicate in such otherwise masculine features. He couldn’t see the eyes. Somehow, he thought if he could just see the eyes, he’d know for sure. Then, it clicked. The Lockeford Files. The name was the same. Of course, it was him. “Elias Locke?” He phrased it as a query, in case he was off the mark, but wasn’t surprised when Yager nodded. “You don’t need me to find him. Call his parents. Or his brother. They’d be able to get a hold of him before I could.” “They’d also be more protective of him than you would,” Yager countered. “Until we know the extent of his involvement in Fong’s activities, we can’t risk him going even further underground.” “I haven’t seen him in almost seven years. What makes you think I’d have better luck than you at this point?” Yager looked pointedly at the comic strip in front of him. “Because you clearly made an impression on him, no matter what you might think.” Jarrett didn’t want to do it. He only knew Eli because Jarrett had been best friends with his older brother in college, their contact limited to a few visits when Jarrett had accompanied Brad home. Eli had been a good kid, then, if a little rebellious. Jarrett had dismissed the attitude as typical teenaged crap. All sixteen-year-old boys had one kind of chip or another on their shoulders. From the looks of it, however, he might not have outgrown his propensity for stirring up trouble. “We’re not giving up our own search,” Baptiste said when Jarrett remained silent. “Your inquiries would be in addition to ours.” “And if worse comes to worse, we’ll go after the family, anyway,” Yager added. Jarrett’s jaw clenched. The Lockes were good people. They didn’t need trouble. “You must have access to his personal information. Tax records, cell phone.” He gestured toward the comic strip copies. “What about his website? Someone has to be hosting it.” “His father does, actually. And all of his contact information leads straight back to his parents.” On one hand, knowing Eli was still on good enough terms with his parents for them to host his site was a mild relief. On the other, it put them right smack in the middle of everything, if Eli really was in trouble. “I’m in the middle of a lot of work here.” It was a last ditch effort to stay out of it, but he felt his resolve crumbling. “I’ll clear your responsibilities with the mayor,” Yager said. “This case takes priority.” Baptiste smiled. “If you find him quickly enough, they’ll barely realize you were gone.” Both agents looked smug, safe in their knowledge they had Jarrett well and truly hooked. With a sigh, he looked back down at the comic strip, and the imposing figure of the Sovereign towering over a fallen enemy. He could use some of that strength right about now. What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time, Eli?