by Cassia Leo
I shake my head a bit as I open my eyes. “I’m here,” I call back to my men. “Is that you, Hunt? Are you—”
“I can’t see, Sarge,” says a weak, gravelly voice that sounds like it’s right on top of me.
“Hunt, is that you? I think we’re under some dirt and debris. Can you move? Don’t try to move if you don’t think you can… I smell gas… Fuck.”
Corporal Garrett Hunt was the best damn combat engineer in my unit in Afghanistan. He always triple-checked every route and bridge. Didn’t take chances with unidentified vehicles. A stickler about maintaining route clearance formation. But nothing can prepare you when you’re up against a four-hundred-pound improvised explosive device.
When our convoy was hit that day, and a spark caused a secondary explosion that lit us up like the Fourth of July, Corporal Hunt didn’t hesitate. He covered me as if I were his blood brother.
As I drape the sheet over Garrett’s dead body and watch Santos lift him off the pink toilet, I realize I failed him.
I’ve spent the past four years working for Garrett’s father’s money laundering outfit, repayment for the physical and mental scars his son sustained protecting me. And Garrett’s father — who goes by Hunt — is big on “paying your dues.”
I’ve tried to help Garrett get clean. God knows I’ve tried. But when you have access to the best black-tar heroin and unlimited cash, you’re pretty much guaranteed a fast track from the Land of Nod to the morgue.
“I don’t need this stuff here,” Danny Hefner says, his dark eyes sweeping around the room nervously, probably hopped up on cocaine himself. “I don’t need the cops poking around here.”
I shove him out of the way as I exit the bathroom and head for the closet. “Who was in here with him? I need the girl’s name, address, and phone number.”
“I can’t give you—” He stops short when I shoot him a deadly glance. “I’ll get it.”
All that’s left in the closet is a couple of hangers and a gray UNLV hoodie crumpled on the floor. I snatch it up and look inside, seeing if the girl was stupid enough to put her initials on the tag. My phone is vibrating like crazy in my back pocket. Hunt is going to want to know where that suitcase is. I should never have trusted Garrett to facilitate the drop.
For four years, this arrangement has worked. Garrett picks up the cash from various criminal enterprises and brings it back to the casino. The money is divvied up to my team members in amounts between $8,000 and $10,000, to avoid automatic tax reporting. Then, that money is gambled away at various casinos around the state of Nevada. We rotate teams and casinos, and, with Hunt’s help, we’ve done it this way for four years without a single hiccup.
I should have seen that Garrett was getting too sloppy. Just like that fucking four-hundred-pound IED, I should have seen this coming.
I strip the covers and sheets off the bed, shaking them out to see if anything falls out, a phone, a diary, anything, but there’s nothing. I open the top drawer on the nightstand and roll my eyes at the Holy Bible, King James edition.
I was named Kingston Jameson at birth by a father who wanted me to be a king and a mother who believed in the glory and mercy of God. But God had no mercy when he took my mother from me while I was in that hellish desert on the other side of the world. And he sure as hell hasn’t proven his glory to me in the years since.
I slam the drawer shut and round the foot of the bed to search the other nightstand. But as I reach for the knob, Danny Hefner arrives with the girl’s contact information. I copy her name — Brianna Everly — and her address and phone number into my contacts.
“I’ll send someone to sanitize the room,” I say, tucking my phone into my back pocket. “You have any idea where she’d go? She got any friends around here? Someone I can talk to?”
“Her friend got her the job, but she doesn’t work here. What was her name?” Danny mutters to himself as he tries to remember.
“We’re all set,” Santos says, entering the room.
“Thanks. Just hang tight,” I reply, nodding toward the corridor. “We might need to question some people.”
“No one here knew her,” Danny corrects me. “But I think her friend’s name is Tiffany. She’s a friend of a friend. I can get her last name.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Then get me her fucking last name. I haven’t got all night.”
He nods hastily. “Right. Of course. I’ll—I’ll be right back.”
I roll my eyes as he leaves again. “Help me sweep the room,” I motion to Santos.
He looks behind the curtains, and we both pull out the bed to look behind the headboard. I peek behind the framed art prints on the walls, under the bed and furniture, inside the lampshades. I guess the girl didn’t try to make herself at home on her first day as a prostitute.
As this thought occurs to me, I remember a pickup pulling out of the lot when we pulled up about fifteen minutes ago. I was in the backseat of the SUV while Santos was driving, and I had no reason to suspect anyone was leaving with the suitcase when we arrived, so I didn’t think to check out who was driving the pickup.
“Did you see who was driving that pickup when we pulled into the lot?” I ask Santos as he lifts the mattress to look underneath.
He lets it drop and scowls at me. “It was a blonde. Was that her? Should we go after her?”
I shake my head as I take a seat on the edge of the bed. “She’s long gone by now. We’re better off trying to find out where she’s headed.”
I stare at the UFO pattern on the high-traffic carpet for a while as I try to think of what I would do if I were still a clueless grunt scraping by on my $2,900-a-month staff sergeant salary. What would I do if I found a suitcase full of cash back then?
As usual, whenever I think of my time in the military, I think of missing my mom’s funeral. I shake off the guilt and reach for the drawer on the nightstand, the one I haven’t searched yet. Pulling the knob, I smile as a glint of gold sparkles at the bottom of the dark drawer.
I stand from the mattress and peer inside, reaching down to grasp the delicate gold necklace with the heart-shaped charm. As I turn toward the light pouring in from the corridor, I hold the charm at eye-level, squinting as I read the words etched into the back:
For Izzy
From Pop
“Rise and shine, ginger,” I say as the curvy redhead in the oversized Raptors T-shirt, who’s currently tied to a metal dining chair in her breakfast nook, blinks her eyes open.
Her eyes widen with terror, and she tries to scream, but the duct tape over her mouth won’t allow it. She glances at her boyfriend, who’s slumped over in the chair he’s tied to right next to her. Tears spill over the rims of her eyelids, and she begins to hyperventilate as her nose gets stuffed up from the crying.
I nod at the girl, and Santos grabs the corner of her duct tape. “Try to scream and I’ll put the tape right back on. I don’t give a fuck if you suffocate. Are we clear?”
She nods vigorously as snot begins to drip out of her nose. Santos rips the tape off in one swift motion and she yelps.
“Ah-ah-ah, you gotta be quiet, ginger, or that tape’s going right back on. You got me?” I remind her as she begins to sob.
She squeezes her eyes shut and nods again. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet. I promise. Please don’t put it back on,” she pleads as she glances at her boyfriend again. “Is he dead? Oh, my God. Did you kill him?”
“Settle down, Tiffany,” I reply, and her panicked eyes snap up to meet my gaze. “He’s not dead. And you’d better believe I know who you are, Tiffany Randall, date of birth February 12, 1994. Boyfriend: Derek Niman, date of birth August 23, 1991. Best friend: Isabel Lake, date of birth July 7, 1994. Should I keep going?”
She hangs her head. “What do you want?”
I pull out a chair from the table behind her, ignoring the way she flinches at the sound of the legs scraping the tile floor, and I take a seat right in front of her. “Where’s Izzy?”
She glances up at me again, and this time I see a note of cognizance in her brown eyes before she quickly looks away. “How do you know Izzy?”
“Tiffany… Tiffany, Tiffany, Tiffany… Don’t make this harder on yourself. The faster you answer my questions, the faster I can get out of here and take off this balaclava. This thing itches, okay?”
Santos chuckles and shakes his head.
“You’re going to tell me where your friend is,” I continue, “or Santos, here, is going to make sure your boyfriend never wakes up. Got it?”
She sniffles and gulps as her knees bounce up and down with anxiety. “I don’t know where she is. I swear I don’t know where she went,” she blubbers, fat tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please believe me. I know nothing about any of this.”
I lean forward in the chair, resting my elbows on my knees as I let out a sigh. “I feel bad,” I begin, shaking my head in dismay. “I really don’t like punishing someone for being a loyal friend. Loyalty should be rewarded. This really pains me.”
Her eyes are wide with terror as I nod at Santos, who lifts the back of his blazer to reveal a knife holster secured around his waist. He pops open the snap and slides out a hunting knife with a six-inch carbon steel blade. The dim early morning light filtering in through the window in the breakfast nook glints off the sharpened edge. Santos steps toward Tiffany’s boyfriend, who is now groggily lifting his head and blinking his eyes.
“Please don’t,” she pleads. “Please, you don’t have to do that. I’ll tell you what you want. I—I know where she went.”
4. King
Present Day
“Hunting?” Sooner repeats the word to himself as he jots down some notes on his yellow legal pad. “You said this was a few days ago. Do you remember the exact day? Today is Sunday the 11th if that helps. Did you go hunting with her on Thursday or Friday? Or another day?”
“I’m pretty certain it was Thursday,” I reply without hesitation.
He nods. “Thursday the…8th?”
“That’s right.”
He’s not nodding or smiling anymore, and I don’t know if this should make me nervous. Is he going to turn into the bad cop and go for a dual-personality character? Or is this part of his schtick? Is he going to start telling me how bad things look for me, and how he only wants to help me out?
“Okay, so you and Izzy went hunting on Thursday, and she seems to have gone into work on Friday,” Sooner says, establishing a clear setup for his next question. “Did you speak to her at any time after you went hunting on Thursday? Maybe over the phone or text message or Facebook? Any contact with her at all?”
I purse my lips and pretend to think hard about this question. “Hmm… I’m pretty sure we texted each other, but I don’t remember when that was.”
“Do you have your phone on you?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, no problem,” he replies, his tone brightening as he remembers he has to pretend to be my friend so I can volunteer to give him my phone. “Do you know where your phone is?”
This is where the interview is going to take a turn.
I don’t have a cell phone on me, and the phone I used to communicate with Izzy is a burner phone. That would make me look very guilty if the police found that out. Unfortunately — or fortunately, I’m not sure yet — I lost the burner phone the last time I saw Izzy. And now that the crime scene is crawling with cops, I can’t go back to look for it.
Of course, I was very careful not to discuss anything incriminating on that burner phone. And I had my tech guy wipe it clean before the last time I saw Izzy. If they do find it, I doubt they’ll glean anything from whatever data is left on there.
“No, sir. I do not know where it is,” I reply, resisting the urge to adjust my position in the uncomfortable chair. “I lost it while helping Izzy with a problem in her bathroom.”
“You lost it in the bathroom?” he asks, unable to hide his skepticism.
“No, sir. She had a problem with the subfloor beneath the tile in her bathroom,” I clarify. “I had to get under the house — in the crawl space — to check it out. I didn’t realize my phone was gone until a few hours later. When I went back to look around for it, it was gone.”
“It was gone? Just like that? Do you think she took it?”
“No, sir. I don’t think she’d do that.”
Sooner looks a bit perplexed by this polite, almost reverent, answer. “Did you work in the crawl space before or after the hunting trip?”
I scrunch my eyebrows together at his attempt to trip me up. “Before, sir. The last time I saw her was when we went hunting.”
He writes something in his notepad and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I forgot to grab an interview form,” he says, pushing his chair out and rising to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
I sigh as he leaves the room and softly closes the door behind him. He’s probably going to fetch Bad Cop. I try not to fidget too much, painfully aware that the surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling is pointed straight at me.
A few minutes later, a ginger wearing a white polo and jeans, who can’t be much older than I am, walks in carrying a few sheets of paper and a couple of pens. “How’s it going, King? I’m Special Agent Jake Stanley with the FBI field office in Charlotte.”
He holds out a hand for me to shake. I take his hand immediately, aware that waiting too long will make me seem bitter instead of worried and eager to find Izzy.
“Nice to meet you,” I reply.
“You need some water or something to eat?” he inquires, and I shake my head. Without hesitation, he grabs the back of the chair Sooner vacated and pulls it around the table so he can sit next to me. “This is just a simple witness statement form. Can you read and write?” he asks, placing one of the sheets of paper and a pen in front of me.
“Yes, sir,” I reply, straightening the form in front of me, so I can read the words at the top of the page: FD-302 Federal Bureau of Investigation.
If I fill out this witness statement form, anything I write here is impeachable in a court of law. Good thing this case — and I — will never see the inside of a courtroom.
“Great,” Stanley replies cheerily. “When we’re done chatting, you can write down your statement on this form. For now, we’ll fill out this form. It’s just your basic information, name, date of birth, etcetera.”
Etcetera.
First, he sits next to me to try to fool me into thinking we’re on the same side. Then, he pulls out an FD-302 and tries to pretend it’s no big deal. Now, he’s implying my personal information falls under the category “etcetera.”
I should just lawyer up already, but I don’t want to draw any additional heat or make them think I’m a flight risk. The last thing I need when I leave this station is to get tailed by the FBI. Besides, they’re just starting to tip their hand, and I’m curious to see what other cards they’re holding.
“First and last name?” he asks.
“Kingston Jameson, but I go by King.”
“You got a middle name, King?”
I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to say my deadbeat father’s name aloud. “Darryl,” I reply, correcting him when he attempts to spell it with one R.
He looks me over for a split-second. “How tall are you?”
“Six-two.”
“Do you know how much you weigh?”
“About 190.”
He glances at my face. “Brown hair blue eyes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Now he glances at the pen lying on the table in front of me. “Right- or left-handed?”
“Right.”
He smiles, then he puts his pen down and moves his chair back to the other side of the table so he can face me. “You work out a lot?”
I pause for a moment as I contemplate what, if anything, would have caused him to smile when I said I was right-handed. “Sometimes.”
“You like to dig holes?” he asks, looking a bit too eager now.
<
br /> I keep my expression blank as I think of all the holes I’ve dug lately. Perhaps the cops know more than they’ve let on. Maybe Stanley’s about to turn into the bad cop.
“Excuse me?” I reply, feigning confusion.
“Scratch that. You like working around the house a lot?” he corrects himself. “I noticed there’s a freshly dug fire pit in your backyard.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “Yeah, I worked construction for some years.”
“In the military?”
The guy is starting to piss me off, but I maintain my composure. “Yes. I was an engineer in the military, and I own a construction company in Vegas.”
“Vegas?” he replies, his eyes lighting up. “I have family in Vegas. Are you from Vegas?
“No, sir. I’m from Tennessee.”
“Tennessee? Hmm… How long’d you live there?”
“All my life until I enlisted.”
“And you enlisted at the age of…?”
“Twenty.”
He’s rattling off the questions fast, and I suspect the pause he takes now is because he’s arrived at the question this has all been leading up to. “So, back home in Tennessee, were you an outdoorsman? ’Cause it seems you and Izzy liked to do a lot of outdoorsy stuff together, like hunting. Did you do a lot of that back home in Tennessee?”
I take a few deep breaths as I contemplate whether I should be evasive or whether I should toy with Stanley a little. I decide to have a little fun.
“According to the military, I’m good for over six hundred yards on a moving target. According to me, I can field dress a deer in under a minute. According to you, that makes me a murder suspect. Am I right?”
His eyes are locked on mine as he cocks an eyebrow. “We’re just here to chat…for now. Unless you have something you want to get off your chest.”
I shake my head and lean back in my chair again. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Okay,” he replies with a shrug. “So what brings you all the way out here from Vegas?”
