by Cassia Leo
“No, sir,” I reply, trying not to let the disdain show on my face.
It doesn’t surprise me that Izzy’s mom can’t scrape together the money for the flight. I don’t know if Stanley is implying I should offer to pay for her plane ticket, but I have zero intention of assisting that woman.
Sooner takes a sip of water then smacks his lips. “I can’t imagine being so hard up for cash I couldn’t afford a couple hundred bucks for a flight to search for my missing daughter. That poor woman.”
My heart speeds up at the news that they’re out there searching for Izzy. Then I remind myself that they’ll never find her, and the harsh pounding in my chest quiets to a slow thump.
Deep breaths.
Stanley opens up a manila folder and slides a photograph across the table toward me. “You recognize this guy?”
I stare at the surveillance photo of Garrett Hunt at the front desk of Area 69 Brothel. He’s handing a credit card to the receptionist. On the floor next to his left leg is a metal suitcase. That fucking idiot owner of the brothel deleted the surveillance footage in front of me, and he swore up and down there were no backups.
“He’s a friend of mine, Garrett,” I reply.
“Garrett Hunt,” Stanley says, the volume of his voice escalating. “The son of Nevada Congressman Richard Hunt. The kid who earned a purple heart for taking an IED to the face in Afghanistan. In fact, you were there when that happened, weren’t you?”
I grit my teeth against the wave of emotions threatening to wash away my calm. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you aware Garrett passed away recently?” Sooner asks in a soft, reassuring tone, to which I nod. “A drug overdose. A damn shame he couldn’t get the help he needed.”
“He died June tenth,” Stanley says, tapping the photo. “Isn’t that the same day Izzy was last seen in Nevada?”
I try not to roll my eyes as I realize their new tactic is to attempt to convince me that Izzy is in trouble with the law. That she’s somehow involved in Garrett’s death. They’ll probably start promising to give me a good plea deal if I turn against her.
“I don’t know when Izzy was last seen in Nevada,” I reply.
Sooner leans forward. “Help me understand this,” he begins, still using a conciliatory tone. “According to Izzy’s friend Tiffany, she gets a call from Izzy on the evening of June tenth saying she’s on her way to Tiffany’s house, but she never gets there. So Tiffany calls Izzy’s mom the next day to see if she’s seen Izzy, but she’s too messed up on heroin to know what the heck Tiffany is talking about. So Tiffany tries to file a police report with the Vegas PD, but Vegas PD doesn’t think it’s their jurisdiction since no one knows where Izzy was when she called Tiffany.
“So you can see how Tiffany might be a little frustrated,” Sooner continues. “But Izzy’s an adult, and there’s no reason for them to suspect foul play, so their hands are tied. Until Tiffany decides to hire herself a lawyer.”
Stanley pulls a sheet of paper — a printout of a map — from his manila folder and slides it across the table toward me. “Vegas PD pulled the cell ping data from Izzy’s phone. Her last phone call was made from Amargosa Valley, Nevada. Does that location sound familiar to you?”
I shake my head. “Not particularly.”
“Not particularly,” Stanley mimics me like a fucking child. “You telling me that if I pull the GPS data from you and Edwin Santos’ vehicles back in Nevada, it won’t show a trip to Amargosa Valley on June tenth?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t drive much in Vegas.”
Sooner glances at Stanley, sees him seething with anger, and decides to intercede. “So, King, did you know Izzy was working at a brothel before she moved to Valdese?”
I shrug. “I don’t think she ever mentioned that.”
Sooner nods. “Okay, so back to Garrett Hunt. Were you aware that he frequented the Area 69 Brothel in Amargosa Valley, where this surveillance footage was taken?”
Stanley taps the photo again. “That’s footage from the night he died. The guy who owns the brothel says he saw Garrett arrive that night, but he didn’t see him leave. And there’s no footage of Garrett leaving the brothel, so he must have left through an exit that wasn’t covered by surveillance cameras. My question is: How does a guy who’s that fucked up on smack make the one-hour drive back to Vegas? Then, and only then, does he drop dead in his condo? That doesn’t make any sense to me. Does that make sense to you?”
I narrow my eyes at Stanley. “How do you know he got high at the brothel? Maybe he waited until he was home.”
Stanley and Sooner exchange a look, then they both nod in unison.
“I’m sure you can imagine the jurisdictional nightmare they have going on over there in Nevada right now,” Stanley says. “The brothel falls under the jurisdiction of the Nye County Sheriff’s Office. They’ve got surveillance footage of a guy just hours before his death on June tenth. And they’ve got a missing girl whose last cell phone ping, from June tenth, registers in that exact location. But both victims live in Vegas, the guy’s body is found in Vegas, and the last person to speak to our missing girl has lawyered up. A real clusterfuck, eh?”
I cock an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
Sooner shakes his head. “Look, King, I don’t expect you to sympathize with us. This is our job. But think about Izzy’s mom. She told me she’s been trying to get herself clean ever since Izzy disappeared. She was really distraught when I spoke to her over the phone. I could hear it in her voice. She wants to find her daughter… You can help her, King. You can be the one to end this. Just tell us where she is. Tell us.”
We’ve officially entered the part of the interrogation where they’re going to attempt to appeal to my humanity. Maybe it’s time to call a lawyer.
I know I haven’t given them any reason to arrest me, or they would have read me my Miranda rights by now. But I don’t know how long it will take for them to get a warrant for the GPS data from Santos’ SUV in Vegas. If I stick around too long, I might find myself caught in their net. But if I don’t stall long enough, I might not get enough information to figure out my next step. And I still don’t have the information I need.
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” I reply simply.
Stanley lets out an exasperated sigh. “You worked construction in Vegas?”
I look him in the eye as I respond. “I own a construction company in Vegas.”
He squints at me for a moment before he continues. “You do any work for Congressman Hunt?”
I glance at Sooner, then back to Stanley. “Yeah, I did some work for him.”
“Would you say you did a lot of work for him or just a little? Like, did you build him a hotel or did you remodel his bathroom?”
“A lot of work, I suppose.”
“Really? So, was it all construction work? Or did you ever do any other kind of side jobs for him?” Stanley persists.
I stare at the door, letting the question hang in the air and ripen for a while as I feel Stanley’s frustration coming off him in waves. “Just construction work,” I answer.
Stanley chuckles as he shakes his head. “You gotta give us more than that, ’cause this is starting to look more and more like conspiracy to commit murder, and you’re sitting right smack dab in the middle of this pile of shit.”
Bingo. That’s one piece of information I’ve been waiting for.
Sooner casts a nervous glance in Stanley’s direction before he addresses me. “He’s not saying you’re being charged with anything. But it’s not looking really good for Izzy right now, and we really need your help to find her. If she’s alive, she might be in real danger from some very powerful people.”
I look Sooner in the eye. “What do you want to know?”
He’s silent for a moment before he expels a soft sigh. “I want to know about the suitcase,” he says, pointing at the surveillance photo of Garrett. “Do you know what Garrett was carrying in that su
itcase?”
15. King
August 6th
Where is that fucking suitcase?
I repeat the question in my mind over and over as I drive along the Valdese backroads. I think about Izzy’s insistence that we fish off my dock instead of hers. I recall the panic in her eyes when she hooked that jacket. What did she think we were going to reel in?
I’m pretty sure Izzy’s too smart to allow herself to appear suspicious. The way she booby-trapped her property with all those holes — and the tripwire and nets she put up after we found Steve in one of them — it’s like the set of Home Alone in the woods near her house. No doubt, that’s where she plans to run to if someone should attempt to pursue her. She takes Steve for long walks in those woods, probably trying to commit the locations of her boobytraps to muscle memory.
Santos and I have only been able to stand on the edge of the tree line with binoculars. Neither of us is stupid enough to think we can make it out of there unscathed. Which makes me believe that Izzy’s skittishness about fishing on her dock was an act. The suitcase is probably in the woods.
I pull into the dirt parking lot at Bubba’s Korner Kitchen in Morganton, and Santos immediately steps out of his rented SUV. Hopping out of my pickup, I reach into the footwell and slide my .44 Magnum out from under the seat, tucking it into the waistband around my lower back. I pull a crossbody holster, containing a .500 Magnum, out of the back seat and strap it on.
God bless North Carolina and its permit-free open carry laws.
Reaching into the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat, I pull out a .38 Special, which I tuck into my ankle holster. As I’m smoothing down my pant leg, Santos approaches from behind.
“Boss ain’t here yet,” he says, glancing at the sign in the window of the restaurant. “Why do you think they spell corner with a K? You think they’re gonna try and deport me if I go in there?”
I chuckle at his paranoia. “If they do, we’re prepared,” I reply, tapping the .500 Magnum in my crossbody holster. “Besides, you didn’t serve this country in that desert shit-hole just to come back and get attacked at fucking Bubba’s Korner Kitchen. Fuck that. Not on my watch.”
He smiles and bats his eyelashes. “Bro, you’re making me blush.”
I shake my head as I shut the driver’s side door. “Let’s wait inside.”
I opt for a cup of black coffee while Santos, the beast, eats an entire twelve-ounce New York strip steak and four fried eggs. “You’re not careful, you’ll get fat. Then, Denise will have to trade you in for a slimmer model.”
“You kidding me?” Santos replies, setting his used napkin down on his plate before he pats his belly. “My baby loves this body. Besides, she ain’t going nowhere. I locked that shit down.”
I tilt my head in surprise. “You proposed to her?”
“Nope. She’s pregnant. Three months.”
“And you’re just fucking telling me this now?” I reply, suddenly feeling guilty for asking Santos to come to North Carolina with me.
He shrugs. “I didn’t find out until, like, a month ago.”
“And you still came with me?”
“You said it wouldn’t take longer than three or four weeks.”
I shake my head. “I’m not talking about the fucking time. I’m talking about the risk. You can’t risk your life for this shit if you have a baby on the way.”
He narrows his dark eyes at me. “It’s not okay for me to do it here, but it would be okay if I were deployed to that ‘desert shit-hole’ as you call it?”
“The point is that we’re not there anymore. If you’re going to be a father, you can’t be out here risking your life for a fucking corrupt congressman.”
“Are you asking me to leave or are you ordering me to leave?” he challenges me, his jaw set as he looks me straight in the eye awaiting my answer.
This is what the military does to us. Most people think being in the military makes a man more obedient, more agreeable, but that’s not actually the case. Most of us grunts come out of it wanting to set everything on fire, even ourselves.
Everything seems insignificant and petty when you’ve seen the horrors of war. So fuck it all, right? Fuck paying your taxes. Fuck taking care of your mental health. Fuck taking care of your family. Fuck everything. None of it matters, anyway.
Except, that kind of nihilistic philosophy is a bunch of destructive, grade-A bullshit. Unfortunately, there’s no way to convince someone of that. They have to figure it out on their own.
I look him square in the eye. “I’m asking you to stay. I can’t finish this alone.”
Santos’ broad face splits into an easy smile. “Motherfucker. You need—”
I shush him as I watch Congressman Richard Hunt and Winston Merrill, his chief of staff, walking toward us with a three-man security detail trailing behind them.
Hunt and Merrill are both wearing crisp, navy-blue tailored suits with white pocket squares. Hunt is wearing his usual dark-rimmed square glasses, which I assume, along with his silver hair, are meant to make him look like some kind of intellectual instead of like the criminal he truly is.
Santos and I both stand up at the same time and greet the men with handshakes. Santos moves to sit on my side of the table, while Hunt and Merrill sit on the other side. Their security detail takes the table behind them.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Hunt says, smiling as he unbuttons the top button on his blazer as he gets comfortable. “Interesting location for a meeting,” he says, looking around. “Was the local Olive Garden unavailable?”
The waitress arrives to take their order before I can respond to this elitist scum. Merrill declines even a glass of water, while Hunt orders a small glass of milk. I almost forgot about his stomach ulcers.
I would speculate that Hunt’s conscience weighs heavily on him, and the stress of that caused the ulcers. But after the way he handled Garrett’s death, I don’t think this man has a conscience.
I ignore his Olive Garden comment and cut right to the subject of the meeting. “Look, I know you want me to make this happen faster, but this girl won’t give up the location — or go down — without a fight. We need to approach this with finesse, not force.”
Hunt’s gray eyes flit back and forth between Santos and me. “Finesse, huh?” he says before turning to Merrill.
They both burst into cackling laughter.
I smile at his attempt to intimidate me. “Yeah, finesse. If you think you’re gonna get what you want by pulling her fingernails out, you don’t know this girl.”
Hunt stops laughing abruptly, but he’s still wearing a slick grin. “Sounds like you’ve got a thing for the girl. Maybe your judgment’s a bit cloudy. Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know her. Because I’ve done my research on this girl, and she can be got.”
“Then maybe you should try to squeeze the location out of her.”
Hunt’s smile vanishes. “I’m not the one who allowed my fuck-up of a son to pick up that suit—” He smiles at the waitress as she sets down his glass of milk on the table. “Thank you, dear.”
She flashes him a tight smile and walks away without asking if we need anything else.
I wait for Hunt to pick up where he left off, but he appears lost in thought as he traces his finger along the rim of his glass. Judging by the furrow in his brow, they’re not happy thoughts.
“You’re lucky I didn’t implicate you in Garrett’s death,” he begins. “But it’s not too late to change that. Or maybe I should just pay a visit to your sister and her beautiful family in Brentwood. What is it?” he says turning to Merrill. “Just ten minutes outside of Nashville. The area is much greener than I anticipated. I really enjoyed that barbecue place we went to in Brentwood. What was it called?”
“Judge Bean’s,” Merrill replies.
“Right. They have some killer ribs. Have you ever been there, Kingston?” Hunt asks, refusing to use the name King, as usual.
“I’ve never been there,” I repl
y.
Hunt’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s right. You haven’t spoken to your sister in years. How insensitive of me. You’ve never even met your nieces, have you?”
My nostrils flare as I hold back a flood of boiling anger. “Cut to the chase, Dick,” I say, using the name he hates.
He chuckles, then he goes back to staring at his glass of milk. “Seven days. If you don’t have that suitcase in one week, your sister and your nieces will get another visit from me.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
Hunt freezes as he’s about to stand up. “Excuse me?”
“I said no. I’m not doing one more thing for you until I know what’s inside that suitcase. This can’t be about money. We’ve all got plenty of that. There’s something else in there. And if you don’t tell me what it is now, I’m checking out. You can find someone else to be your fucking errand boy.”
Hunt remains frozen for a moment before he turns to Merrill, whose only response is to shrug his scrawny shoulders. “Look at this kid. A real fucking war hero, just like my son,” Hunt says, nodding his head, allowing a moment for this jab to sink in. “You’ve got balls. I mean real balls to threaten to walk out on me. You can’t walk away. I own you.”
I don’t blink as I look him in the eye. “Your move, Dick.”
Hunt knows I’m the only one he can count on to follow through with this operation. Right now, he’s thinking about torturing Izzy to get the location of the suitcase. He’s weighing the risk of Izzy not telling him what he wants to hear against the risk of looking weak by capitulating to my demands.
Finally, he nods. “There’s a USB drive sewn into the lining of the suitcase. It contains some critical information on some of my political opponents. Oppo research. If it gets into the wrong hands, it could be very damaging for them. But more importantly, it could be damaging for me if it’s discovered I paid a large sum of money for it. Understand?”
I squint at him as if this will help me see through the smokescreen of lies, but it doesn’t help. “Understood,” I reply. “I’ll get you your USB.”
