by James Swain
The guard came out of the building and trotted toward the guardhouse. Instead of going inside, he walked around the security gate and greeted the visitor. It was a woman, and she hung out of the open driver’s window and flashed her credentials. They had a brief conversation, then the guard punched a code into a keypad and the gate rose. The visitor pulled in and found a parking space and got out. The guard met her at the entrance to the building, and used a key card to gain entry. She went in and the guard started to follow, only to be rebuffed. She didn’t want his help. The guard looked uncomfortable with this, but said nothing. The visitor entered, and the front door closed behind her.
The building had two hundred residents, and the visitor could have been here to visit anyone, but his gut told him it was Daniels, come to pay him a visit. He’d worked with the FBI doing jobs for Team Adam, and he knew that they kept a fleet of private jets at an airport in DC that agents could hop on when a case broke wide open.
He went inside and brushed his teeth and ran a washcloth over his face. Then he unlocked the front door to his apartment and went to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. He pulled a carton of half-and-half out of the fridge and saw that it had expired. As he poured it down the drain he heard the front door open.
“Hello. I’m in the kitchen making coffee. Come on back.”
No response. He cleared his throat.
“I’d offer you something to eat, but I’m afraid all I’ve got is cheese and crackers and a couple of slices of cold pizza.”
Still no answer. Daniels was definitely not the friendly type. He took a pair of mugs out of the cabinet and set them on the counter.
“How do you like your coffee? I’ve got sugar and sweetener.”
Daniels stepped into the kitchen. She was slight of build and maybe five six in her bare feet. Her resemblance to Nicki was uncanny, right down to the center part in her jet-black hair. She wore a dark-green pantsuit and had a badge pinned to the jacket lapel. Clutched in her hands was a .40-caliber Glock that was pointed at his chest.
“FBI. Put your arms in the air.”
“Is that a no on the coffee?”
“Do it!”
He played cool and stuck his arms in the air. She made him walk into the dining room and had him sit in a chair. He’d bought a dining room set to fill out the apartment and didn’t think he’d used it once, preferring to eat on the balcony or while watching TV in the living room. The chair creaked under his weight.
“Put your hands behind the chair,” she ordered him.
“Is this necessary? I called you, remember? And I unlocked the door.”
“It could be a trap.”
“If you thought it was a trap, you would have brought backup.”
“Stop arguing with me.”
She was on edge, her voice high-pitched. Squeezing a trigger was easier when the shooter was under duress. Not wanting to get shot, he stuck his arms behind his back. She handcuffed his wrists and used a plastic tie to secure the cuffs to a rung in the back of the chair. Then she came around the chair and stood in front of him. The Glock was returned to its jacket holster. She crossed her arms and gave him a stern look.
“You can make this hard, or you can make this easy,” she said.
“Easy sounds better,” he said.
“Tell me where you stored the Cassandra videos.”
“They were on a cell phone that I purchased, but they were erased.”
“You’re saying you don’t have them.”
“If you don’t believe me, you can check. My laptop is in my study. The password is ‘jimmybuffett,’ all lowercase. My cell phone is on the balcony on the floor. The second cell phone that had the Cassandra videos is next to it.”
“Why do you own two cell phones?”
“I’m working a job. I bought the second one using a false identity so I could look at data that a guy had stored on it.”
“That’s against the law.”
“I think I knew that.”
She retrieved the laptop and placed it on the dining room table so he could watch her look through it. “What am I going to find on here?” she asked.
“Mostly bootleg concert videos of Jimmy Buffett that I shot on my cell phone,” he said. “There’s also a video of me fishing with a buddy of mine.”
“No kiddie porn?”
“No, ma’am. Would you like me to explain what’s going on, or do you prefer stumbling around in the dark?”
She shot him a pair of daggers. “Watch your mouth.”
“Just trying to help.”
She took her time reviewing the videos stored on his laptop. Finding nothing illegal, she went onto the balcony and got the two cell phones, and reviewed their contents while he watched. It was an old interrogation trick. She was hoping he would twitch when she got close to finding what she was looking for. When the cell phones turned up empty, she marched into his bedroom and began pulling open drawers and dumping their contents onto the floor.
“There’s nothing to find,” he called out to her.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied.
She returned to the dining room and opened the drawers on the china cabinet he’d taken from his parents’ house after they’d passed away. Each item she pulled out of the cabinet was given a cursory examination before being placed aside. His grandmother’s porcelain serving ladle slipped out of her grasp and shattered on the floor.
“Are you trying to provoke me?” he asked. “Because if you are, it won’t work.”
She did not apologize for the breakage. She was filled with hostility, her rage simmering just below the surface, and he imagined her in the trunk of the Hanover killers’ car, facing certain death. It was the kind of experience that most people never got over.
“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “I don’t have any kiddie porn. I’m a private investigator on a job.”
“Keep talking, and I’ll put a gag in your mouth.”
The kitchen was next. He craned his neck and watched her pull out the silverware drawer and turn it upside down. Then she attacked the cabinet stocked with canned goods. She was going to wreck the place if he didn’t stop her.
“You’re the girl in the Cassandra videos, aren’t you?” he said.
The commotion came to a halt. She returned to the dining room and stood in front of his chair. The blood had drained from her face, her cheeks white.
“What did you just say?” she said.
“You’re Cassandra,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. I just figured it out. The FBI decided to create the Cassandra videos and posted them on the internet to draw out sexual predators. It was a clever idea, except for one thing. You couldn’t use a real underage girl to make the videos without breaking the law, so you volunteered, and a company of video magicians age-regressed your face and body and Cassandra was born.”
Daniels looked like she wanted to strangle him. She had spent a lot of the FBI’s money creating the Cassandra videos and hadn’t expected anyone to figure out the deception. He rattled his handcuffs and she glared at him.
“Are you going to let me go? I can help you.”
“Not until I finish searching your place.”
“What are you expecting to find?”
“Evidence. I’m not buying your story. You’re a pedophile, and pedophiles keep libraries. Once I find your library of videos and images, I’m going to arrest you, and throw your sorry ass in jail.”
“You’re wrong. I’m working a case and found the Cassandra videos stored on a guy’s cell phone.”
“And then you erased them.”
“I didn’t erase them. The guy did. He found out what I’d done, so he used a computer to go to his account and erase the videos.”
“Your story sounds like bullshit. Sit tight. I won’t be long.”
He was growing angry. He hadn’t done anything wrong, yet she refused to hear him out. It was time
to show his hand. “What if I told you that I was working a job for your sister and brother-in-law, and that it led me to you?”
“Nice try. My sister lives on the other side of the world with her family.”
She finished wrecking his kitchen and then moved to his study. The wall in the study was covered with framed photographs of him as a SEAL and as a detective, and he wondered if she noticed them or cared that he’d once been a cop.
She came out of his study looking pissed. Her eyes canvassed the dining room, and fell upon the hall clothes closet. It was the one place she hadn’t checked, and she marched over to it and yanked open the flimsy door. On the top shelf was a cardboard box containing his collection of bootleg recordings of the Jimmy Buffett concerts he’d attended. She pulled the box down and started to rummage through it. Finding the CDs, she grabbed a handful and waved them in the air.
“Gotcha,” she said.
CHAPTER 27
SISTERS
Daniels placed him under arrest and read him his rights. When he asked her to play the CDs on his laptop, she tuned him out. It was a classic case of tunnel vision. She thought he was a pervert, and nothing he said was going to change her mind.
She got a knife from the kitchen and cut him free from the chair. With his wrists still handcuffed behind his back, he stood up. One of his legs had gone to sleep, and he shook it awake. She took it as a hostile action and drew her gun and aimed it at him.
“Don’t do that again,” she said.
“You think I’m going to jump you?” he said.
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“But I’m handcuffed.”
“Trapped animals will try anything.”
“Am I an animal?”
“You most certainly are.”
The breath caught in his throat. Daniels wanted to shoot him. She had decided he was a monster and was looking for a reason to pump a bullet through his heart. If he made another sudden move that she deemed a threat, his life was over.
“I’m not a monster. Call Melanie. She’ll tell you.”
“Melanie?” she said, not understanding.
“Yes, Melanie Pearl, your sister. Call her.”
“I don’t have her number.”
“How can you not have your sister’s number?”
“My sister lives in Dubai. We haven’t spoken in years,” she said.
Daniels didn’t know that her sister had returned to the United States and was living in Fort Lauderdale. He was not going to pass judgment on her about this. He had a brother he hadn’t spoken to in years, so he knew how torturous family relations could be.
“I hate to be the messenger, but your sister and her family left Dubai three months ago and resettled in Fort Lauderdale,” he said. “Your brother-in-law now runs the neurology department of a local hospital. They’re my clients. I was looking through your niece Nicki’s laptop computer and saw a photograph of you wearing an FBI windbreaker. That’s why I contacted you.”
Confusion spread across her face. “What the hell are you talking about? Why did my sister hire you? What’s happened to her?”
“I’ll tell you, but first stop pointing that gun at me.”
“I don’t think so.”
He slowly sank into the chair. “How about now? I can’t attack you sitting down.”
Daniels considered it, then decided he wasn’t a threat and put her gun away. She picked up the two cell phones off the dining room table. “Which one is yours?”
“The blue one,” he said. “Your brother-in-law’s number is in my contacts. Tell him that you’re with me, and that I asked him to text me a photograph of Nicki.”
“Why should he do that?”
“Because then you’ll understand why I contacted you.”
“You better not be playing games with me.”
“I’m not. Call him.”
Daniels made the call and placed the phone to her ear. She hadn’t seen her niece in over five years. That was a long time when a kid was growing up. She was going to be surprised in the change in Nicki, and not in a pleasant way.
Nolan Pearl answered the call. Lancaster could faintly hear his voice.
“Nolan, this is your sister-in-law, Beth,” Daniels said without emotion. “I’m here with a man named Jon Lancaster who claims to be a private investigator. Lancaster says you hired him to do a job. Is that true?”
“Hello, Beth. What a surprise. It’s been too long,” Pearl said without emotion. “Yes, we did hire Lancaster. Are you here in Fort Lauderdale?”
“Yes, I am. I arrived a few hours ago,” she said. “Lancaster tells me that you and Melanie moved back three months ago.”
“We did.”
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“That was Melanie’s decision, Beth, not mine.”
“She won’t bury the hatchet, will she?”
“You said some horrible things to her.”
“Ask him to send you a photograph of Nicki,” Lancaster said.
Daniels put the phone against her chest. “Shut your mouth.”
“Just do it, will you? I’m getting sick of these handcuffs.”
“You think I’m going to take them off?”
“Yes, and then you’re going to apologize to me.”
The comment rattled her, and she resumed talking to her brother-in-law. “You still should have let me know you were here. Let me tell you why I called. Lancaster wants you to take a photograph of Nicki, and text it to his cell phone. Will you do that for me?”
“Of course, Beth. Are we going to see you while you’re in town?”
“If I have the time, yes.”
“I’m sure Nicki will be thrilled. Give me a minute to send you the photo. It’s been nice talking to you. It’s been too long.”
“Yes, it has.”
Daniels ended the call. Her eyes found Lancaster’s face, and they stared at each other for a long moment. They both knew she had made a mistake. But she wasn’t going to admit it just yet. It was part of her training. The FBI taught its agents to create theories when conducting investigations, and to shoehorn the evidence they found to make those theories work. That worked most of the time. When it didn’t, innocent people often ended up getting hurt.
His cell phone vibrated in her hand. She fumbled opening the Message app.
“It’s from Nolan,” she said.
“Brace yourself for a surprise,” he said.
She opened her brother-in-law’s message and stared at the screen. Her other hand came to her mouth and stayed there.
“Oh my God, is that Nicki?” she said in shock.
“It sure is,” he said. “Your niece looks just like Cassandra.” He let a moment pass, then said, “Do you have any idea how much harm you’ve caused her?”
She kept staring at the screen. “What are you talking about? What’s happened?”
“Well, since you don’t believe a word that I say, why don’t you call your sister and let her explain the situation to you?”
She moved toward his chair. She still hadn’t made a move to free him, and he sensed that she was taking a perverse pleasure in keeping him prisoner.
“I want you to tell me what’s going on,” she said.
“Call your sister,” he said.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“No. Call Melanie. I’m sure she’d enjoy getting caught up.”
She snarled at him like a junkyard dog. Moving to the couch, she sat down and made the call. Soon she was engaged in conversation with her sister. The pleasantries were short and awkward. She grew silent as Melanie told her about Nicki’s stalkers and the attempted abductions. Her eyes grew moist, and tears raced down her cheeks.
“This is terrible. I’m so sorry, Mel,” she said.
They continued to talk. He rose from his chair and entered the kitchen. Silverware and canned goods covered the floor, and it looked like a tornado had hit it. He cleared a space with his feet and leaned his back against a
wall. As a kid he’d read a book about Houdini that had included explanations of how the famous escape artist had gotten out of handcuffs without using a key, and he decided to give it a shot. He lowered his handcuffed wrists as far as he could. Kicking off his right shoe, he lifted his right leg, and slipped his foot through the circle created by his arms, all the while hopping on his left leg to stay balanced. It worked, and he repeated the exercise with his left leg.
His wrists were now in front of his body. His arms had started to cramp, and he shook them to make the pain go away. Then he went in search of a ballpoint pen. He found one in a cup beside the fridge and unscrewed it and removed the cartridge. Houdini could open a handcuff with a paper clip, so Lancaster had to believe it wasn’t terribly hard. He jammed the cartridge in the tiny space between the ratchet and locking mechanism and, finding a soft spot, pressed it hard. The handcuff came free. He repeated this with the other wrist and again achieved success.
He smelled coffee. The pot was still on. He could be a bastard with Daniels, or he could be nice and pretend like nothing had happened. The second approach was more to his liking, and would give them a fresh start. He poured two mugs and grabbed the sweetener and returned to the living room.
Daniels was still on the phone with her sister. Melanie was doing all the talking, while Daniels listened and wiped away her tears. He placed a mug and sweetener on the coffee table, followed by the handcuffs. Her eyes registered surprise.
“I was wrong,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Did you tell her about the Cassandra videos?” he whispered back.
She shook her head.
“You have to,” he whispered.
“I don’t know how,” she whispered back.
CHAPTER 28
SWEET SIXTEEN
The conversation between Daniels and her sister dragged on. Lancaster started to feel like he was intruding and went into the kitchen to tackle the mess Daniels had made. He put the silverware into the dishwasher and set it on wash, then stocked the canned goods back on the pantry shelves. The cans all had sizeable dents in them. He could not remember encountering a law enforcement agent with such anger issues, and he wondered how long it would be before her superiors took notice.
