by Kathy Reichs
“Got one solid lead. A witness claims he saw the kid leaving the athletic fields with a woman in a ball cap. Another says she saw the kid getting into a van. Same description.”
“Anyone get the plate?”
“No.” Leaden with fatigue. “I been helping with the tip line. Which don’t make for heart-pumping action. The kid’s snatched by gypsies. Locked away by nuns up in Boone. Transported to Roswell so aliens can study her innards. There are some freakin’ loons out there.”
“Indeed.”
“But I did score some intel on that property. You were dead-on. There’s an underground Atlas F missile silo inside that fence.”
“Wait. Are you talking about Cleveland County?”
“No. The convent in Boone.”
“Hilarious. Owned by whom?”
“Originally, Uncle Sam. In ’08, the property sold through something called—let me get this right.” More squeaking springs. “The Formerly Used Defense Site program. FUDS. Can’t beat the military for alphabet soup.”
“Who bought it?”
“A holding company called DeepHaven Ventures, LLC.”
“Who owns the holding company?” Heart spiking hard.
“The thing has a shit ton of subsidiary LCs, LPs, LLPs, SOBs, but only two principal investors. You ready for this?”
I wanted to reach across the line and strangle Slidell with his Kmart tie. Instead, I waited.
“Nick Body and Yates Timmer.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“I’m telling you, everything circles back.”
All I heard was air whistling in and out of Slidell’s nose. Finally, “There’s no PO listed for Unger, and his LKA dates to ’09.” Cop code for parole officer and last-known address. “You got any idea where to find this mutt?”
“Yuriev gave me an address. Could be a misdirect.”
“Let me have it.”
I did.
“I’ll send a unit to haul his ass to the bag.”
“For what?”
“Pissing in public. Failure to register his pet iguana.”
“It’s going on midnight.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“You’ll let me know if you get him?”
“Sure.”
“Then what?”
“Unger cooks overnight, enjoys Sunday-morning pancakes. Then I open him like a can of sardines.”
“What time tomorrow?”
“Eleven.”
I vowed to be at headquarters by ten.
I’m a pragmatist. Karma, fate, destiny, call it what you will. It’s not my thing. But lying in bed, restless and tense, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my future was barreling at me like a wrecking ball. Two contradictory premonitions fought for dominance.
The first was—the faceless man’s suicide was the act of a soul guilty of nothing more than fraternal loyalty and possession of a malicious gene. All the rest was the product of my overcharged imagination. Vodyanov and Body were shameless cons but not criminals. My career in Charlotte would soon end.
The second was—Slidell and I would reveal the name of the faceless man, lay bare the web of evil emanating from Vodyanov and his brother, find answers for parents, maybe rescue April Siler, and expose Margot Heavner as the self-aggrandizing charlatan I knew her to be. The zombie ant’s reign would soon end, and I’d return from exile.
33
SUNDAY, JULY 15
A hush hung over the violent crimes division. Partly Sunday morning. Partly the fact that everyone was pounding the pavement to find April Siler and the woman in the baseball cap. It’s a cliché, but clichés exist for good reason. In child abductions, the first forty-eight hours are critical. The clock was ticking toward forty-two.
Slidell wasn’t in the squad room. I sat at his desk, drinking my Starbucks and fidgeting impatiently. He showed up at ten twenty, looking like he’d spent the night in a dumpster. I assumed he’d slept a bit without leaving the building.
Slidell had already ordered Unger brought up from holding. Together we walked to the same interrogation room occupied by Vince Aiello the previous Wednesday. On the way, he explained that Unger thought they were looking at him for defrauding seniors with a reverse-mortgage scam. He carried a legal pad and what I assumed was Unger’s file. He also carried a dummy folder similar to the one he’d employed with the kiddie-porn patent lawyer. I hoped the prop worked better with this guy.
I went to the same room I’d used to observe Aiello, stood by the same mirror.
Cue the lights. The audio. It was like watching take two of a movie shoot. Today the camera’s little eye was glowing red. And the male lead looked very different.
Floy Unger was built along the lines of dental floss—tall and skeletal, with skin the color of a toilet bowl. His scalp was covered with greasy brown hair whose longevity didn’t look promising, his body with a polo shirt, baggy shorts, and flip-flops.
Unger also wore handcuffs. I wondered if Slidell would have them removed. He didn’t. Nice touch. The guy looked cocky as hell. Make him nervous.
Slidell had Unger sign some sort of form. Tucked it into the fake folder.
“Should I have a lawyer?” Unger asked.
“Do you need a lawyer?”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Slidell spit-thumbed through the papers in his folder, pretended to consult one. “You know an old lady named Mary Ellen Hopper?”
“No. Who is she?”
“Sandra Sarah Lee?”
“No.” Hiking both shoulders as if to enhance his credibility.
“Carl Prendergast?”
“Look, I’m clean. I’ve been out of the game for years.” Unger’s voice made me think of the bottom of an abandoned well. Dark and dank and hollow. It sounded wrong coming from such a scrawny man.
“Uh-huh.” Slidell, light-years beyond dubious.
“I’ve got a job now. New skills.”
“Skills.”
“I work with the internet.”
“We all work with the internet.”
“I’m employed by a media celebrity.”
“Tell me about that.”
Unger’s eyes dropped to his hands, lying flat on the table. His wrists looked like two pale twigs rising out of the manacles.
“I can’t go into details.”
“Yeah? What’s this big star gonna do when you’re a no-show because your ass is in the can?”
The bony fingers reached for each other. Intertwined. My skin crawled at the thought of them grabbing a child.
Slidell flipped through Unger’s jacket, perused his arrest record.
“Tell me about Penelope Koster.” Unlike the aforementioned, a real person.
“What about her?” Grip tightening.
“In ’09, Koster said you broke into her place, fractured her nose and two of her ribs.”
“She’s a lying bitch.”
“You pleaded guilty.”
“To a misdemeanor. I was defending myself.”
“She claimed you were stalking her.”
“She also claimed she was going to be the next Taylor Swift.”
Slidell waited a long moment before going on.
“You’re a con man, Floy. I think you’re trying to con me now.”
“I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy for this mortgage thing.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. But I can jam you up for a very long time.”
Unger lifted his hands, spread them as wide as the cuffs would allow. “What do you want from me, detective?”
Slidell picked up his pen and pulled the pad close. “Tell me about Nick Body.”
If Unger was surprised, he hid it well. “Who?”
Slidell leaned forward, and his voice dropped lower. “I’ve dealt with a lot of con artists, Floy. Most of ’em a whole lot smarter than you. They waste my time. I don’t like people wasting my time.”
“I—”
“You’
ve got exactly one minute to give it to me straight. Then I’m going to send you back to lockup and think long and slow on what charges I’ll use to book you.”
The cuffs made a soft clunk as they reconnected with the table. Unger stared down at them. Or his hands. Through the glass, I studied the top of his oily scalp, wondering if maybe Yuriev had scammed me.
Slidell waited as seconds of silence ticked by. Finally, he turned and reached for the phone.
“Send someone to collect the asshole in room three.”
“No. Wait!” Unger’s palms rose, pointed at Slidell in surrender.
Slidell stood. “I’m done pissing away time on you, Floy.”
“OK. I work for Nick Body.”
“I’m listening.”
“Mr. Body is obsessive about his privacy. Anything I say here must be kept in strict confidence.”
“Uh-huh.”
Slidell again dialed and spoke into the phone. “Hold off on that pickup.” Then he pulled out his chair and sat back down.
“Before I talk, can I get some sort of deal? Immunity or something?”
“Immunity for what?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Here’s your deal. You level with me, I let you walk out of here.” A somewhat hollow threat. Slidell had to charge Unger within forty-eight hours or let him go. I was surprised the dope didn’t know this.
Unger raised his arms. “Can I get these off?”
“No.” Slidell went right for the heart. “Do you help Body snatch kids to drive business to his site?”
“What? That’s insane!” Genuinely shocked or an Oscar-level delivery.
“Did his brother?”
“No.”
“Do you know Felix Vodyanov?”
“Yes. No.” The hands dropped. “I mean, I met him a few—”
“Did he?” Slidell began a shotgun barrage meant to keep Unger off balance.
“Did he what?”
“Kidnap kids.”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“I have no idea.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are they grabbing kids?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know why they’re grabbing them?”
“I don’t know that they are!”
“Does Body live at an abandoned Atlas missile silo in Cleveland County?”
This time, Unger couldn’t hide his surprise. “He has an improvised apartment there. Stays in it off and on. The place creeps me out.”
“Why?”
“It’s a million miles underground. You have to go down—”
“Why does he stay there?”
“His brother has some disease. Body’s afraid he might have it, too.”
“Does he?”
“I’ll lose my job if any of this gets out.” No longer smug. Now worried as hell.
“Does he?” Dagger-sharp.
“I don’t know.”
“Is that why he hides from the public?”
Unger shrugged.
“Why do you go there?”
“When Body’s in bunker mode, he records underground. Occasionally, he has issues.”
“Have you ever spotted kids on the property?”
“Once.”
“Girl or boy?”
“Girl.”
“Describe her.”
“I don’t know. She was on the grounds. I didn’t get close enough to really see her.”
“Toddler? Teenager?”
“Middle size. Maybe seven, eight. I’m not good with kids.”
I felt my fingers curl into fists.
Slidell continued hammering. “What exactly do you do for Body?”
“Organize his podcasts.”
“That it?”
“Help with IT. A few business affairs.”
“What the shit does that mean?”
“I assist with some investments.”
“Sounds like giving a drunk the keys to the bar.”
“It’s all legal.”
“Talk about DeepHaven Ventures.”
Unger stiffened. A beat, then, “My being here has nothing to do with scamming seniors, does it?”
“I’m asking the questions.”
Unger sat mute, weighing his options.
Slidell looked at him a long moment, then pushed back his chair.
Unger decided on the old tried-and-true. Save your own ass. “DeepHaven Ventures, LLC, is a holding company. Its structure is complicated.”
Slidell picked up and poised the pen over the pad.
Unger paused a moment to collect his thoughts. “Body and a fellow investor—”
“Yates Timmer.”
Tight nod. No longer astonished at anything. “Body and Timmer have invested in the construction of underground condo complexes.”
“In abandoned missile silos?”
“They’re called survival homes. It’s a booming market.”
“The sky’s falling. I get it. How’s the scheme work?”
“Body and Timmer had little of their own money, so they created a holding company, DeepHaven Ventures. Do you want actual figures?”
“Later.”
“They each put up a small sum, then got investors to contribute much larger amounts in exchange for part ownerships in the project. They got a bank to provide additional money via a secured nonrecourse mortgage. Do you follow?”
Slidell scribbled, nodded. I doubted he did.
“A percentage derived from the sale of each unit is paid to businesses called DeepHaven I, LLC, and DeepHaven II, LLC, two subsidiary holding companies.”
Unger interpreted Slidell’s expression as confusion.
“Look at it this way. The holding company allows Body and Timmer to tie up peanuts for a controlling interest in a multimillion-dollar project.”
“You cooked this up?”
“I did not invent the concept of the holding company.”
“Where are these ‘homes’?”
“DeepHaven I is in a converted Atlas missile silo in West Virginia.”
“Describe it.”
Unger kicked into what sounded like a sales pitch. Which made me wonder if he’d been at Lake Wylie the night Slidell and I crashed Timmer’s party.
“In addition to eleven floors of living units and one penthouse, the complex includes a swimming pool, dog park, theater, general store, classroom, arcade, library, shooting range, rock-climbing wall, and aquaponic farm.”
Slidell didn’t interrupt.
“The complex has redundant infrastructure for power, water, air, and food—everything needed for comfortable and extended off-grid survival.”
“It’s safe living where they used to stash nuclear warheads?” Despite himself, Slidell was intrigued.
“Before construction began, the site was examined by the State of West Virginia, the Army Corps of Engineers, and the Environmental Protection Agency and was declared fit for development.”
“So how’s this money train rolling?”
“DeepHaven I is complete and fully sold out. DeepHaven II is ready for conversion.”
“What’s the holdup?”
“Some investors have withdrawn, and presales are sluggish.”
“Sluggish.”
“They’ve only managed to sell a single half-floor unit.”
“Timmer and Body feeling the squeeze?”
“Big-time,” Unger said.
Quick change of direction. “Is Body staying at the Cleveland County property now?”
“No.”
“Where’s he living?”
“No clue.” Unger’s eyes slid down and left, a sure sign of deception.
“Got a phone number?”
“No. I receive the files electronically. If he needs to talk, which is rare, he contacts me.”
“Who’s Holly Kimrey?” Slidell veered again.
Unger leaned back. Picked at one thumbnail with the other.
“I’m waiting,” Slidell said.
“Holly Kimrey is Body’s gopher.” Mirthless snort. “And dealer.”
“Body’s on the junk?”
“The guy’s nose burns more bread than his DeepHaven project.”
Slidell sat very still, considering, I assumed, what Unger had told him. Then he did exactly what I would have done.
A few misleading questions. Then Slidell picked up the phone and ordered Unger’s release.
34
The next three hours seemed to last three days. Then the whole bloody mess ended with a whimper.
Slidell phoned to ask that Unger’s release be delayed until he could position himself for a tail. Then he requested backup. After disconnecting, you guessed it, he ordered me to sit tight. I told him not a chance. He blustered all the way down to ground level.
Two uniforms were waiting in the lobby, a guy who could have passed for Ice-T and a woman who must have been born lifting weights. Torrance and Spano.
When a rough plan was in place, Torrance and Spano exited and climbed into their cruiser. As Slidell and I hurried to his 4Runner, he called upstairs to give the go-ahead. Twelve minutes later, Unger appeared, cell phone to one ear. Six minutes after that, a red Ford Fiesta pulled into the lot. I heard Unger ask the driver if his name was Olaf.
“Shit-looking taxi,” Slidell mumbled.
“It’s probably an Uber.”
Two bloodshot eyes cut sideways to me. “I’m not a moron. I know about Uber.”
Half right, I thought.
Unger got in, and Olaf pulled out into traffic. Slidell waited ten seconds, then followed. Torrance and Spano were right on our bumper.
It was early afternoon on the Lord’s Day in Dixie, so uptown traffic was sparse. To avoid notice, Slidell held back several car lengths. No problem. The Fiesta stood out like a maraschino cherry on wheels.
Passenger and driver were visible as overlapping silhouettes through the rear window. The body movement suggested animated conversation, Unger’s head bobbing a full foot higher than Olaf’s.
Slidell drove in silence, either sulking or concentrating on the road. Maybe running logistics in his head.
Olaf exited uptown on Central Avenue, eventually made a left onto the Plaza, then a right onto Belvedere, heading into the Plaza-Midwood neighborhood.
“Sonofabitch.” Slidell palm-slapped the wheel.
“What?”
“The toad’s going home.”
