by Steven James
“I thought that was ruled a suicide.”
“The evidence points in another direction. Tobin also suspects that Blake might have someone from law enforcement helping him.”
She evaluated that. “And this man, Lloyd, who you went to see yesterday—he entered information into the Final Territory website on the Dark Web?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s possible that he might have alerted someone that the authorities are looking for them?”
That was something I hadn’t considered. “Actually, that is possible, yes. Right now we don’t know who’s involved, but if they do have a way to get onto the Federal Digital Database, or a way of identifying me, they’ll never trust me unless there’s a strong reason to.”
“And being put on administrative leave will do that?”
“Depends on how you word things in the report, but yes. I think you could pull it off.”
She rubbed her jaw. “I don’t know.”
“Listen. We have three missing children to consider. This is our chance, today, to meet with Blake. I don’t know if we’ll get another one, especially not soon.”
“Is DeYoung on board with this?”
“I haven’t spoken with him yet. Since my review is in your hands right now, I decided to start with you. I can talk with him, or you can. It doesn’t matter to me. I have the sense that he’ll follow your recommendation, whatever it is.”
She stared out the window, obviously deep in thought.
“I need it official,” I told her. “Whatever they do know or don’t know about me, this group we’re looking into, I’m guessing they can spot law enforcement and undercover agents a mile away. That’s how they stay one step ahead, how they stay out of prison. I need them to think I’m dirty. That’s the only way I can meet up with Blake.”
“Alright.” She rose. “I’ll go speak with the Assistant Director.”
“And no one else. On the paperwork, make it look like you don’t trust me at all.”
“If we go that far, you know you’ll have to turn in your credentials and your firearm. You do know that, don’t you? If I expedite this like you’re saying, we’ll need to go all the way to make it believable.”
“I know.”
“I’ll talk to him. I’ll let you know what he says.”
Back in my office, I put my things in order with the expectation that I might not be back in here for some time.
Then I called the Homeland Security agent I’d caught at the golf course on Saturday morning. “Have you had a chance to look into what we spoke about the other day?”
“Yes.” But he sounded annoyed that I was following up. “There’s no record of anyone visiting Wooford while he was in detention.”
Only someone with inside connections could have pulled off seeing him without filling out any paperwork.
“Anything else?”
“Wooford worked for a construction company for a couple years. Some of his chats with minors were done from his work computer. I’ll see if I can find the specifics and get them to you. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything else.”
I met with Tobin and Jodie and told them what was going on.
“If this works out,” I said, “you two are going to be my eyes and ears. We’ll contact each other through burner phones or radios so there’s no record of our calls on our personal cells.”
We picked up some behind-the-ear radio patches that were nearly invisible and would give us hands-free communication if we needed it.
It took the rest of the morning for us to convince DeYoung, and then for Maria to submit the appropriate paperwork. Finally, rather unceremoniously, I handed the Assistant Director my creds and my gun.
“To make it official,” he said, “I’ll need to announce this to the media. They’re already chomping at the bit wondering what happened to the agent from last week’s shooting incident with Randy McReynolds. I’ll tell them it’s an ongoing review, that you’ve been placed on administrative leave as per our policy.”
“That’ll work if you put a reprimand in my file.”
“I have a three o’clock press conference scheduled. Should I try to do something earlier, before your meeting with Blake?”
“No. Earlier would be too convenient and conspicuous. It might reveal our hand.”
“You have to know, Patrick, this is not going to help your reputation, even if we clear things up soon. People hear things on the news and those impressions stick, even when the truth comes out later.”
“I’m not worried about what people think of me. Let’s just make some progress on this case. Let’s find those missing kids.”
“I’ll want you to report directly to me about this. You can’t come in to your office. You won’t have access to your federal account, the case files, or your email.”
It would be ideal if we could backdoor things, but it wasn’t worth taking the chance.
“I’ll have Tobin and Jodie keep me up to speed. Maybe meeting with Blake is all I’ll need to do. Maybe by tomorrow this’ll all be over.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound very optimistic. “Let’s hope so. And I want you wearing a wire.”
“I can’t do that. It’s one of the first things they’ll look for. I need to go in quiet on this.”
DeYoung rubbed his head and squinched up his eyes as if all this was giving him a headache, which might very well have been the case. “Tobin stays close to you every step of the way.”
“What about Jodie?”
“You can keep her in the loop, but she and Descartes are spearheading the search for Romanoff and I want her to stay on that.”
Before I left, he requisitioned some cash in case I needed it on the street, then I took off for my meeting with Blake.
+++
Francis heard back from Dr. Tignini, the psychologist that Dr. Perrior had recommended to him.
“Hello, Mr. Edlemore. I have the referral notice here on my desk and I did receive your messages. I would be glad to see you, but I don’t have any openings for the next two weeks.”
“But Dr. Perrior said you were just getting established, that you would be able to help me.”
“Well, I’ll be happy to help you, but I’ll be attending a conference and won’t be in town. However, can I write you down for July second?”
No, no, no.
“Yes, I mean, that would be good. How much does it cost—because that’s the main reason I need to see someone else, not because things weren’t going well with Dr. Perrior.”
“I see. Well, we can discuss that. I work on a prorated basis. I’ll do all I can to help you out.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you next month, then.”
“Okay.”
Francis tried to sort things through.
So much was happening.
He was trying to help the FBI, trying to catalog the new files that’d been submitted, and also wrap up what he could before the gala tomorrow night.
And then there was graciousgirl4, who wasn’t a girl at all.
And Skylar, whom he couldn’t get out of his head.
He really wished he could see Dr. Perrior.
“Honesty is the best policy,” he’d told Francis once.
He’d never forgotten that.
Honesty, honesty, honesty.
Yes.
That was the key here.
You need to talk to someone.
And the only person who came to mind was Skylar.
Francis decided that maybe sorting through things with her would help.
He phoned her to see if she could meet at two o’clock during his coffee break.
“It doesn’t look like I can get away this afternoon,” she said, “but can I see you for dinner maybe? Maybe after work?”
“Alright. Yes. That would be nice.”
“Are you okay? You sound upset. Are you mad at me? I’d come if I could, I just don’t think I can get—”
“No, no, no. I’m just . . . It’s something here at work. It’s not you.”
“Okay. So you’re alright?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you tonight for dinner. Six?” Then, a bit to his own surprise, he added, “If you want, we can meet at my place.”
She told him she would enjoy that and could they make it seven and did he need her to bring anything?
“No. I’ll make spaghetti, okay?”
“Sounds great.”
Then he passed along his address and the plans were set.
She was going to come over to his apartment tonight.
A real woman.
Yes, honesty is the best policy.
And when she did come, he would tell her about graciousgirl4 and then things would smooth out, the stress would go away, and everything would be less overwhelming, once it was all out in the open.
63
12:56 p.m.
I entered the pub.
The yeasty stench of spilled beer hit me right away.
Despite the time of day, there were four men seated around the room, nursing their drinks. I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in their lives for them to feel the need to start drinking this early in the day, unless, of course, they were here to help protect Blake.
Two didn’t even bother to look my direction, but the other two guys stared at me from the time I came in until the moment I arrived at the bar, where a beefy, scraggly-faced Latino bartender was wiping down the counter. An open bag of sour cream and onion potato chips sat beside him.
He slid a napkin onto the counter in front of me. “What can I get you?”
“I’m looking for someone. I think you can help me.”
He eyed me coolly as he picked up a beer glass and began absently drying it with a towel, even though it didn’t appear to be wet.
In the real world, information doesn’t always come without a price and I laid a hundred-dollar bill on the bar.
“His name is Blake,” I said. “I was told I could find him here.”
“Yeah, and who told you that?”
“I got an email.”
“An email.”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh. Well, there’s no one named Blake here.”
“And see,” I said, “I think there is.”
The bartender stopped wiping the glass, set it down, placed both hands on the bar, and leaned forward, getting close enough for me to smell his sour cream and onion breath. “I think it’s time for you to walk out that door you came in.”
I set another bill on the table. “Tell him Patrick Bowers is here to see him. Tell him that we share a mutual interest.”
“And what interest is that?”
“Aurora’s birthday. The email I received told me to meet him at one o’clock. Go on, before he thinks I got here late.”
He appraised me once more, then slid the two bills back in my direction. “If Blake’s not expecting you, I’ll just take ’em off your body when he’s done with you. If he is expecting you, he’s not gonna want to see you passing me bills. I don’t want him to think I’m on anyone’s payroll.”
Then he left, disappearing into a door behind the bar.
I pocketed the money and took the opportunity to assess the room and develop an exit strategy in case I ended up needing to get out of here in a hurry.
One of the guys was still staring at me. I wondered if he was involved in this, if he might even be Blake and this whole deal with the abrasive bartender was a setup, but then he went back to his beer and I faced the bar where I could still keep an eye on him through the mirror behind the counter.
While I did, I turned the rug over in my mind to look at the patterns that were there, the ones that were so easy to miss.
Wooford’s supposed suicide.
Ferguson’s supposed boating accident.
Randy McReynolds’s overdose.
I thought of that note I’d found on Randy’s body, and allowed myself to venture, for the moment, into the realm of motive. Why would he have written a suicide note to Billy when they were estranged and hadn’t spoken in two years? Why would he say he was sorry he’d let him down? Wouldn’t it make more sense to apologize for whatever had caused the rift between them, to address that issue rather than what some woman said he’d done years before?
But, just like all forays into motive, I didn’t come up with anything solid.
I still had Billy’s business card. Maybe he would be able to give us something. He’d offered to help us if he could. That might be something to check up on.
But you’re on leave, Pat.
Well, that didn’t mean I couldn’t visit a radio talk show host and ask him a couple questions.
As I waited, I thought about what I might say to Blake and decided I’d need to mostly play it by ear.
Nearly ten minutes passed before the bartender reemerged and gestured for me to come with him.
Stepping around the end of the counter, I followed him through the door and into a narrow hallway leading into the bowels of the building.
64
Beer posters with bikini-clad models lined the 1970s-style paneled walls.
We passed two doors, one of which was slightly open. A woman wearing black fishnet stockings and high heels sat inside the room on the edge of a bed covered with crumpled, stained sheets. “Now, don’t be too rough.” She had a pair of handcuffs dangling from one of her fingers and giggled as someone else closed the door.
An enormous bouncer who would have dwarfed most NFL linemen stood sentry in front of the door at the end of the hall. The bartender passed me off to him and he simply said, “Spread ’em.”
He patted me down, found that I wasn’t carrying and, satisfied, swept me for a wire, took my cell phone, and then opened the door and stepped aside so I could pass by, which, considering how much of the hallway he took up, wasn’t easy.
A man in his mid-fifties with a carefully trimmed beard stood in the middle of a wide windowless room, hands clasped behind his back. Athletic build. Caucasian. He studied me with deeply perceptive eyes but didn’t say a word.
The bouncer closed the door behind me, leaving the two of us alone.
Well, not exactly alone.
Ten female mannequins also stood in the room. Some were missing arms, others heads. Most were unclothed, some were wearing lingerie—bras, panties, panty hose.
The mannequins were arranged in a variety of poses—some leaned forward slightly, others stood ramrod straight and tall with their arms outstretched, others had their hands slung, with attitude, to their hips.
Sterile, hairless bodies. Blemish-free faces. I couldn’t help but think of corpses, unabashed and mute, standing around me, frozen as if in midstride.
For something as innocent and commonplace as mannequins, it created an eerie scene.
The man spoke first. “Rodriguez tells me your name is Patrick Bowers.”
“Yes.”
“It’s Agent Bowers, isn’t it?”
I didn’t have a physical description of Blake, so I didn’t know if this was him, or perhaps another gatekeeper between me and the man I was looking for.
The computer screen on his desk showed the security footage from inside the bar. A facial recognition program was running and my face was on the screen. Somehow he was logged in to the Federal Digital Database.
Okay, this guy definitely had connections.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “Are you Blake?”
He raised both hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “And so, here we stand before each other with our true identities out in the open. Always a good place to start. Can you drink while you’re on duty?
”
“I’m not on duty.”
“So, then, whiskey?”
“Sure.”
“Administrative leave, huh?” he said. “As of this morning?”
“They haven’t announced that publicly yet.”
“No, they haven’t.” He walked to his desk. “And all because of a shooting incident?”
“I get a little carried away sometimes.”
“Then it looks like we have something in common.”
At a liquor cabinet near his desk, he poured each of us a glass from an ornate decanter, then handed one to me.
“What’s the deal with the mannequins?” I asked.
“The silent ladies. You like them?”
“It’s a little eccentric, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
He smiled. “Not at all. Rodriguez told me that we share a mutual interest. I looked at the files you uploaded. I believe he’s right.”
“There’s a particular file I’m looking for.”
“Aurora’s birthday.”
“Yes.”
He showed no reaction. “And what makes you think I would be in possession of this video? How’s the whiskey, by the way?”
Ah, so it was a video.
“Excellent,” I told him, although I didn’t really have an opinion one way or the other. “And regarding the video—from my sources it sounds like you have the connections to locate certain items that are difficult for most people to put their hands on.”
“Your sources.”
“That’s right.”
“Is this a request of a professional nature?”
I evaluated what to say, which direction to take this. “It’s for personal use.”
“I need to make sure it was you who did it.”
“Who did what?”
“Shared the link to those images.”
“I’m the one.”
“How many were there?”
“Sixteen thousand and forty-two.” I knew the number only because I’d reported them to the ICSC. “I want in to the Final Territory.”
“Yes. So it seems.” He took a slow sip of his drink. “This video and the access credentials to enter, that’s what brings you here.”
