She turned for the stairs, crept up silently in her stockinged feet. On the second-floor landing, she stopped at the door and twisted the knob carefully, cracking the door open. The voices were louder now.
She pushed the door just enough to slip through. Inside the room, she pressed her back against the wall.
The voices came clearly from below.
“We’ve got the media coverage now.”
“Which is exactly why we have to push it.”
Jade suddenly heard Elliott’s voice, raised, and sounding distressed. “It’s too far. We can’t . . .” and there was something Jade couldn’t hear. “Not their way.”
There was a bunch of shouting, then.
Jade still didn’t know what they were talking about. But she knew how to find out.
She eased back out of the library door. Elliott was down there in the library, so she had a few minutes at least.
She hurried to Elle’s bedroom, quietly opened and closed the door, and sat down at the computer.
She wasn’t allowed to get online without supervision. But if they didn’t want her online, they shouldn’t be teaching her hacking. Which one of the Bitches, Miranda, had been doing for some time now. And Jade had figured out the passwords long ago.
Someone had said something about “front page” so she googled the LA Times. It took her all of ten seconds to find out what all the shouting was about.
She looked down at the screen at the photos of hanged male dummies, the painted Santa Muerte skulls. And she felt her heart start to race. It was so much more interesting than she’d thought.
Someone was out for blood. Someone was ready to do something.
It was the sign she’d been waiting for.
It was like—like war.
She was so engrossed in reading she forgot to watch the time. And suddenly the door slammed open behind her.
She jumped up from the chair, her heart pounding.
Elle was in the room already before she even noticed Jade. She shut the door behind her and leaned into it.
Jade stared at Elliott’s back. She was shaking.
What? What the hell?
Elle turned around . . . and jumped back a foot, seeing Jade. “Jade! What are you—”
And then instead of yelling, she burst into tears.
Now Jade was really freaked out. She’d never seen her do that before. Everything Elliott had done, everything she’d seen, and she’d never cried. Not for anything. It was truly weirding Jade out.
“I’m sorry,” Elle said, through sobs, as if she’d done something wrong. “I’m sorry.” She sat abruptly on the bed, as if she couldn’t actually stand.
Shit.
Jade swallowed. “Can I . . . Do you need anything? Can I get you anything?”
Elliott didn’t answer. She just cried.
This was definitely not okay. Elle was the strongest person she’d ever known.
She knew Elle thought she’d killed those pimp daddies, and the mongers. For real—Elle totes knew Jade was a murderer. But Elliott didn’t try to pretend nothing had happened. She didn’t tell her to put it all behind her and focus on other things. She didn’t get mad when Jade was mad; she said she had every right to every bit of the anger.
And she said . . . she said . . . that none of it was her fault and that she’d believe that one day.
She was everything a teacher was supposed to be. Yeah, and everything a mother was supposed to be. And now she was losing it. It seemed . . . it actually seemed like she was breaking apart.
Things must be really bad. Worse than bad.
And suddenly Jade wasn’t scared. She was furious.
Chapter Ten
The agents flew into Santa Barbara on a day so beautiful it almost hurt to look at it. The gently rolling Santa Ynez mountain range encircled the coastal city, with its opulent State Street lined with Spanish architecture. The Mediterranean-style enclave was in many ways the epitome of California mythology: sun, surf, wineries, wealth.
The plane descended toward the vast gleam of ocean. Looking out the window, Roarke could see black dots in the waves along the shoreline.
In the seat beside him, Epps looked out in disbelief. “Those fools are actually out surfing? In February?”
“Best time of year for it.”
“And you know this from experience.”
“Little bit.”
In fact Roarke had done some surfing right down there, the year he’d dated a UCSB sorority girl and regularly drove the hour and a half down from his own college in San Luis Obispo.
Epps shook his head. “You have hidden shallows.”
Roarke wasn’t about to argue. Those were the days, he thought dryly. A time so simple it seemed like seven centuries ago.
The airport was a bit north of the city proper, and a mere half mile from the university.
The two students who had been attacked the night of the Santa Muerte action were fraternity brothers from the Kappa Alpha Tau fraternity. Apparently they’d been accosted by a skull-masked, caped figure on the way home to their chapter house.
Roarke knew UCSB’s fraternities and sororities were all clustered in the student village of Isla Vista, north of campus. But the agents’ first contact was Kirk Sandler, the attorney for the university’s Interfraternity Council. Sandler had offered a car to pick them up, but the agents had declined in favor of renting a vehicle up front.
Their meeting place was only a few miles from the airport: the Bacara Resort and Spa. Roarke had a vague recollection of a golf resort north of campus. But the agents were in no way expecting the luxury of the Bacara.
It was a five-star hotel on Highway 1, meaning right on the ocean. Gleaming Mercedes and BMWs and limos lined the long drive in front of the main building: California mission-style mixed with Mediterranean-style architecture in blinding white.
The agents left the rental car at valet parking and walked through the grand entrance into a lobby with thick columns, arched nooks, patterned marble floors with Persian rugs, several huge fireplaces, iron chandeliers. Well-heeled guests milled at a wine and cheese tasting going on in one of the alcoves.
Epps muttered beside Roarke, “Think this Sandler has something to prove?”
Roarke gave him a grim smile. It was startling, but not surprising. Santa Barbara was the whitest of all the UCs and the average parental income for incoming freshman was the highest in the state. Conspicuous consumption was par for the course. Affluenza, it was called.
Sandler was waiting for the agents in a conference room overlooking the ocean. Five-thousand-dollar suit and manicured nails, Republican haircut, Botoxed forehead. He stepped forward, stuck out a hand.
“Kirk Sandler. Appreciate you coming down.”
So polite. But it was just a formality, a surface sheen over the man’s arrogance.
At Sandler’s cue, the agents took seats at the conference table. Roarke fought with himself not to be distracted by the stunning, shining ocean view, and focused on the man in front of them.
“Mr. Sandler, why don’t you tell us why we’re here?”
Sandler glanced from one agent to the other, annoyed. “I’d have thought your SAC had told you that.”
“We’d like to hear it from you.”
Sandler gestured impatiently. “There were a couple of young men attacked the night before last.”
“And by ‘attacked,’ you mean . . . ?”
“Assaulted on campus. In the dead of night. At the same time as that—grotesque attack on Storke Tower.”
The vandalism had been similar to what they’d seen at Berkeley: a male mannequin hung by the neck from the campus’s central bell tower, the same spray-painted skull stencil, and the words NO RAPISTS spray-painted on the tower in red.
“Has this been reported to the police?” Roarke asked politely enough.
“Of course,” Sandler said, offended. “But the National Council has been in discussion with the Bureau since these nationwide . . .” he pa
used to find the word, settled on “assaults.”
Roarke had no doubt. There were plenty of fraternity alums in the Bureau. And he was sure plenty of calls had been made, plenty of strings were being pulled. The fraternity lobbyists would be out for blood.
Sandler continued. “The Bureau reached out to me immediately, given that our young Tau brothers were witnesses to this attack.”
Roarke was confused. Surely there were other witnesses, nationwide. And then he had the sinking sensation that he and Epps were not the only agents dispatched to investigate in this case. Was this a nationwide Bureau action?
He leaned forward, cut to the chase. “Mr. Sandler, has either of these boys been accused of rape?”
Sandler reacted as if he’d been zapped by a cattle prod. “What kind of question is that?”
“The obvious one,” Epps answered mildly. “Given the nature of the graffiti.”
Sandler turned to Roarke, outraged. “You put up with that?”
Now it was Epps who stiffened. “Excuse me?”
Sandler didn’t even give him a glance. “I’m not talking to you.”
Epps’ voice was quiet. “You are now.”
Sandler looked to Roarke, obviously expecting backup. Roarke lifted his hands. You’re on your own, asshole.
Epps spoke evenly. “In every instance across the country, these demonstrations have a specific focus: rapists. If these two young men were attacked, it’s the logical question.”
Sandler gave both agents a hard look, drew himself up in his chair. “I’m retained as a risk-management consultant and counsel for the Interfraternity Council, here. Do you want to know what, in my experience, is the biggest risk to our young brothers?”
The agents waited.
“Drunk female students,” Sandler said, with a hint of triumph. “All it takes is one insane story by some hysterical coed to bring a whole fraternity system down.”
“So there has been a rape charge,” Roarke suggested, straight faced.
Sandler was startled, then angry. “No. Not at all. Why would you—not at all.”
Roarke feigned confusion. “Maybe I wasn’t following. I thought that’s what you were trying to say.” He could feel Epps beside him, struggling not to burst out laughing.
Sandler turned an alarming shade of red, clearly on the verge of another explosion. “These boys were attacked completely without provocation. Your superiors are taking it seriously—”
“We are taking it seriously,” Roarke said sharply. “Which is why we’re asking for any information you have that will help us do our job here.”
Sandler’s face went cold. “There’ve been no rape accusations. Not against these boys. Not against anyone in the house.”
By this point Roarke was sure they’d get no useful information from him. And he wasn’t in any mood to debate the definition of rape or consent with this man, given what they’d already heard. He stood, and Epps rose with him. “I’m glad to hear it. We’d like to talk to the boys, now.”
Sandler stood as well, passed over a file folder. “Here’s the chapter house address, chapter officer contact information, and the names of the two young men. I’ve arranged rooms for you here at the hotel—you can check in at the front desk.”
The agents exchanged a glance. “Does SAC Reynolds know about this ‘arrangement’?” Roarke asked.
Sandler’s glance was pure condescension. “Of course. I’ll be hearing back from you today, then.”
It took everything Roarke had to answer neutrally. “Thanks for your information.” The agents walked out without giving him more.
The Bacara’s grounds were so big the agents had to be driven to their villa in a golf cart. Epps sat, tight lipped, as the cart motored past round white mission-style buildings with red-tiled roofs, double swimming pools with a Jacuzzi in the middle, stone walkways under palm trees between villas, mosaicked fountains, mysterious stairwells. There were endless ocean views, a sandy jogging trail along the cliff, a pier just down the beach.
Their driver pulled the cart up to one of the villas. Roarke tipped him, and both agents declined to have their overnight bags carried in before they went to their separate doors.
Roarke unlocked his door . . . and stepped into a deluxe king room with an arched doorway leading out to a private patio. On a table was a gift basket with a bottle of wine, nuts, fruit, chocolates.
He slid open the glass doors and went onto the patio. Through the banana palms discreetly surrounding the secluded space, he caught glimpses of a huge alfresco dining area overlooking the ocean, a yoga class taking place on a wide lawn.
Epps came out through the sliding door of the next room and looked over the hedge at Roarke. “I just looked online. Rooms start at $750 a night.”
The price was a jolt.
“But there’s free Wi-Fi,” Epps pointed out, straight faced.
“Thank God for small favors. The tips alone are going to kill us.”
“Get the feeling we’re bein’ bought?” Epps said dryly. “What do we think he’s paying for?”
“I guess we’ll find out. Let’s go check out this innocent frat that’s being so vilely targeted.”
Chapter Eleven
Jade turned in a circle, looking around at the open, sprawling Santa Barbara campus: the big clock tower and the palm trees and the wide green lawns.
She’d left the ranch with just a backpack, some money, and an iPad.
Well, those—and a car.
Every day since she’d been allowed out, much of her time had been spent exploring the buildings of the valley: barns, garages, homes—many without complicated security systems, which made them a cakewalk to break into. And there were all these cars just sitting in garages at neighboring ranch houses, left as spares for weekend retreats.
The rich people would never miss one.
She followed the flow of students walking past the University Center, “The Hub,” with its student store, study hall, eating venues. The building overlooked a lagoon and she could see out to the ocean. Students ran on a track curving beside the water. Rowers skimmed over the rippling surface.
A million years ago in tenth grade, before she’d followed Danny the scuzzball out of school to the San Francisco streets, her math teacher had said she was a shoo-in for college if she kept her grades up. Apparently math was the Golden Ticket these days, and she’d always been good at math.
She was aware of waves of emotion inside her, rumbling like the sound of the sea.
This is what Elliott kept pushing at her. The promise of college, of doors opening, of walking through those doors and into a future where she was not an abused victim, but a privileged member of a power class.
Elle said she could have all that, too.
Jade felt a seductive pull . . .
But she shut that down real fast.
Elle’s breakdown, that crying jag—whatever you wanted to call it—had hardened her. If things were this fucking fucked up, then someone had to step up. Elle didn’t know what to do? Well, Jade knew what to do. And this time she wasn’t alone.
Santa Muerte had struck all over the country, all at once. Close to three hundred colleges in one night. That was freaking awesome. Somebody out there meant business.
Well, that somebody had her attention.
As Jade walked by a group of guys, one of them elbowed another and they turned to look her over. She gave the leader such a malevolent look that the leer died on his face.
That’s right, asshole. Your days are numbered.
She walked faster to put distance between herself and them, kept moving down the main road past the bikers and the skateboarders until she found Storke Plaza, a big cement space under the sixteen-story clock tower, landscaped with palm trees and olive trees, a fountain and reflecting pool with lily pads and actual ducks.
This tower was where the rapist mannequin had been hung.
Jade stood beneath the tower and squinted up, picturing it.
They
’d already painted over the words on the concrete, and the skull face, but you could see where she’d been, that pale splotch of not-quite-matching paint.
Dudes must’ve lost their shit. Must still be losing their shit.
Good. They should be scared. But it’s not enough. The real key is follow-up.
When Jade put her head down, she was sun dazzled, so the figure in front of her was just a shadow, with hand outstretched.
For a second, her pulse spiked. Because what she saw was the skeleton. Hooded, robed, implacable. La Santisima. Lady Death.
But then her eyes focused and saw a girl in a hoodie. In her outstretched hand was a pink flyer. The girl kept the flyer extended, patiently. Jade took it, looked down at it.
HAD ENOUGH? COME TO OUR MEETING.
END RAPE CULTURE NOW.
IX
Jade and the girl looked at each other for a moment, and then the girl moved on.
And it was as easy as that.
A sign.
Chapter Twelve
Frat row was adjacent to campus in Isla Vista, a square mile of typical college town, casual, scruffy. The KAT house was instantly recognizable, with huge Greek letters mounted on the front of the house. It was one of a cluster of sprawling two-story stucco buildings with red-tiled roofs, built in a foursquare, taking up an entire block. Their parking lots had been turned into courtyards, enclosed by cheap wooden plank fences for privacy and with a few palm trees for landscaping. And just as Roarke remembered from the bad old days, a blizzard of red plastic drinking cups littered the lawns, the tables, the sidewalk. Party central.
As the agents walked up to the house, Roarke glanced in through one open gate and saw volleyball nets, tall wooden rectangular structures arranged like bar tables, Coke and candy machines, Dumpster-sized recycling bins overflowing with bottles and cans.
Packs of frat brothers lounged out in the courtyards, sprawled on the filthy sofas, partying at barely four in the afternoon. The official uniform seemed to be cargo shorts or bathing trunks slung low on hips, and no shirt, the better to show off six-pack abs. There was an indolent and vaguely predatory sensuality about the groupings.
Hunger Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 5) Page 6
