by Erik Carter
And someone was running up to them, from behind, shouting for their attention.
Kim Hurley.
What the goddamn hell?
He stepped in that direction.
The hostess’s voice behind him. “Were you wanting a table or … Sir?”
Kim stopped a few feet from the other two, breathing hard. And then she just stood there in front of them, panting like an idiot, looking up at them like she wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t form.
A situation was materializing, congealing before Finley’s eyes. Another situation that he was going to have to take care of.
He stepped away from the hostess stand, toward the sunlight, twisting around a table, hypnotized, not believing what he was seeing.
Behind him, the hostess called out. “Sir?”
Shit!
Kim Hurley again.
Goddamn her.
Finley needed to do more than simply take care of this new situation.
He had to take care of her.
He ran out of the bar.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gavin verified the address written in Amber’s adult handwriting at the top of page seventy-three of The Secret of Summerford Point.
941 Falconer Street
And then he glanced through the car window again.
A drooping signpost bore a rusted strip of green metal with the name FALCONER STREET.
Yes, the address was correct.
He’d arrived.
Across the street was an overpass under which was a collection of tents and other ramshackle abodes, all of it cluttered, filthy, and desperately clinging to life. Tatters of cardboard and cloth and huddled masses of people. In the back, against the embankment, was a small, decrepit building with boarded windows. A dangling cross showed that the structure had been a mission or church in a previous life.
Had Amber been here?
Here?
Not his Amber. Not Amber, with her naïveté. Amber, with her wide eyes. Amber, with her kindness.
And—as he remembered the news report—Amber, with drugs in her system.
Drugs.
Was Amber really as naïve as he remembered?
She was seventeen the last time he’d seen her. Ready for the future, her face still glowing with youth and optimism, about to pounce on the world.
Eight years ago.
A girl. A young woman but not yet an adult.
Maybe twenty-five-year-old adult Amber had come to places like Falconer Street.
And purchased drugs.
And gotten high.
He pictured a needle piercing the pale flesh at the inside of her elbow, her finger depressing the syringe’s plunger.
His mind went to the note Jonah and Brett had shown him, the word at the top, the name.
Weasel
Ray Beasley. The Weasel. A former police officer who worked with Gavin’s brother in District C11. A man with a penchant for heroin and prostitutes.
Gavin searched his memory for what little else he knew about the man. Brief encounters—Christmas gatherings, summer cookouts, Amber’s birthday parties. So many years ago. Before Beasley had been kicked off the force and, Gavin presumed, before his forays into illegal sex and hard drugs.
The address that had been written below “Weasel” on the sticky note—Gavin couldn’t remember it, hadn’t considered committing it to memory. God, he wondered if that address belonged to another shithole like this overpass. Had Amber gotten back in touch with her other “uncle,” asked him to show her all the best places to get heroin?
Had Amber’s life really sunk that low?
He thought of the notes Amber had written in The Secret of Summerford Point. She’d written “refined” twice—on page seventy-three with the address that had led him here, and also in the notes at the back of the book, where she’d written it alongside “crude.”
He looked into the slum surrounding him.
Refined and crude drugs. Undoubtedly. Compliments of the Weasel.
Gavin would have thought that a destitute area like this would be the place for crude, not refined, drugs; yet her note with the address had been labeled, REFINED.
The Secret of Summerford Point rested in his hands. He traced along the softened edges with his thumb, savoring the visceral contrast to his surroundings.
He’d been reading for several minutes. He convinced himself that he was doing so because he needed to keep pushing through the text, had to read pages when and where he could if he was going to get to the end and learn how Amber had used this book for her investigation.
And while there was truth to that, he also knew he was procrastinating, avoiding, delaying what he had to do. Because though he was a part-time private detective and had been in more than a few sticky situations, most of his work involved unfaithful spouses, insurance fraud, and the like. He didn’t delve into things like heroin sold in slums beneath overpasses.
He looked back to the book, midway down the page where he left off. The reading he’d done since parking on Falconer Street had seen Kara, kid detective, leaving the Summerford police station and later heading back to the docks for further investigation. But before she could step foot into the docks, she was confronted by the scar-faced man, who chased her through the empty nighttime streets of Summerford. The quaint town she loved so much took on a menacing ambiance when the shops were deserted, the windows were black, and she was being pursued by a sinister man.
She eluded him and thought she’d reached safety, then turned a corner and found him waiting. As he dragged her into an alley, she thought she was done for.
Only to discover that he was no villain after all.
He was an undercover agent with the FBI. His name was O’Malley. Even his scar wasn’t real.
Gavin continued reading.
And as Kara looked at the bite on her fork, waiting where she kept it suspended halfway to her mouth, it certainly did look tempting, even comforting, the crust flaky and the cherries glistening. She just didn’t have the appetite for it. Her stomach had been infiltrated by a most bothersome case of nerves.
O’Malley, on the other hand, had devoured his ravenously, and as he finished his last bite, he waved the waitress back to the table. Nothing seemed to faze this man. Which made sense. He was a professional, after all.
As the waitress refilled his coffee, Kara studied the face that had seemed so very sinister earlier in the evening in the shadows. Now, in the bright lighting of the diner, the slick-backed hair seemed almost debonair, and the dark eyes were intriguing, not threatening. He was quite handsome, reminding her a bit of Father. The fake scar even looked pleasant on him, an accentuation almost.
He nodded his thanks to the waitress then turned his attention back to Kara. He took a sip of his steaming coffee and said, “The Bureau has been tracing shipments of illegal weapons making their way into the States up and down the Eastern Seaboard, even little Summerford, believe it or not, which is why I’m here undercover.”
O’Malley’s steady voice was calming, suddenly making her cherry pie appetizing again. She picked up her fork.
“This morning at the foreman’s office, I found a pair of invoices,” she said. “The first was a company called Pearson Industries.”
O’Malley nodded. “That’s a cover for a low-level gang out of Italy—the crates that were being unloaded last night. And the other invoice?”
“Whitehead Incorporated.”
Her companion’s eyes flashed over the top of his mug. “Whitehead?”
Kara nodded.
O’Malley slowly lowered his coffee to the table. He turned to the window, looked out into the darkness.
“What is it?” Kara said.
He turned back to her. “Whitehead is a cover for one of the world’s largest illegal arms dealers.” He paused, his dark eyes looking into her intently. “With Soviet ties…”
Kara gasped.
The Soviets!
O’Malley faced the window
again. He ran a hand along his stubble.
And when he returned his gaze to Kara, his expression had gone even more serious. “This means Summerford is a much bigger piece of the puzzle than the Bureau has been thinking.” He took a deep breath. “And I need to take action tonight.”
Gavin turned the page to the next chapter, inserted the Starbucks receipt he was using as a bookmark, and put the book on the passenger seat, looked outside to the pathetic masses milling through the detritus under the overpass. Many of them now looked his way. His car wasn’t necessarily a luxury machine—it was a Jeep Grand Cherokee—but it was relatively new, and he took care of it. Hell, any strange vehicle would raise suspicion at a place like this.
He resigned himself to the fact that he could no longer delay. He had to take action.
Slowly his hand went beneath the seat, fingers exploring until they touched cold metal. Retrieved it.
A Smith & Wesson Model 649 Bodyguard in a leather holster. A stainless-steel, .38-Special-chambered, shrouded-hammer, five-round revolver, small enough to stash in a pocket, holster and all.
He’d grown to hate it.
He hated holding it, hated seeing it, hated the responsibility of owning it.
He still enjoyed shooting it, which he’d done only at a range, never in the field. Still, those occasions had gotten more and more seldom. It had been years since he’d put a round through it.
The gun was a reminder of his brother’s assessment of him. To Carlton, Gavin was a failure, a soft, bleeding-heart thinker who never became a police detective but a part-time private detective, piecing together a living through part-time gigs with his other position as an adjunct professor; a bookish weakling who hadn’t even landed a wife; a poor influence for his daughter.
Gavin weighed the Smith in his palm. Exhaled. Then grabbed his olive-drab canvas messenger bag from the back seat and placed the gun and the paperback inside.
He stepped outside, locked the doors remotely with his key fob, and pressed the button a second time to sound the horn. Just in case. Plus, they might confuse the horn’s beep with the activation of an alarm system, which he didn’t have—added security.
As he crossed the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, there was the sensation of crossing a border, a boundary, a demarcation line. The further he ventured into the crumbling blacktop, the more degraded it became, the more weeds materialized, more trash. People gave him strange looks from their huddled positions next to steel drums and half-broken lawn chairs.
It occurred to him that he didn’t have a plan. All he had was a word—refined. Who was he going to talk to? What was he going to ask?
His path pulled him toward the building in the back. Something told him that was where the action was.
A man in a bright green sweatshirt leaning against the concrete pillar closest to the building watched him approach. The man’s build was hulking, and the thick, dark beard covering his cheeks was unkempt. Nonetheless, he was a bit cleaner than the people around him, and his shoulders weren’t hunched with shame. He seemed like the right person to query, and when the man gave him a knowing grin, Gavin’s suspicion was confirmed.
“Whatcha looking for, man?” the guy said as Gavin approached.
Gavin took a breath. Steadied himself. The point of no return.
“Refined,” he said.
Gavin expected a knowing nod, maybe a coy grin. Instead, the man’s eyebrows raised. “You’re looking for refined? Here? This is more the place for crude, don’t ya think?”
Gavin hesitated.
Maybe this was a mistake.
But he had to go with it. What choice did he have?
Point of no return indeed.
“You heard me,” he said.
The other man hesitated before he responded. “You know that’s not how it works, right?”
Gavin shrugged, casually, in character—the confident, composed yuppie, wondering why he was here, losing patience with a slob.
The guy stared at him for a moment, gnawed at his chapped lower lip. Traffic whizzed by above. A woman cackled in the distance.
“Give me a sec,” the guy said.
He stepped away, going to the building.
The man disappeared inside. As the door shut behind the man, Gavin saw a flash of the interior—a hallway and artificial lighting. The place looked deserted, and yet it had working electricity. It was then that Gavin understood the humming sound he’d been hearing echoing off the concrete—an electric generator.
Gavin shoved his hands in his pockets. He could feel the eyes of the homeless upon him, more of them, surrounding him. Whispers. Little snickers.
The door squeaked open, and the guy returned and walked past Gavin as he headed to his original position by the concrete post. He motioned with his head toward the building. “Go on in.”
Gavin stepped past him, past more people staring at him, most of them sitting on the ground, knees to their chests, lots of them, more snickering.
He forced himself to take hold of the doorknob, which was sticky in a motor-oil-and-dust sort of way, a human grime sort of way. He twisted, pushed. The hinges squeaked.
He stepped inside.
The interior was a stark contrast to the outside. The place was no five-star hotel, but it was … clean. It looked like the inside of a construction site trailer. Fabricated walls with molding. Indoor/outdoor carpeting. It even smelled clean, like air freshener or Lysol.
As soon as he entered, a man emerged from a door off the hallway. White, forties, pale complexion with dark hair, a prominent Adam’s apple, and eager eyes. His bright blue suit fit too baggy but looked new. The shirt beneath was dark blue and had a shine to it, satin perhaps, unbuttoned, no tie.
He walked within a couple feet of Gavin, smiling. “So you’re looking for some refined?”
Gavin nodded. “That’s right.”
The suited man’s grin went sideways. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Coming to the source, huh?” He chuckled. “A man of discriminating taste. Well, please forgive the outside ambiance.” He motioned toward the windows, the slum surrounding them visible through the thin drapes. “We usually deliver, as you know.”
“My eyes aren’t so delicate,” Gavin said.
The suited man grinned broader. “My man.” A discerning pause as the man stroked his short beard, still smiling, but his eyes narrowing a bit. “There are only two available. I mean, you didn’t give us any notice.”
“It’s fine.”
Another pause. “Well, come on, then.”
The man put a hand on Gavin’s shoulder, led him down the dark hallway, opened the last door, and motioned for Gavin to step past him into the room, which he did.
A stark office with a cheap desk, befitting the construction site trailer vibe. Lining the walls were simple steel chairs with brown cushions.
Two of the chairs were occupied—women dressed in expensive but quite short, quite revealing dresses. Immaculate hair. Perfect makeup. Every bit of them was ready for a sophisticated cocktail party, their sultry opulence glaringly out of place in the surroundings.
Refined.
Gavin wasn’t being sold refined drugs.
He was being offered high-end prostitution.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kim Hurley stood a couple feet away, not looking at them, twisting a ring around her pinky, chewing on her lip.
“Talk,” Silence said.
She looped the ring over her finger once more, then glanced up at him. “I, um, followed you here earlier.”
“I know.”
She wasn’t nearly as good at following someone as Mr. Accord.
“I saw that it was Ray Beasley you were talking to here.” She pointed to the townhouse. “You need to know something. He wasn’t involved in Amber’s death.”
Silence’s suspicion was confirmed.
There had been something about Beasley when Silence first met him, something in his demeanor, his appearance that said the man wasn’t
connected to Amber’s demise.
But somehow Beasley was involved in the big picture.
Silence turned to Jonah, found his eyes waiting on him.
Jonah then inched closer to Kim. “How do you know that?”
Kim went back to twisting her ring. Her attention drifted away from them again, to Beasley’s townhouse. “I know because I was involved in her death.”
Silence didn’t turn to look at Jonah, but he heard his reaction, an audible gasp.
“Look, C11 is corrupt,” Kim said. “Everybody knows that. But it’s not just another backslapping, bribe-taking bunch of crooked cops. It’s so much bigger.” She took a deep breath, steadying her resolve. “They run a prostitution ring. It’s called the Well. They give these girls an option: get arrested and go to jail, maybe prison, or join the Well. High- and low-end call girls. ‘Refined’ and ‘crude’ are the terms they use.”
She scoffed, chewed her lip harder, vigorously, like a worn-out piece of chewing gum.
Something else was about to come out of her, something she was fighting on the inside.
She took another deep breath.
“I’m one of the refined,” she said quietly.
Thoughts fluttered through Silence’s mind, joining magnetically, only to form a vortex that funneled back into the depths of doubt, the sole thread of cogent thought, the only connecting element being Amber Lund.
Amber, the dead woman, the daughter of a disappointed father, a father who was a part of a corrupt police division, one running a prostitution ring.
Amber, who was conducting an investigation of her father’s police division, searching for her long-lost surrogate uncle, a man who was also involved in the division.
Amber, who was found with drugs in her body.
Amber, whose best friend was a prostitute.
He looked at Jonah.
Amber, whose love of her life had betrayed her.
