“Oh, I had to get to class.”
“I was thinking about getting dinner tonight, and I was wondering if you would like to join me.”
“Like a date?”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t like eating alone, and I enjoyed your company.”
“Sure, I’d love to. What time?”
“You tell me. And pick a place. I don’t know what’s good in town.”
“Odette is really nice.”
“Great, sounds wonderful. What time is good?”
“How about seven?” Lindsay asked.
“Great, I’ll call and make a reservation. Can I pick you up?”
“Meet me there, and I can drive you back to your hotel again.”
“Okay, see you at seven.”
When I hung up with her, I called the front desk to ask if they could make me a reservation. I needed a change of clothes too. I had about an hour and half to find some decent clothes and make it to the restaurant.
9
“This is delicious,” Lindsay said as she tasted the garlic cheese ball that we ordered for an appetizer.
Sipping the chardonnay, I smiled. She had a thin, forest green t-shirt dress that was fitted around her breasts with a v-neck showing an ample view of her cleavage which was easily the focal point of the outfit. She wore knee high black boots that lifted her up a few inches but accentuated her figure.
“I’m glad you could come,” I said.
She grinned. “I don’t get a lot of guys that want to take me out to nice places.”
“Seems a shame. You don’t have a boyfriend.”
She laughed. “Oh, no. I did. I just want to enjoy myself for a few years. Eventually, I might want to settle down. But not here.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Pretty much anywhere that isn’t Alabama. Or Mississippi.”
“Do you have a dream place, or job, you want?”
“I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t love Alabama. It’s home, but I grew up in a little town. My dad works in an auto parts store, and my mom is the church secretary. Everyone in town knew the first time a guy put his hand in my pants. It’s all just a small town. You know what I mean?”
I nodded. “I grew up in a small town in Arkansas. It’s similar. First time I got drunk, I was sixteen. My parents knew about it before I got home. Someone saw me drinking and it spread so fast. My dad was waiting up for me.”
“Ha, if he was like my dad, then your ass was sore.”
“Not entirely. He was waiting in the kitchen with a jug of real, authentic moonshine. I was already drunk from drinking fifteen beers. Cheap beer. He poured me a glass of moonshine. Not a shot. A big eight ounce glass of moonshine.”
“Dude,” she said. “That’s awesome.”
“My dad never had a problem with me drinking. If I was responsible. So he made me drink the glass. He did let me take my time, because real moonshine tastes like fire. I don’t think I even finished the glass when I passed out. He woke me up the next morning and took me out to chop wood. Like literally chop down a tree with an ax and then cut it into firewood. For ten hours and it was July. I was pretty sure I was dying.”
Lindsay laughed. “That’s hilarious.”
“Oh, the whole time, he and his friend, Tom, were sitting on a stump drinking beer and taunting me. After that he never said anything else, except that he should never find out I was being irresponsible.”
“My dad broke my brother’s arm when he was drinking.” Her tone was somber.
“He’s like that?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. He’s a deacon in the church. So anything that made him look bad, just angered him. When he found out that I snuck out to make out with this boy, he punched me in the mouth and busted my lip.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We all have our crosses to bear. I know how to avoid him. Part of the reason why when I get out of school, I am going somewhere else.”
“Good for you.”
She lifted her glass and said, “To surviving the assholes.”
She drank the wine and said, “How do you know so much about wine?”
“I had a friend who studied to be a sommelier. He taught me a lot. He would bring home bottles from the restaurant he worked and taste them. He really loved the intricacies of each wine. After lots of tastings, I could distinguish the differences.”
“I want to be able to do that. But I just enjoy how it makes me feel.”
“Me too,” I said.
The server appeared and removed our appetizer plates, then he vanished again.
“So, what are you doing in Florence?” she asked.
“Honestly, it’s complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it.”
“I met a girl two days ago that I think was from here. She was attacked and murdered.”
“Oh, no. That’s horrible.”
“I didn’t even know her last name.”
Lindsay leaned forward. “Then why are you here?”
“I don’t really know. It seemed like someone should care that she was killed.”
“That’s impressive. I mean, most guys I know don’t care about my last name the next morning.”
I cringed at the realization that she and I had yet to exchange last names. “Uh, mine’s Sawyer?”
She smiled. “Dawson. Don’t worry, you asked for a second date. We’d have gotten there eventually. Still, I think it’s cool that you are here. So are you some kind of detective?”
“Not really, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I used to be a newspaper reporter. So, I was used to tracking down things. I just hated that she died alone like that.”
“So, what is this wine?” she asked changing the subject.
“Dumol Chardonnay. It’s from California. A region of Sonoma County.”
“Is that like Napa?”
“Napa is a county east of Sonoma. Both are just north of San Fransisco.”
“Oh, I’ve always heard about Napa.”
“Probably the most talked about. But there are lots of regions in California that make wine.”
“How do you know it will go with what food?”
“Just depends. Also, all in what you like.”
Our server reappeared with our food. Lindsay had the chicken breast while I tried the pan seared grouper.
She savored the first bite, and when she saw me watching her, she grinned. “Fat girls like food,” she joked.
I tasted the grouper. The bite melted in my mouth. The pan searing left a slight crispy texture that folded away to let the flavor cover my palate.
“This was a good choice,” I told her. “Have you eaten here before?”
She looked at me. Her eyes soft but feisty. “No, I figured after last night you might take me.”
“I would have taken you before we had sex, Lindsay.”
“Oh, you are,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Wait until you see what I have on under here.”
I’m sure my eyes widened. “Indeed, I can’t wait.”
Lindsay winked at me. “You’ll have to.”
10
Lindsay was pressed against me when I woke up. Her silky skin was against mine, and the care she gave to moisturize it was evident to the touch. The comforter and sheets were kicked off the bed. The curves of her body were easy to admire, and I stroked my fingers along her back.
She stirred and lifted her head. “Hey there,” she whispered.
“Hi.”
“You know what I want?”
“After last night, I can’t even imagine.”
She reached up and kissed me. “Sorry, I have class in a bit.”
“Oh well,” I sighed. “Hope springs eternal.”
“In the human breast,” she finished and pressed my hand against her breast. “No, I would love to buy you breakfast.”
“You know, I could have it delivered to the room.”
“That’s not me buying you breakfast though. We have a littl
e breakfast shop near campus that serves crepes and omelets. All the bacon and sausage is from farm around here.”
“Sounds good.”
“Great,” she jumped up and straddled me. “Let’s go.”
I didn’t move. Well, something moved.
“Hey, I said we didn’t have time for that.”
Thirty minutes later, she ran out of the room. “Sorry, about breakfast,” she said.
I laid in the bed smiling. I enjoy farm fresh pork sausage as much as the next guy, but never more than morning sex. I read once that men’s testosterone is at it’s highest right after awakening. So, it seemed like a better alternative to a western omelet.
Morning sex, aside, I still wanted coffee. I called room service and ordered. I took a quick shower and got dressed by the time the knock on the door signaled my breakfast’s arrival.
Cole, again, pushed the cart into the room. He eyed the lingerie that Lindsay wore last night and later was tossed aside. I shrugged. He’d probably seen worse.
“How are you Cole?”
“Good. Thanks for asking.”
“You live here long.”
“Most of my life. My mom moved up here from Montgomery when I was in 5th grade.”
He set the tray on the table and poured a cup of coffee. “Do you need anything else?” he asked.
“No, I’m good.”
When Cole left, I started up the laptop. I had to get some images off. The videos were awful. With the video that were already on Morgan’s flash drive, plus what I can copied from his computer, I had eleven videos that I could immediately see had kids in them. I played them at double speed. I didn’t want to hear the instructions to the kids. For some reason, that made the whole thing worse.
The third video I played had a figure step into the frame and onto the bed. The camera remained on the kids, and his face was never in the frame. However, there was a tattoo on his back of what looked like a Roman centurion. I froze the picture and focused in on the tattoo. It was a demon-looking creature in Roman armor. He appeared to be facing something on the other side of the man’s back. But the angle of the camera wasn’t showing that side.
I captured the image of the tattoo and cropped the rest of the picture out. Then saved the image.
After watching the other videos, I had been able to capture the faces of each of the children. I wanted to be able to find them if I could.
Unfortunately, I was unable to get any other identifiers from the men in the videos. I counted three different men that showed up. Tattoo-back was only in the one video. The other two showed up in three different videos.
Watching these eleven videos, even at double speed, had taken three hours. It was almost eleven. I did want to watch the other videos to see if I could spot any of the men there, but my eyes and my soul needed a break from this.
I looked up the Shoals Daily Journal. I called the number listed and asked for Elizabeth Warlow.
“This is Elizabeth,” a voice answered.
“Hi, Elizabeth. My name’s Max Sawyer. I was wondering if I could meet with you. I would like your help with a problem I’m having.”
“What is this about, Mr. Sawyer?”
“It’s complicated. I am looking into something. I want to know a bit more about the area.”
“How is that going to help me?” she asked sternly.
“It could have a lot of implications here.”
“Meaning, you don’t know anything.”
“Meaning, what I know, I’m not sure I’m willing to tell you.”
“I don’t play games, Mr. Sawyer.”
“Jackson Morgan?”
“Can I call you back?”
“Yes,” I said and gave her my number.
When she hung up with me, I called Leo.
“I have a tattoo, so far, and that’s it.”
“Probably won’t get you far, but I can see. You might be better to start checking tattoo parlors around there.”
“My next step.” I added, “I am sending you faces of the kids. I want to make certain that we try to find them.”
“I do have something for you. Do you have a pen?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
“Okay, write this down. Ajxc5eti7clitng3tinwolkdba.onion.”
I wrote it down. “What is it?”
“Make sure you download a VPN and an IP mask first.”
“Scary.”
“Yes, and disturbing. Might be where Morgan was putting the videos.”
“Dare I ask how you got this.”
“I know a guy that has certain proclivities. He’s a real scum bag, but he has some uses.”
“Gross.”
“If you only knew.” He hung up.
After following his instructions and downloading software to hide my computer, I opened the browser to the web address that Leo gave me. A huge banner popped up offering the best videos on the web. I clicked the menu button and saw a large selection of types of videos. Some were labeled with obvious and disgusting labels. There were categories depicting what I quickly surmised was ages. Each video, represented by a freeze-frame image, could only be played if the viewer bought it using bitcoins. Most of the videos cost three to four bitcoins. The highest priced one was fifteen thousand.
The images were all different, but at the same time most had the same layout: plain walls or background with a bed in the frame. The locations were different, but the set up of the scenes almost identical. Some were different altogether, with outside scenery and a higher definition image. I didn’t click on any of the images.
There were hundreds of pages of videos. They would be impossible to search through. I clicked on the age frame that the subjects of Morgan’s films appeared. The number of pages dropped to less than fifty. Each page with twenty videos.
On the first page was an image with a familiar background. It was definitely the room in Morgan’s house. I clicked on the image, and a bigger image appeared. In bold letters I was told to follow the link to buy this video for four bitcoins. Another link offered for me to see other videos by this user. I followed that link.
Three pages of videos appeared. I scrolled through the three pages. None of the frame images appeared to be from the videos I got directly from Morgan’s computer. The most recent one was uploaded four months ago. The oldest one was uploaded in 2011.
One image popped out at me. It was dated 2011, and I clicked it open. The frame that popped up when it went to the buy page was a picture of a girl I immediately recognized. Lauren. She was much younger. I guessed early teens, but her face was recognizable.
11
There were thirteen tattoo parlors in the Shoals area. With the picture of the tattoo in hand, I drove to the first one on my list.
A skinny, mid-30’s man with artwork covering both arms and gauges two inches in diameter in both ears greeted me when I walked in the door.
“Hey, what can I do for you?” he asked.
Mid-day seemed like a slow time for him. He was watching a television hanging on the wall.
“I have a question,” I said handing him the photo. “Did you do this art?”
He examined the design and shook his head. “This is okay work. It looks old though. The ink is fading.”
“Any idea how old?” I asked.
“Not really. Depends on how often this dude was in the sun, the quality of the ink. Lots of stuff. I’d guess it’s about 10 years, but I could be way wrong too. Could be he got some of that cheap, Chinese ink over at Graphz in Tuscumbia. That dude does decent art but his ink is shit. Won’t last two years.”
“Not really helpful.”
“Sorry, it’s a weird thing. You want something similar.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m trying to find the guy in the photo.”
“Weird,” he replied.
“Does the art look familiar to you? Could you tell who did it.”
“Dude, pretty sure that was a stencil. I think I’ve seen it in one of the catalogs, but you
can tell from the edges. Less fade out.”
“So, you’re telling me it’ll be pretty hard to identify which shop he got this?”
“Dude, or even when. Could’ve been a couple years to fifteen, or more.”
“That is exceedingly disappointing. Another question. Where would I go, if I wanted a really good purple dye job for my hair. Assuming I had the hair for it.”
“Dude,” he said, again, “we got more beauty shops than you can count. I couldn’t even say. Does dude in the photo have purple hair too?”
“No, it’s a girl.” I pulled out the phone and showed him the picture of Lauren from Beale Street the other night.
He studied the picture. “She looks familiar. I can’t say where I know her from.”
“Really?”
“Small town. We could’ve been at Wal-Mart in line together for all I know.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Why you looking for them?” he asked.
“Someone murdered her.”
“Dude!” His inflection changed to shock. “Are you the police?”
“No, just a guy.”
“Like a detective? Like Magnum P.I.?”
“More like Scooby Doo.”
He laughed. “Listen, I can ask around. See if anyone knows the ink.”
“That would be great. I wasn’t sure if I’d get anywhere. I was going to do the tour of tattoo parlor’s in the area.”
“Naw, collectors would know each other’s art better than slingers.”
I looked at him and he grinned. “Tattoo enthusiasts would know the tattoos better than artists, like myself.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“No worries, dude. You look pretty vanilla to me? I could hook you up.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure I’m the tattoo kinda guy.”
“It’s addictive. Better than sex.”
“See, it’s stuff like that that I don’t believe,” I joked. “If it’s better than sex, then you are having sex the wrong way.”
He laughed. “Probably dude, probably.”
I gave him the picture of the tattoo and my phone number. “If you find anything, let me know.”
“Was this dude’s only tat?”
Crimson Blood (Max Sawyer Book 4) Page 6
