by D P Lyle
“What does that mean?” Bradford asked.
“That the damage to her feet happened while she was alive. All this other,” he waved a hand over the remains, “occurred post-mortem. When the pigs got wind of her.”
“You’re thinking she was running bare foot?” Cain asked.
“Sure looks that way. My best guess anyway.”
“Someone chased her down and killed her?” Bradford asked.
No one said anything for a minute.
“Maybe she was with a boyfriend,” Harper said. “Doing the sex thing in the back of the car. A fight broke out. She jumped out of a vehicle and took off. Buck ass naked. He ran her down, and….”
“That’s a wild theory,” Bradford said.
She smiled. “Just thinking out loud.”
“That would be a hell of a story,” Curry said. “Regardless, the key will be the ID. If we can do that we’ll know who she is and what all her relationships were.”
“Let’s hope,” Bradford said.
Curry looked at Cain, then Harper. “And you want to know if this is General Kessler’s granddaughter?”
Cain nodded. “Right age, and size.”
“But not the tattoos?”
“No. But she’s been missing over a week. A lot can happen in that time.”
“True.” Curry raised an eyebrow. “I’d say these remains are at least that old. But, probably a bit longer.”
“Hopefully the fingerprints will tell us,” Bradford said.
“Does Miss Grant have prints anywhere?” Curry asked.
Cain nodded. “According to Kessler, and her boss over at the Talk To Me crises center, she was printed as a requirement to work there.”
“Really?” Bradford said.
“Apparently it’s company policy,” Cain said. “And the printing was done by the Nashville PD, so her prints should be on file.”
After thanking Doctor Curry, Cain and Harper followed Bradford into the parking lot. It was just after nine. The sun had started its climb, the heat already building. Clouds gathered to the west; it looked like rain might be coming.
“Thanks for letting us stick our noses in,” Cain said.
Bradford shrugged. “That was Curry’s doing.”
“But you opened the door.”
“Truth is, I’m a little surprised he allowed it. But I guess you can see what General Kessler’s name means around here. Curry trained at Vanderbilt and Kessler is one of their biggest donors.”
“Money does talk.”
“Loudly.” Bradford stopped next to his department-issued Chevy. “What’s your next move?”
“I think we’ll head down to Moss Landing. Get a feel for things.”
“The remains might not be Cindy Grant.”
“Maybe not. But it’s a nice day for a drive.”
“Except that it looks like rain.”
Cain smiled. “I’ve got wipers.”
Now, Bradford smiled. “The chief down there is Laura Cutler. She’s a good cop. A real pistol, as they say. She can fill you in.”
“I take it you know her?” Harper asked.
“I was one of her instructors at the academy. Tried to get her to hang around here but she wanted to go back home. Too bad, she’s a good one.” He gave a quick nod. “Be sure and tell her hello for me.”
“Will do.”
“And if you discover anything, I’d appreciate a heads up.”
“You got it,” Cain said.
CHAPTER 17
Back at their condo, Harper grabbed her laptop and settled on the living room sofa while Cain walked down the hall to the office and made two calls.
The first to Kelly Whitt, Cindy’s roommate. Kelly’s initial optimism, asking if he had located Cindy, crashed once he said they hadn’t. He asked her if Cindy had any tattoos. No way. Cindy hated tattoos. Felt that anyone who did that was short-sighted. And stupid. According to Kelly, Cindy’s mantra on the subject was that every style goes out of fashion sooner or later so why make it permanent? Smart girl.
Next he called Kessler and asked the same question.
“No. Not that I know of,” Kessler said.
“These you wouldn’t miss.”
“These, what?”
“They found some partial remains. Young girl.” Kessler’s intake of breath was audible. “Down near Moss Landing.”
“Is it Cindy?”
“I don’t think so. Age and size are right but these remains seem to be older. According to the ME anyway.”
“And they have tattoos?”
“Big, black stripes. Arm and leg.”
“That’s not Cindy,” Kessler said.
“Her roommate said the same thing.”
“She would know, I’m sure.”
“I agree. The timeline doesn’t seem to fit anyway. The ME thinks he can grab prints so we should know something later today.”
“I see,” Kessler said. “What now?”
“Harper and I are taking a drive down there and see what the story is. I’ll get back to you once I know more.”
“Good. Anything else?”
Cain considered the question. Yes, there was something else. Cindy had been involved in prostitution. A connection that had likely led her into trouble. Maybe worse. But did Kessler need to know that right now? What if Cindy turned up safe and sound? Why damage her relationship with her loving grandparents if all was okay? What she did with her life was her business. Who she told about it was her decision. Unless something had happened to her. That would change everything. But right now? Cain simply said, “That’s all we know so far.”
Cain returned to the living room, telling Harper of the conversations. He asked, “What are you doing?”
“Looking into missing girls in this area.” She closed the laptop. “Hard to get a handle on the exact number but from what I could see it’s not small.”
“I suspect that’s true of most big cities.”
She nodded. “I have an idea.”
“A con of some type?”
Harper had been blessed with a bagful of gifts. When they were kids, she had been an excellent pick pocket. No one ever saw her coming and definitely never suspected this pretty little girl would lift their wallet, or empty their purse. She was also the perfect distraction for Uncle Al and Uncle Mo. She could cry on demand. And really sell it. Usually with a fall and a scuffed knee and rolling around and sobbing. While the two men emptied a cash register or stuffed clothing under their jackets. She was a natural.
But her forte was running cons. She could sell anyone on anything. Make them fork over cash for some nonexistent service or product. Those big, innocent eyes melted everyone. They couldn’t get their money out fast enough.
Harper smiled. “You might say.”
Cain sat in a chair facing her. “Let’s have it.”
“I need to enlist some help,” Harper said.
Cain smiled. “Mama B?”
“Mama B.”
Mama B. In real life, Beatrice Baker. An icon in the spook world. Mama B, originally from Hattiesburg, Mississippi, had spent thirty years in Naval Intelligence until she retired. Mid-seventies, very smart, and access to corners of the intelligence world most didn’t even know existed. Not to mention her complete understanding of the deep web, the dark web, probably a few other webs no one knew about. How could things like that even exist? Web networks so broad based and active, yet so far off the radar? How they worked and how someone climbed on board was a mystery to most. Cain, for sure.
But not to Mama B.
Harper knew her best. She had worked with her on too many missions to count. Cain had met her much later, after he and Harper reunited, learning that Mama B had been in the background of several of his own covert ops. After the trio left the military, they had spent a few evenings drinking bourbon in bars near Langley as well as Mama B’s current home in Annapolis. Mama B could never be far from the Navy.
She had also helped Cain and Harper with several “civilia
n” investigations over the past few years.
Harper placed her iPhone on speaker and dialed Mama B’s number.
“Harper McCoy,” she said when she answered. “How the hell are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Hanging in there. Me and old Arthur-itis.”
Harper laughed. “Old Arthur can be a bitch, for sure. I’m here with Bobby.”
“How’s it hanging, Cain?” Mama B asked.
“All good.”
“I sense this isn’t a social call.”
Mama B could read people better than anyone. Voice changes, body language, micro expressions, you name it and she could decipher the signs like a Cherokee tracker. Truth was her bloodline did have a taste of Cherokee mixed in. She loved the fact that Harper was a quarter Cherokee. Gave them a special bond. Especially over a bottle of small-batch “firewater,” as Mama B called it.
“We could use your help,” Harper said.
“Name it.”
“It’s about General Kessler’s granddaughter.”
She let out a soft groan. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“She’s been missing for over a week,” Cain said.
“Lordy. Bill and Miriam must be beside themselves.”
“They are. Kessler asked us to look into it.”
“Cindy? Right?”
“That’s correct,” Harper said.
“I met her once. Maybe twice. I remember Bill and Miriam brought her to a political dinner. She was twelve or so. Wasn’t long after her parents died. Very pretty girl.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Doesn’t look good, I suspect.”
“It doesn’t,” Cain said. “They found some partial remains down south of Nashville. Only an arm and a leg. Part of a rib cage. Fed on by pigs.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Wish I was. We’re headed that way as soon as we finish here. But I’m not optimistic it’s her.”
“Why?”
“These remains are female, right age and size, but I think they’re more than two weeks old. Also the arm and leg were tattooed. One of those aboriginal black stripe things.”
“And that wasn’t her style?” Mama B asked.
“Doesn’t seem that way. Her roommate says she hated tattoos.”
Cain told her of Cindy’s side job. Prostitution.
“Do Bill and Miriam know that?”
“Not yet. Can’t bring myself to tell them just yet.”
“Hoping for good news that would negate sharing that little tidbit? Or at least soften it?”
“Something like that.”
“So what’s the story?” Mama B asked. “The party line on her disappearance?”
“Her roommate tried to kite the idea that she went off with some dude for a hike in Colorado,” Harper said.
“But that never happened,” Mama B said. “Right?”
“You never miss a beat. I’d say the odds of that are virtually zero.”
Harper explained that no flights, train trips, passport or credit card use had occurred. That her cell phone was dead.
“College girl without a cell is never good news,” Mama B said. “So, what’re you thinking?”
“We know of a guy who set up dates for her,” Cain said. “Did for a couple of other girls we talked to. They both split from the program. Cindy remained.”
“Money?”
“Oh, yeah. She was pulling down several grand a night. But more than that, I suspect she enjoyed the excitement. The doing her own thing.”
Mama B sighed. “You thinking something went awry and this guy is the key?”
“I think he can get us there,” Cain said. “He apparently has a partner, though from what I gather, more likely a boss.”
“I’m onboard. What do you need?”
“Look into these two guys. First is Adam Parker. A grad student at Vandy. He’s the procurer. Finds the girls and drags them into the business.”
“What?” Mama B said. “He’s working on his MBA and this is his master’s thesis?”
“Let’s just say he has an entrepreneurial spirit.”
“I’m sure that’s it. And the other guy?”
“Carlos Campos. Don’t know much about him but I gather he’s not a stand up citizen.”
“Okay. I’m on it. Anything else?”
Cain waved a hand at Harper. “Harper has a gag she wants to run.”
“I’m sure she does. Okay, let’s have it. What do you need?”
“A bunch of naked girls.”
“Didn’t expect that,” Mama B said.
“I’ve been considering the best way to make a run at these guys,” Harper said. “Parker’s the entry point into this world. Campos is the one that runs the girls. I figure a frontal assault might get us nothing but push back.”
“And alert the enemy,” Mama B said. “Never a good thing.” She chuckled. “Unless it is.”
Mama B understood PsyOps better than most. Such shenanigans were also another of Harper’s skills. Thanks to her CIA training. Sometimes sneaking in the back door and disrupting things, causing confusion, turning bad guy against bad guy, dividing and conquering, was best. Other times, taking it straight up was the better choice.
“My first thought was to go in on Adam and this Carlos guy hard,” Harper said. “Drop a healthy dose of fear on their heads. Show them the wisdom of giving up what they know about Cindy’s disappearance. As much fun as that could be, I think a softer approach is better.”
“Make them allies?”
“Exactly. Start with Adam. Feed his greed. Then climb the food chain. Shake the trees.”
“Sounds like a decent plan,” Mama B said.
“That’s where you come in,” Harper said. “I want to make Bobby a pimp daddy.”
Mama B laughed so hard she began to cough. Once she collected herself, she said, “He’d make a good one.”
“Thanks, I think,” Cain said.
“You up for this, Cain?” Mama B asked.
“First I’ve heard of it. Harper doesn’t tell me much.”
“Blame it on her training.”
“We need a website,” Harper said. “One that caters to those looking for very high end girls. Bobby can then pose as representing a large network of suppliers from all over. Offer to expand their business. Fill their pockets with cash.”
“I like it,” Mama B said. “What cities you thinking?”
“Maybe LA, Chicago, New York, Miami, Houston. Big ones. The ploy will be that Bobby is enlarging his footprint. Moving into mid-sized markets.”
“No problem. It’ll look like a real bicoastal operation. I’ll pull some photos off the deep web. Not ones that are out there much. Make up some profiles.”
“Sounds perfect,” Harper said. “Very high end. Very off the radar. Only known to those in the know. And very profitable, of course.”
“A big carrot always works,” Mama B said.
“Especially to greedy pond scum.”
“Once I create the URL and e-mail address, I’ll send you the link. With a little something extra.”
“Let me guess?” Cain said. “A Trojan horse?”
“You got it. Just get this guy to sign on to the website and I’ll be in his computer. We’ll know everything he does.”
“Perfect,” Harper said.
“Same with the phone number. I’ll set up a toll free number. For dates. If he calls, or even if he puts the number in his contacts, I’ll be in his phone. I’ll record all his conversations.”
“Thanks,” Harper said. “Anything we can do for you?”
“A bottle of Pappy Van Winkle would be nice.”
“Consider it done.”
CHAPTER 18
Neither Cain nor Harper had ever been to Moss Landing. Lynchburg, sure. Many times. The home of Jack Daniels and Miss Mary Bobo’s Boarding House. No longer for boarders, Miss Bobo’s was a popular family-style restaurant where reservations were needed months in advan
ce. The lakeside town of Moss Landing was only fifteen miles farther down the road. According to MapQuest, a mere 87 miles from the condo.
As always, they packed overnight bags, because you just never knew, and, of course, an assortment of weapons. Neither went anywhere unarmed. It wasn’t in their upbringing, their training, even their DNA to do anything else.
For Cain, a pair of throwing knives, their sheaths sewn into the side seams of his jeans, near the front pockets. Easily accessible. His large belt buckle secreted two T-handled, jabbing blades and a pair of four-inch ceramic knives were incorporated into the sole of each shoe. Another was strapped to his left ankle. In his left front pocket, the switchblade he had been given at age ten by Uncle Al. All this was a fairly standard arrangement for Cain.
Harper’s ordinance needs were simpler. A Heckler & Koch VP9 slammed with a 15 round magazine. In the purse she slung over one shoulder, in a zippered interior compartment, were two extra clips and another pair of Cain’s throwing knives.
Harper loaded Moss Landing in the GPS of Cain’s Mercedes S550, and they headed out. The guidance system mostly agreed with MapQuest, indicating it was actually 91 miles and would take just under two hours. Those Mercedes folks apparently didn’t understand the insane Nashville mid-day traffic, so two hours was optimistic. After spending way too much time bumper to bumper with fellow Nashvillians, Cain finally climbed on I-24 toward Murfreesboro where he veered off onto Highway 231 toward Shelbyville, then south on 82 to Lynchburg.
The drive gave Cain and Harper time to run through everything they knew about Cindy Grant’s disappearance. One thing for sure was that, sadly, the General was correct. With her missing and no contact for now a week and a half, the chance of her being alive was remote at best. Possible, just not likely. The remains found in Moss Landing would not be her. The timing, the tattoos, and their mutual gut feelings said this was a wasted trip. But they had time, so why not? Mama B wouldn’t have the website up until tonight, maybe tomorrow, and they needed that before visiting the entrepreneurial Adam Parker.
They skirted Lynchburg and turned east toward Tims Ford Lake. The weather-worn, two-lane county road rose and fell through farm land and thick stands of pines and maples and gums. There was little traffic out here and soon the road hopped over a final rise and Moss Landing came into view. The compact downtown area was maybe six blocks by four, everything in neat rectangles, and nudged against the lake. A three-pronged marina held a couple of dozen boats. Out on the flat lake, a water skier cut a serpentine wake behind a blue and white power boat.
