A Trace of Death (A Keri Locke Mystery--Book #1)

by Pierce, Blake

  She stood up and headed over to the windows, the same one where she’d watched the mother and daughter pass by earlier in the afternoon. Outside, the night was quiet. It was approaching midnight. All the normal people were home asleep right now. She considered going to the houseboat, even if it was just to zone out to TV for a couple of hours in the hopes of clearing her head.

  Just one more file.

  She headed back to the desk and picked one up at random. A ten-year-old black girl named London Jaquet disappeared walking home from school and was never heard from again. That was six years ago. Technically the case was “open” but some pages were stuck together because they hadn’t been touched in so long.

  Similarities to Ashley: female, after school, young.

  Similarities to Evie: female, never heard from again, elementary school age.

  Keri set the file to the side and picked up another one. It was for a forty-four-year-old Hispanic man who went missing two years ago. His tattoos indicated gang affiliations. The file was thin. No one had worked it all that hard. Keri set it to the side and picked up another one.

  A six-year-old Korean girl named Vanda Kang disappeared from the back seat of a car when her mother stepped into a mom-and-pop liquor store on Centinela Avenue to buy a pack of cigarettes. Seven years later, at age thirteen, the girl was found alive and healthy, living with a wealthy white couple in Seattle who claimed they’d adopted her.

  A man named Thomas Anderson, aka The Ghost, had only recently been identified as the abductor, eighteen months ago, in fact. He actually went to trial, defended himself even. The file said that if the evidence hadn’t been so overwhelming he might have gotten off. He was very convincing in the courtroom. He was currently finishing up the first year of a ten-year sentence. He was supposed to be doing his time at Folsom State Prison, but because of overcrowding he was still being held in county lockup at the Twin Towers Correctional Facility in downtown LA. Keri had been there on a few occasions. She didn’t love it.

  She sat in her chair, swiveling back and forth, turning an idea over and over in her mind.

  The Ghost is a professional kidnapper. It’s a business. And a business like this requires clients, and co-workers, and middlemen. It required an entire network of connections.

  Maybe she’d been going at this all wrong. If this was a professional job, and the video from that bail bonds camera sure made it look like one, why was she talking to boyfriends and drug dealers?

  If I’m going to catch a pro, I need to talk to a pro.

  Keri stood up, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. Suarez glanced up, zombie-eyed, and nodded. The homeless guy blew her a kiss. She winked at him and walked out the door. It was after midnight now. That meant it was a new day. And a new day meant a fresh start. And what better way to start than with a ghost.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tuesday

  Wee Hours

  When Keri entered the windowless concrete room at the Twin Towers, she looked at the man who had been pulled out of his cell and dragged there in the middle of the night. He was sitting down so she couldn’t gauge his height, but he appeared to be in his early fifties. Still, she was more than glad that his wrists were chained to the steel table. Even wearing loose prison clothes, the Ghost projected a still, coiled strength.

  Every visible part of his right side was covered in tattoos, from fingertips up his neck to his earlobe. The left side didn’t have a single one. His thick black hair was parted neatly. His dark eyes gleamed with curiosity. He waited patiently for her, not saying a word.

  Keri slid into the fixed bench seat on the other side of the table and did her best to hide her uneasiness. She considered how to proceed before deciding to start with more honey than vinegar.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I’m sorry to get you out of bed at such a late hour, but I was hoping you could help me. I’m Detective Keri Locke with LAPD Missing Persons.”

  “What can I do for you, Detective?” he purred, as if he’d been awake and expecting her this whole time.”

  “You snatched that little Korean girl on behalf of a Seattle couple,” she said. “It was a job for hire.”

  “That’s what I was convicted of,” he said coolly.

  Keri leaned forward.

  “What I want to know is, how did those people find you?”

  “Ask them.”

  Keri pressed, saying, “I mean, here they were, seemingly upstanding people, but they were somehow able to find you. How does that connection get made?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Keri debated how forthright to be with this guy. She got the sense that if she played the usual cat and mouse games, he’d just shut down. And she didn’t have time for that.

  “I’m working on a case. A fifteen-year-old girl was abducted yesterday after school. Every second counts. There’s a chance that the man who did it was hired, just like you were. How would he have been contacted? How did they find him?”

  The Ghost thought for a moment.

  “Do you think I could get a cup of green tea? I find it very soothing.”

  “Milk or sugar?” Keri asked.

  “Neither,” he answered, leaning back as much as his cuffs would allow.

  Keri nodded to the guard, who muttered something unintelligible into his walkie-talkie.

  “You’re asking me to betray a confidence, Detective Locke. That’s a big deal in a place like this. If it got out, I could be at risk.”

  “Somehow I think you know how to handle yourself.”

  “Be that as it may, I need some assurances from you that my assistance will be reciprocated.”

  “Mr. Anderson, if your information is useful in the case, I’m going to write a nice, long letter to the parole board on your behalf, explaining how cooperative you were with me tonight. My understanding is that right now, you’re not even up for a hearing for four more years. Is that right?”

  “You’ve been doing your research,” he noted, his eyes twinkling with delight.

  “Why do I think I’m not the only one?” she said. The tea arrived in a sad little white Styrofoam cup. As he sipped, Keri couldn’t help but ask the question that had been eating at her.

  “You seem like a smart man, Mr. Anderson. How is it that you were caught along with so much evidence that, even with your powers of persuasion, you were still convicted?”

  The Ghost swallowed luxuriously before responding. Something about the way he carried himself made Keri wonder what this guy’s background was. She was so focused on the task at hand, it hadn’t occurred to her to look much beyond his rap sheet. But he didn’t have the bearing of any criminal she’d met before. She made a mental note to look into it when time allowed.

  “That is suspicious, isn’t it? How can you be certain, Detective, that things didn’t play out exactly as I anticipated? That I’m not exactly where I want to be right now?”

  “That sounds like a guy trying to cover for a plan that went south.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” he said, smiling, exposing a mouth of perfectly white teeth.

  “So, to business then?” Keri prompted.

  “One last thing before we begin. If I assist you and you don’t live up to your end of the bargain, that’s the kind of thing a man like me might remember for a long time. It’s the kind of thing that might keep me up at night.”

  “I hope you’re not threatening me, Mr. Anderson,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

  “Of course not. I’m just saying it would make me sad.”

  “Noted. You have my word,” Keri said, and meant it. “But I’m working off a ticking clock here so it’s time for you to be helpful now.”

  “Very well. How do the connections get made? Sometimes it’s as simple as Craigslist or the online editions of local weeklies. But mostly it’s through the dark web. You’re familiar, I gather?”

  Keri nodded. The dark web was an online underground marketplace where buyers and sellers of various crim
inal endeavors could find each other. Anderson continued.

  “If people know what they’re doing, these transactions are almost impossible to trace. Every keystroke is encrypted with state of the art technology. Once you’re in the community, you can communicate freely. One could be as direct as saying, “Looking to have my uncle disappear, Glendale, within two weeks.” Without an encryption key, nobody can ever identify you, including the people who reply to your post. That anonymity works both ways. Once interest has been established, additional communication usually occurs in the real world through anonymous e-mail or burner cell phones via a pre-established code.”

  Keri wasn’t impressed.

  “I already know most of this.” she said. “What I need from you are specifics—the names of colleagues who might do a job like the one I’m investigating. I need a lead.”

  “I can’t offer you Christian names, Detective Locke. It doesn’t work like that. Everybody has a nickname like mine.”

  “The Ghost?”

  “Yes. It may seem silly but we refer to each other by them as well. Our proper names only get used if we’re caught.”

  “So how does a potential client connect with one of you?”

  “A lot of it is run through defense lawyers,” he said. “They end up defending people who get caught. Their clients tell them who’s in the game; those communications are protected under the attorney-client privilege. Lawyers talk to other lawyers, ostensibly for help on their cases, so the privilege stays attached, and the names spread. As we speak, there are lawyers throughout California who could tell you the names of a dozen people who would take an abduction-for-hire assignment, or even a murder for hire. And of course, it’s all privileged.”

  It made sense from a logistics point of view but it seemed too bizarre to actually be true.

  “Not if they’re setting up connections,” Keri said. “Then they’re criminals themselves and the privilege goes away.”

  The man shrugged.

  “How would you ever know about it?”

  “Does your lawyer set up deals?”

  The man smiled.

  “Answering that question would not be in my self-interest. All I can say is that my attorney is well connected, as any self-respecting barrister should be.”

  This guy is a piece of work.

  “Give me some nicknames, Mr. Anderson.”

  “No can do.”

  The words were clear but there was a hesitation in them. He was clearly thinking about that parole letter.

  “Okay, forget names. Are you familiar with a guy who worked this area about five years ago? Drove a black van, blond with a tattoo on the right side of his neck?”

  “That physical description matches half the guys in this place. I myself have an affinity for skin art,” he said, leaning in so she could get a better look at the tattoo on his own neck.

  “What about the van?”

  “That narrows things down quite a bit. There’s no way to be sure but the man you described might be someone they call the Collector. I don’t know his real name and quite frankly I don’t want to. I’ve never personally met him or even seen him for that matter.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Word is, he can be commissioned for murders for hire. That’s not his main business though. His primary work is the abduction and sale of people, usually children.”

  For sale.

  The words sent a chill down Keri’s spine. Was Evie stolen only to be sold to the highest bidder? In some weird way, it was almost comforting. At least then there was the chance that someone actually wanted her to be part of their family, just like with that Korean girl in Seattle. But if she was just randomly taken and put up for sale, there was no telling who would buy her, or for what reason.

  Keri forced herself to focus, shaking herself out of the trance. How long had she been out of it? Two seconds? Twenty? She glanced at Anderson, who was smiling patiently. Had he noticed anything? The guard was oblivious, reading a text on his phone.

  She tried to regain her focus.

  “How do I get in touch with him, this Collector?”

  “You don’t.”

  “How do I find out about his upcoming sales?”

  “Someone like you, you don’t.”

  “Where does he operate out of? What city?”

  “I couldn’t say. I know he’s been credited with jobs throughout California, Arizona, and Nevada. I’m sure that’s not all.”

  “What’s your lawyer’s name—the one who defended you at trial?”

  “It’s in the court file.”

  “I know it’s in the court file. Save me some time. It’ll help with your parole letter.”

  Anderson hesitated a moment. He reminded her of a chess player thinking ten moves ahead.

  “Jackson Cave,” he finally said.

  Keri knew the name.

  Jackson Cave was one of the city’s most prominent defense lawyers. His boutique downtown firm was located near the top of the US Bank Tower near the convention center. It was in a nice location but was also conveniently located within a ten-minute drive of this very facility.

  Keri stood up.

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Anderson. I’ll get to that letter when I get some downtime.”

  “I appreciate that, Detective.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said as she headed for the door.

  “I’ll do my best,” he replied, then added just before she left, “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I would tell you not to contact Mr. Cave but I know that would be useless. I’m sure you will. However, I would ask that you leave my name out of it. I have a long memory for slights. But his is even longer.”

  “Good night,” she said, without agreeing to anything. As she walked down the hall, even though they were separated by a wall, Keri could swear she felt the Ghost’s eyes on her.

  *

  Back in the car, as she headed toward the station, Keri tried to force the image of Thomas Anderson from her mind and fixate on what he’d said.

  The Collector. Was that the man who’d taken Evie? Had he taken Ashley as well?

  She plugged the nickname into her vehicle computer while idling at a light. Over thirty cases came up, just in California. Was he really responsible for that many abductions or did lazy detectives just decide to use him as a boogeyman if they couldn’t make any headway on their cases? She noticed that nowhere in the system did it list a proper name, a photograph, or an arrest.

  She was pretty sure there was someone who could identify him but she doubted he’d be very forthcoming. His name was Jackson Cave. Keri wanted desperately to drive to his home, pound on his door, and begin interrogating him. But she knew she couldn’t and that it wouldn’t do any good.

  When she came at Jackson Cave, keeper of secrets for child abductors, she wanted to be on top of her game. But right now she was exhausted and disoriented. Not only was that not good for a confrontation with Cave, it wasn’t helping Ashley Penn either.

  Keri jacked up the air conditioning all the way in the hopes that it would clear her head. Even approaching one in the morning, the temperature gauge said it was eighty-eight degrees outside. When would this heat ever break?

  And if she was sweating through her shirt, Keri could only imagine what Ashley was going through. Was she still in the back of some stifling van? Bound up somewhere in a closet? Being abused in some sweaty back room?

  Wherever she was, it was Keri’s responsibility to find her. It had been almost ten hours since she’d disappeared. Experience had taught her that every second missing was a second closer to death. She had to find a new lead—or maybe an old one. Who had lied to her since this case began? Who had been hiding the most?

  And then it came to her. There was someone. She wouldn’t be going straight back to the station. Keri would be making a pit stop first.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tuesday

  Wee Hours


  Sweat poured down Ashley’s face as she scanned the walls in a controlled panic. It had to be twenty-five degrees hotter in this metal tube than outside.

  She looked up. Four or five feet above her head, at the top of the silo, was a large metal hatch, three feet by five feet, closed shut. The hinges were on the outside. She must have, she realized, been brought in here through that hatch. That meant there must be some type of fixed ladder going up the side of the silo to get to that door. If she could get through it, then there might be a way down to the ground.

  She jumped and grazed it with her fingertips—barely.

  She climbed the plastic bin, reaching—but it suddenly collapsed under her weight.

  She stood again, frustrated. What she needed was a long stick. Maybe it would flip open if she could get some pressure on it.

  Then again, maybe it was padlocked on the outside.

  A long stick…

  She looked around. The wooden boards of the flooring might actually be long enough if she could get one loose.

  How?

  They were screwed down.

  Nothing in her tub of goodies could be used as a screwdriver.

  Then she saw it: the cans of soup had pull-tabs. She pulled a top off, set the soup to the side, and wiggled the pull-tab back and forth until it broke off from the lid.

  She found that all the screws were sunken into the wood a quarter inch or so, not far in but far enough that the pull-tab couldn’t grab the screws’ surface.

  She had an idea. After eating the soup (why let it go to waste?) she scraped away at the wood around a screw with the edge of the can. It was hard going but she eventually got the head of the screw exposed enough that she could get the pull-tab into the thread. Holding the pull-tab as tight as she could and pressing down with force, she was actually able to get the screw moving.

  It took a long time, fifteen minutes at least, to get it all the way out. There were ten screws in that board.

  The project would take two and a half hours if the muscles in her hand held out, longer if she took breaks. Actually, if she left the last two screws at the end of the board, she might be able to lift it from the opposite side and force them out. That would bring it down to two hours. The flashlight should hold out that long.