“I’d like that, thanks.”
“Meg?”
“Coffee. And since you’ve likely got a million kinds, surprise me. I like it with both cream and sugar, regular.”
“Done.” Van Cleave practically jogged out of the office.
Baffled, Emma looked at Meg. “Is he for real?”
“Meaning, is he really that nice a guy that he gets pleasure from doing good in both the big and small sense of the word? Yeah, he really is. He’s a classic G-man.”
“G-man?”
“A government man. It’s a slang term for an FBI agent, straight out of the nineteen-thirties and Al Capone. Basically, he’s an old-fashioned good guy. His only focus is on solving crime. Kind of refreshing actually. I know too many agents who just want to climb the ladder, or have some other kind of agenda. He just wants to put the bad guys away.”
The G-man was back in just a few minutes, balancing three covered paper cups. He handed them out and then sat back down. He gave his monitor a cursory glance—the program was still running the search parameters—and pulled a small, leather-bound notebook out of his desk drawer and uncapped a fancy silver pen. “Okay, while it’s searching, let’s run over some details. I’ve already got some notes going for this case, but there are lots of blank spaces that still need to be filled in.”
Emma studied the notebook. “You’re going to write it down by hand?”
“Absolutely. I’ll add it to the electronic case file later, but the notebook travels with me. If I need to refer to something, I can; all the info is right there.”
Emma and Meg exchanged a glance that reflected their shared thought—G-man.
“Okay,” Van Cleave said, scanning down the scratchy blue handwriting already in the notebook. “You said you met John in reentry and then met up with him again when you were both out. What happened after that? Tell me as much as you can remember in as much detail as possible.”
Van Cleave patiently helped Emma through every detail she could recall—men, especially repeat customers, hookup locations, payments, other girls in the house, and when drugs were involved.
Emma flopped back in her chair, one hand dropping down to stroke Hawk, looking exhausted from the telling.
“Anything else you can think of?”
“No.” Her head drooped forward, but then shot back up almost immediately. “Wait!”
“What?”
“The book. John’s little book.”
“Back up. What book?”
“He had one of those little spiral-ring notebooks with a black plastic cover that he carried everywhere with him. He kept all his business details in it. Contact names, appointments in the calendar, details about customers. When you find him, you need to get the book. Don’t let him destroy it.”
Van Cleave and Meg exchanged a glance. “Sounds like that could be a good portion of the case against him.”
“He’d have to have that information somewhere,” Meg said. “Most people would use a phone, but he’s kicking it old school. And paper never runs out of battery power or glitches on you. And you can burn it, if you need to. Phones can be harder to destroy.”
“They can be, to my great joy and happiness. Emma, did you ever overhear John talking about the trafficking operation?”
“They tried to keep us in the dark and out of earshot as much as possible. But John did a lot of his business by phone, and I once heard a bit of a conversation when his phone rang while we were in the car going to a location. He didn’t say much, but he mentioned a vineyard, something about ‘upping the supplies,’ and mentioned the name Maverick.”
Van Cleave stopped writing. “Do you remember when this was? What time of year?”
Emma closed her eyes, concentrating. “I’m not sure, but if I had to guess, late summer or maybe early fall?”
Van Cleave exchanged a look with Meg. “That’s the kind of connection I’m looking for. Not just running girls for the sex trade, but a connection into one of the other organizational arms. Virginia has a lot of vineyards. In the late summer and right through the fall, they need hands. A lot of hands. The kind of hands you don’t keep on all year.”
“The kind you don’t report on your taxes as employees because then you’d have to provide real wages and some form of benefits?” Meg asked.
“Exactly that kind. Some of them bring in migrant workers, pay them practically nothing, work them from dawn until dusk, and then cut them loose when the season is over with no responsibility for where they might find shelter or their next paycheck. I wanted to find this guy before, but now I really want to find him.”
As if on cue, his computer gave a quiet ding and a list of names with small thumbnail photos scrolled down the screen. Van Cleave closed his notebook, set his pen on the cover, and rolled back his chair. He stepped aside and held out a hand toward it. “Emma, have a seat.” He waited until she circled the desk and settled in his chair before showing her how to open each entry for a better look at the photo and some limited details. “Remember, some of these photos might not be that recent, so anyone that rings any bells, no matter how faint, let me know.” He picked up his coffee and settled in the chair Emma had vacated to watch as she made her way through the list.
Fifteen minutes later, she froze, staring unblinkingly at the face on the screen. “Van?”
“Got something?” Van Cleave had been watching her intently, even as he and Meg had been chatting about common Bureau pet peeves. Now, while his voice was smoothly casual, his body tensed, as if ready to spring from the chair.
“This was years ago and he looks super young, but I’m pretty sure this is him. I don’t see a tattoo though.”
Van Cleave got up and came around the desk to brace one hand on its surface as he leaned in for a better look. “You’re not seeing all the information. This is just the interface for witnesses. I can access additional information, including any distinguishing physical markings. If he had a tattoo at the time of his arrest, we’ll be able to match it to what you’ve drawn.” A few clicks and keystrokes and a much larger file was displayed on screen. He clicked on a thumbnail and a photo of an intricate three-dimensional tribal tattoo filled the screen. Picking up the yellow legal pad with Emma’s sketch of John’s tattoo, he held it next to the photographic image of an actual tattoo. “That is damned good, young lady. Not exact, but you nailed the tone and the basic design.”
Meg moved to prop her hip on the corner of the desk for a better view and whistled at the two images side by side. “I’ll say. Who is our mystery man?”
“Emma, can I get my chair back, please? Thanks.” He sat back down behind his desk and started exploring the file. “According to this, his real name is Luke Reed. Now, let’s see what he was up to. Ah, here we are. Mr. Reed had a little problem with assault. Convicted three times of assault and battery. Accused of sexual assault but the victim recanted her story. They must have gotten to her. Might have paid her off to change her story. More likely, they threatened her. Happens way too often. He was found guilty and incarcerated all three times, twice for six months, and the third time for nine months. Once inside, he was supposedly a model citizen. Each time he went through the same residential custody reentry program. Chesapeake Community Corrections Service Center.” He looked up from his monitor. “Apparently this program isn’t working for him. He’s re-offended each time anyway.”
“Is it odd that he’d be in the same program three times? I didn’t think they were used that often. Most offenders are just released from prison and go out into the world.”
Van Cleave shrugged in Meg’s direction. “Maybe it’s just the new thing these days? We’re more concerned with arresting them as opposed to reforming them, so maybe we’re not up on all the new trends in offender rehabilitation.”
“I’m even mostly out of the loop on arresting them.” She glanced at Van Cleave, then at Emma, and then back again. She jerked her head subtly toward the door.
Van Cleave’s answering nod said he u
nderstood. “Emma, we need to make a couple of phone calls, so why don’t you wait where you’ll be more comfortable in those cushy chairs out there.” He pointed to two overstuffed armchairs that made up a small waiting area outside his glass wall.
“Why don’t you take Hawk with you for company,” Meg offered. “Oh wait, you should take these.” She dug in her bag and pulled out three jerky treats that she passed surreptitiously to Emma. Hawk, of course, wasn’t remotely fooled, following the movement of her hand with bright eyes and a thumping tail. “He’s trained not to beg and not to take a treat until it’s held out for him. Then say ‘take it,’ along with his name.”
Emma and Hawk left Van Cleave’s office and Meg watched as they went over to the chairs. Emma flopped down in one, one knee hooked over the arm, and told Hawk to sit. Then she held out a treat to him. Hawk held absolutely still, even his tail was motionless. Then she told him to take it, and the treat was gone and the tail was back in motion. Emma laughed and gave him a big hug.
Van Cleave quietly closed his office door. “That is one well-behaved dog.”
“Thanks. He’s a smart boy. There pretty much isn’t anything I can’t teach him.”
Van Cleave sat back down and propped his elbows on the chair arms, steepling his fingers. “You got rid of her so we can talk. What’s on your mind?”
“I didn’t want to get into case particulars with her in the room. What if Reed’s using reentry to feed his organization, taking advantage of his time through the reentry program to make contact with vulnerable girls? Targeting kids who don’t have family or anyone else waiting for them on the other side. He makes friends with them, convincing them he’s a nice guy, possibly even boyfriend material, getting them to trust him. Then he’d get them into a situation they couldn’t escape. Some kids he probably hooked on drugs so once they were addicted they’d do whatever he wanted, just to get that next hit. He tried that with Emma, but when she didn’t take that bait, he had to find another leverage point—the mandatory minimums and the threat of going back to jail.”
“You’re thinking that we might be able to cross-reference girls who were at the reentry facility at the same time to see if he dragged them into the ring as well.” Van Cleave bent back over his keyboard. “That’s a good connection.”
“Thanks. I’m wondering how many other girls might still be out there. Emma said three girls were already out working when the storm hit. We can get specific details on them from her, and maybe you can track them down if they made it through the storm?”
“Sure can,” Van Cleave agreed. “I’m not sure if the storm was a blessing or a curse for those girls. Yes, they got away from Reed, but who knows if they escaped to somewhere safe—”
“Or if they fell into a worse situation,” Meg finished for him. “For all of Reed’s threats to the girls themselves, they were still an investment to him. He didn’t want them getting battered and bruised, because his customers might object.”
“But someone with no investment might see them as instantly disposable. They could be in real danger now, with the risk growing each day they’re out there on their own. You know how situations like this work—the first few days are critical. After that, they may be dragged into the city’s underbelly and our chances of successfully pulling them out shrink exponentially. Not to mention that if we can track any of them down, they might also be able to strengthen our case. Before Emma leaves, I’ll get as much information on each of them as I can so I can get bulletins out to the Norfolk and Virginia Beach PDs.” He started to say something and then stopped, staring at Meg. “What? You have a funny look on your face.”
“I’m just thinking . . .”
Van Cleave crossed his arms over his chest and waited her out.
“I have a contact that might be useful to us.”
“Like a confidential informant?”
“More like the guy who has the confidential informants in his pocket. A lot of them. Ever heard of Clay McCord?”
“The hotshot Washington Post reporter who covered the war in Iraq? Wasn’t he also the one that bomber was sending messages to?”
“That’s him. What would you say if I called him in on this? He can ferret out information like nobody’s business because he has the kind of contacts law enforcement doesn’t.”
Skepticism radiated from Van Cleave as his fingers tapped a repetitive rhythm on his crossed arm. “Can we trust him?”
“Absolutely. He’s worked two cases with me behind the scenes, trading his help and silence for the scoop on the story once he’s given the green light from the Bureau. He’s also dating my sister. And, he’s currently nearby because he was covering Hurricane Cole, so he’s likely somewhere on the coast of North Carolina still. Why don’t I call him? You’ve got your hands full, but I could fill him in and let him know what kinds of information we’re looking for. Then if anything hits, I’ll loop you back in.” When Van Cleave nodded his assent, she pulled out her cell phone, speed-dialed McCord, put the phone on speaker, and placed it on Van Cleave’s desk.
“McCord.”
Meg couldn’t help smiling at the sound of his voice. Even though Cara had passed along that he had come through Hurricane Cole in one piece, it was good to hear his voice. “Hey, McCord.”
“Meg! How are you?”
“Good. I have a question for you. First, I want you to know you’re on speaker and I’m here with Special Agent in Charge Walter Van Cleave from the Norfolk FBI field office.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Are you nearly done in North Carolina?”
“I can be. Does the Bureau have something my editor would find meatier than a hurricane that’s already blown itself out?”
“Depends on what you can contribute. How are your ties to the Virginia crime world?”
McCord laughed. “Not bad, if I do say so myself. Looking for something in particular?”
“Connections in human trafficking. Specifically, the sex trade with little girls.”
There was dead silence for a moment before McCord spoke. “There’s no snappy comeback for that. That’s despicable.”
“No question. And now you understand why we’re looking for some undercover information that your kind of CIs might be able to deliver. Can you meet me so I can run through what we’re looking for?”
“Why don’t I drive up tonight? You and I could have dinner and you can run me through what you know.”
Meg glanced at Van Cleave, who mouthed, As long as you’re sure you can trust him. She nodded back. “That works. McCord, standard agreement for silence until you’re released. Then you’ll have the exclusive.”
“Deal, as always. I’ll see you tonight then.”
“Todd is here too, so you’ll see him as well.”
“All right! Getting the band back together.”
“We’re in Norfolk, but I’ll text you an address where to meet us. Drive safe.” She ended the call and looked up at Van Cleave.
“You’re sure he can be trusted?” Van Cleave asked.
“I’d trust him with my life. I literally trusted him with my sister’s and never regretted it. He’s solid. Worst-case scenario, he won’t be able to dig anything up and he’ll have nothing to report. But he won’t go public with anything until we say so. He’s been reliable on that several times, and Executive Assistant Director Peters and Director Clarkson are both good with him. Let’s give him a chance. In the meantime, what do you want to do?”
“I’m going to put a BOLO out on Reed. Then let’s get Emma back to the shelter. After that, you and I will pay a visit to the Chesapeake Community Corrections Service Center. Let’s find out more about Mr. Reed and who he might have crossed paths with.”
“What if they won’t cooperate without a warrant?”
“Then we’ll get one of those.” Van Cleave’s sunny smile was backed by steel. “But you know how that would look. It usually seems that it’s those with something to hide who make you come back with a warrant.
” The smile dropped as if it had never been there. “And if they have something to hide, they’ll regret making me wait. It doesn’t pay to get in my way during an investigation.”
CHAPTER 16
Critique: A formal review of a search-and-rescue incident or a training exercise designed to identify operational errors and lessons learned.
Monday, July 24, 10:47 AM
Chesapeake Community Corrections Service Center
Chesapeake, Virginia
Meg and Van Cleave stood at the front security desk of the reentry facility, waiting to be cleared through the locked double doors. Both FBI identifications lay flat on the counter inside the booth as the security guard took down their information from behind a bulletproof glass window.
“I’ll need you to leave any firearms with me,” the guard said. “No weapons are allowed inside the facility.”
“Understandable.” Van Cleave opened his suit jacket to show that he wore neither shoulder nor belt holster. “I left my gun at the field office for that reason.”
“I’m unarmed,” Meg said. “But my dog is a trained law enforcement K-9 and will be accompanying me.”
The guard braced both hands on the counter and leaned forward to look down over the edge of the window to where Hawk sat still at Meg’s knee, the leash in her hand attached to his FBI vest. “Working dog?”
“He is. Is there a problem with that?”
The guard shrugged. “I guess not. But if there’s any problems with him, you’re both out of here.”
“There won’t be any problems with him.” Meg’s voice carried a hard edge, leaving no room for discussion.
The guard gave her a sideways look and pushed their IDs back out through the small cutout at the bottom of the window. “Through the double doors, down the hallway, second door on the right. Ask for Mason Pate. You’re lucky. Mr. Pate isn’t always in the office, but he arrived about an hour ago and he’d be the best person to talk to.”
Storm Rising Page 15
