Storm Rising
Page 17
“I could use one of those. It’s been a dry few days.” McCord twisted in his seat, caught the eye of a pretty redheaded waitress, and turned a one-hundred-watt smile on her. “Do you guys have Devil’s Backbone?”
“What self-respecting Virginia restaurant wouldn’t?”
“IPA?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll have one of those.” He winked at her. “Thanks.”
He turned back to find Meg’s beady eye fixed on him. “What?”
“Flirting with the waitstaff?”
“I really want a beer. If a wink and a smile will hurry it along, I know Cara won’t mind. She understands a man’s need for beer. It’s been a hell of a few days.”
“Amen,” said Webb.
Within minutes, the waitress delivered his beer in a tall pint glass. McCord took a long sip, mumbled, “There is a God,” and sat back in his chair.
“Smile.” Meg pulled out her phone and snapped a quick picture of him with his hands wrapped lovingly around his glass.
“What’s that for?”
Meg’s head was down, her thumbs flying over the virtual keyboard. “I promised proof of life to Cara.”
A laugh escaped McCord. “She knows I made it through the hurricane. I’ve talked to her every day.”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same as a picture to prove you’re in one piece. Date a girl, get her pain-in-the-ass sister in the bargain.” She punctuated the sentence with a congenial punch in the arm. She put her phone down on top of the menu and picked up her glass of white wine. “Decide what you’re having and then we can get down to business.”
“As long as they have red meat, I’m good.” It took McCord all of forty-five seconds to decide on his meal and close his menu. “Why don’t we get the part of the conversation that’s going to kill my appetite over with so by the time the food arrives, I’ll be able to eat.”
Meg quickly brought him up-to-date with the case.
“Son of a bitch,” McCord muttered. “It takes a special kind of lowlife to take advantage of vulnerable kids just to make a buck.”
“The world is a wonderful place,” Webb said.
“Sometimes. A lot of the rest of the time it seriously sucks.” McCord turned back to Meg. “What do you need me for?”
“We’re looking for connections to the seedier side of Virginia’s crime world.”
“And nothing says seedy like Clay McCord.” McCord took another sip of his beer. “But seriously, I may be able to help. Do you remember that story I did about eighteen months ago about the prison system in Virginia? The state of the system and the number of prisoners they’re farming out to private institutions that are cutting back on everything from personnel to health care to safeguard their profit margins?”
“I have to admit I may have missed that one,” Meg said.
“You should look it up. It’s a solid article and as relevant today as it was when it went to press. The U.S. has the largest prison population in the world with nearly one in one hundred people incarcerated. It’s insane. And it goes without saying that there is a racially biased skew in there that would knock your socks off.”
“I know all about that. I had to fight that bias in my own department when I was on patrol. I assume in the course of this exposé that you talked to a lot of ex-cons.”
“Yeah. Not that anyone came out and said they had a hand in human trafficking, but there were certainly a few who did time for pimping, so that’s where I’d start. It’s the most similar crime.”
“You’ve got access to your notes from that investigation?” Webb asked. “You can track these guys down again?”
McCord reached down, dug in his bag for a second and pulled out his laptop. “Never leave home without it.” He handed his menu to Meg, pushed aside his cutlery, and booted up. “I have all my notes here, as well as backed up at home and in the cloud. That includes any and all personal details on the men I interviewed. And women. It was an equal opportunity article.” With a few clicks, he opened up a folder and scanned the contents. “Now, finding them might be a little harder because it’s been a while since I’ve made contact. But I have their addresses from eighteen months ago, and phone numbers for a lot of them, so that’s where I’ll start once I review all their records. Assuming they aren’t back inside as a guest of the state again. You want to concentrate on anyone who’s come through the reentry program?”
“Preferably Chesapeake Community Corrections Service Center, but for any of the prisons or reentry facilities, I’d like to know if anyone saw it being used as a recruiting site. Keep in mind we’re not just talking about young girls; we’re also talking teenage boys who could work in either the sex trade or on farms.”
“You’re not mentioning adults. Do you think it’s doubtful they’re using this strategy on that age group?” Webb asked. “You’d like to think that adults are wise enough not to fall for these scenarios.”
“You know and I know that’s not always the case.” McCord’s head was down and his eyes were locked on the screen, but he reached out with his left hand and unerringly grabbed his beer, raising it to his lips without taking a second away from his work. “People can be vulnerable at any age. Also, one of the things I learned while researching this story is that often the mentally ill end up behind bars, instead of getting the help they really need. And when they’re released, they can be the first to re-offend because they don’t have the skills to stay out of trouble. If an offer gets made to them, they may not recognize it as too good to be true and they’ll jump at it. I’ll spend some time tomorrow morning trying to find some of these. I’ve also got some contacts in a couple of the papers down here. I can give them a buzz and see if they might have anything useful. You’re not only looking for guys running the rings, but I assume you’re also looking for the clients.”
Meg’s stomach rolled and she set down her wine. “These guys are having sex with thirteen-year-old girls. Hell, yes.”
“I hate to stand up for these bastards,” Webb said, “but just remember how bad my estimate was.” He glanced at McCord, who looked up from his laptop in confusion. “When we found the van, Meg had me guess the age of one of the dead girls. I was off by about four years because of the clothes and the makeup. I’m not making excuses for them, I’m just saying some of them might legitimately think the girls were legal and in the trade of their own free will.”
“Normally, I’d be with you on that,” McCord said. “But I’ve done some stories with sex workers. The girls who are out on the streets are one thing. They may be run by pimps, but usually they make their own choices. They don’t like the look of a guy, they don’t get in his car. These kids, they don’t have that kind of choice. They’re delivered like a package to the paying customer, and they are supposed to put out and shut up. The guys using this service expect to get what they paid for, period. Okay, give me the name again.”
“Luke Reed is the ‘John’ Emma described as running the show. And in a phone call, she heard the name ‘Maverick’ mentioned.”
McCord had a fresh document open and was quickly typing notes. “I’ll see what I can dig up on all this on a fairly short time line.” He sat back and looked at his watch. “I should be able to get started on it tonight, as it’s still early. How about . . .” He trailed off as the waitress returned to take their orders. Once she retreated, menus tucked under her arm, McCord continued. “How about some of your police contacts? Could you talk to your sergeant, the one who helped us figure out where Mannew got all his bomb materials?”
“Sergeant Archer . . . that’s actually a really good idea.” Meg swirled the straw-colored liquid in her glass, watching the legs run back down. “This certainly isn’t his jurisdiction—that must be a good hundred miles away—but he’s likely got contacts down here in the various departments that might be able to give us some good starting points. I’ll call him tonight.”
“If you get anything I could use, email me the info. The more parallel li
nes of investigation we have going on this, the better.” He took a long draught of his beer. “You need to promise me something though. These guys are going to come to you as anonymous sources. The moment the Feebs want their personal info, they’re going to rabbit. These are ex-cons, some of them still living right on the line of legalities, or even over it. Journalistically, they’re protected sources, so their anonymity is nonnegotiable.”
“No arguments from me,” Meg said. “And you won’t get one from the special agent in charge I’m working with, Walter Van Cleave. He’s the straightest shooter I’ve seen in a long time in the Bureau. He wants to get the job done, and he’ll give you the leeway to do it as long as it’s legal, and the First Amendment says it is. He wants a clean case, but he’s not going to be interested in bringing down someone who helps our success.”
“Excellent.”
“He’s working on cross-referencing lists of adults who went through reentry with Reed, and trying to see what happened to them. So far, it’s just the adults, since Pate won’t budge on the kids without a warrant. Van Cleave is already arranging for one because that information is crucial. Reentry maybe have been one of Reed’s main ways of bringing the vulnerable and isolated into his clutches.”
McCord saved the documents and closed the lid of his laptop. “Kind of makes you want fifteen minutes in a room with him with no cameras, doesn’t it? To teach him what that kind of vulnerability is like and how it feels to be on the short end of it?”
“Sure does.” Webb’s words were a low growl.
McCord held out a fist and Webb bumped his to it.
“That’s not how the system works,” Meg said, squelching the urge to roll her eyes at the manly posturing.
“Oh, we know. And we know we can’t do it. Doesn’t mean we don’t want to.” Webb lifted his beer to his lips, and the golden-brown eyes that met Meg’s over the rim were deadly serious.
She shook her head at him. “You firefighters. You’re always straight to the point, with no playing around.”
“That’s the kind of guys and gals we are. When seconds count, there’s no time for BS. Get in, get the job done, and get out with your life and hopefully someone else’s. We don’t have time for conferences and group decision making.”
McCord leaned an elbow on the table, considering Webb. “You know, you’re giving me an idea for a great story. The men and women of DCFEMS—what it’s really like to run into the building when everyone else is running out.”
“Don’t forget to ask him about this year’s firefighters calendar.” Meg turned a big grin on Webb. “He’s Mr. June.”
“Really?” McCord drew the word out, skepticism and interest intermingling.
“Hey, it was for a good cause.”
“Wait a second.” McCord turned on Meg. “I saw that calendar sitting on your kitchen table.”
“It’s on the wall now.” Meg held up her hands to frame Webb’s face like she was a director blocking a scene. “We’re off by a month though. It’s still on Mr. June.”
“Bloody hell,” Webb muttered.
McCord laughed so loudly heads turned. “I’m definitely including that in the article.”
“Not if you want active participation, you aren’t.”
“Just wait until I work my magic. You’ll be putty in my hands. You and all your coworkers who could probably run circles around me.” He clapped a hand on Webb’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m looking for gritty realism, not beefcake.”
“That I can give you.”
“Awesome. Let’s think about it once we’re all home again. Would be great publicity for the department.” He turned back to Meg. “Anything else about this case I need to know?”
“The only other thing we did today was take a tour of the reentry facility with Pate. Basically, it’s a minimal security facility with a heavy helping of social workers and psychologists. One-on-one therapy sessions, group therapy sessions, life skills classes. Most of the time, the kids are kept separated from the adults. But there are times and places within the facility where the kids and the adults mix. Some group therapy sessions, some mealtimes, some outdoor recreational periods. Any kid who is uncomfortable with mixing with the adults is removed from the situation, no questions asked, and isn’t brought into contact with them again. As long as a kid doesn’t complain about mixing it up with the adults, there were times when Reed could have sunk his claws into someone young, scared, lonely, and looking for positive affirmation.”
“It’s just a matter of getting the warrant to confirm that,” Webb said. “How long will that take?”
“We should have it first thing tomorrow, or Van Cleave is going to be standing on some poor judge’s doorstep looking for a signature.” Meg spotted their waitress winding her way toward them, a tray balanced high on her shoulder and loaded with dishes. “Okay, here comes our food. No more shop talk that will ruin the meal for us.”
“Deal,” said McCord. “There will be time enough for that later tonight and tomorrow. I have a bad feeling about the hornet’s nest we’re about to kick over. I hope you all can run like the wind.”
CHAPTER 18
Belay: A term used by high/low angle rescue teams to describe the action of one person controlling the descent of another person or object from an elevated position.
Tuesday, July 25, 8:20 AM
FBI Field Office
Norfolk, Virginia
Meg rapped her knuckles on Van Cleave’s door frame. “Good morning.”
Van Cleave looked up from the document he was reviewing. He looked haggard, the lines on his face deeper than usual, with his top shirt button undone and his tie slightly askew. Meg blinked and studied him more closely. Wasn’t that the same striped tie and blue shirt as yesterday?
“Good morning,” he said, reaching for his coffee cup and downing a big swallow.
“I’m not sure it is. You didn’t go home yesterday, did you?”
“What gave me away?”
Meg came into the office and closed the door behind her. Hawk wandered over to Van Cleave, greeted him enthusiastically, but then seemed overly fascinated by his pant hems.
“What happened? Where did you go?”
Van Cleave looked down. “Am I seriously being sold out by a dog?”
“A dog with an amazing sense of smell, but yes. Hawk, come here, boy.” She waited as he came to her chair. “Down, buddy.” The dog flopped to the floor. “You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce it. You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday, you look exhausted, your cup has multiple rings around it, indicating you’ve nuked your coffee to rewarm it after it’s gone cold a few times, and you’ve walked through something that caught Hawk’s nose as worthy of examination.” She pointed at the document he was reviewing. “Our warrant?”
“Just delivered by one of the junior agents. I was . . . busy.”
Meg didn’t ask again. She simply sat back and raised her eyebrows in expectation.
Van Cleave downed what was left of his coffee and thumped the mug down on his desk, glaring at it. “That’s not working.”
“Perhaps what you really need is a nap?”
“You’re not kidding.” He sat back in his chair, letting his body slide down a few inches, only stopping when his elbows caught on the arms of the chair. “Luke Reed is dead.”
Meg bolted upright in her chair. “Really? How?”
“He never survived the storm. His body was found along Deep Creek, in a mass of downed trees, brush, and other debris in a marshy area near Deep Creek Lock Park. The park was closed for the weekend due to high water levels, but it reopened yesterday morning. Last night, just before dark, some guy found the body. Rather, his dog did. He had let the dog off the leash for a run, but the dog went straight toward the river and into the marsh, and then wouldn’t stop barking at a pile of debris. The guy waded out to investigate and uncovered the body just enough to identify it as human. He called the cops, they came out and recovered the corpse. They
had one of those little portable fingerprint gizmos with them, and from that they ID’d him on scene as Reed.”
“And you had a BOLO out on Reed, so they called you. You went out there, didn’t you? That explains the magical pant hems, at least as far as Hawk is concerned. You went through the marsh dressed like that.”
“I stayed late in the office and arranged to meet a judge to lay out the case for him. I left him with the warrant to review and sign, with instructions that I’d pick it up from him on my way into the office this morning. I’d just gotten home when I got the call. Didn’t even have time to change out of my suit. Kissed my wife, patted my dog, and went right back out.”
“Was your wife mad?”
“No. As I said, she gets it. She knows that lives often hang in the balance in my cases and my time often isn’t my own. I make it up to her in fantastically thoughtful gifts, and vacations of her choice where I don’t take a cell phone with me. My staff has to go to pretty extreme measures to contact me on vacation, which means that if they do, it’s pretty damned serious. It’s only happened once. No, my wife is a trooper. My dog on the other hand . . . I still feel guilty from the look on his face as I went back out the door.”
“You went to the site and confirmed it was Reed?”
“Did my best. After days in the water, he wasn’t in good shape. But between that and the fingerprint ID, it’s definitely him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t carrying his book, and believe me, I looked everywhere on him. Anyway, by the time we extracted him and got him sent to the morgue, the sun was coming up, so I just came straight to the office.” He picked up his mug as if to drink again, remembered it was empty and set it back down. “I need more coffee.”
“No, you need two hours of downtime. It’s too early to serve that warrant yet anyway. Is there a place you can crash here?”
“Amazingly enough, this isn’t the first time someone in this office has been up all night. There’s a supply closet with a cot in it and a DO NOT DISTURB sign someone swiped from a hotel to hang on the doorknob.” He glanced up at the clock on his wall. “I can hit the rack for an hour, maybe two tops, but then I have to get moving.”