Storm Rising

by Sara Driscoll

  “That seems reasonable to me. You’ll be useless for the rest of the day otherwise.” Meg looked down at the warrant on his desk. “With Reed gone, is that the end of the investigation once we identify our missing girls or any other victims that might have fallen into his clutches?”

  “Not that we’ve had any luck yet with the missing girls, but Reed is not the end of the investigation. Not even close. We have too many other threads to tug. Do you really think he was working in isolation?”

  Meg pulled back slightly, surprised at his condescending tone. “This isn’t my area of expertise. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  Van Cleave hung his head for a second, one hand brushing over the short ends of his buzz-cut hair. “Sorry, that was bordering on snarky. I really do need that nap.” He huffed out a breath, gathered another. “These groups don’t usually work on their own. Mostly they’re smaller operations that are linked to a much larger one. Sort of like how the mob functions with a big boss.”

  “We just got one of the guppies, now we need the big fish.”

  “Just like that. We know about ‘Maverick,’ or at least his alias, but we need to find out who that really is. Is he the top of the operation or just another rung on the ladder?”

  “I’m supposed to meet up with McCord this afternoon. I laid it all out for him last night and he had some solid contacts to go after. I have to give him time to work, but I want an update by this afternoon. Do you need me with you when you serve Pate with the warrant?”

  “No, if you have other stuff to do, take care of it. Call me later with an update?”

  “I will. And I expect to hear that you really did take that nap. Van, you won’t help these kids if you’re too exhausted to think straight.”

  “I know, I know. You’re not a mother, are you?”

  “Not yet. Haven’t found the right partner.” She paused. “Maybe.”

  “That sounds like there might be a possibility there after all. Well, when you get to that point, you have the mom nagging down pat.” He softened his words with a wide grin. “Thanks. Apparently, I need a good mom nag, and my wife, who is a master, isn’t around.”

  Meg stood. “Get some rest, then let’s get to it again. I’ll call as soon as I have an update for you.”

  As Meg went out the door, she glanced back, only to find Van Cleave staring at the warrant. She knew that look. It came from a feeling way down in your gut that you’d just lost the biggest lead in your case and you weren’t sure you could come back from it.

  Been there, done that.

  He might be exhausted and discouraged, but they weren’t out of the running yet.

  She and McCord would make sure of it.

  CHAPTER 19

  Bloodhound: A breed of scent dog that is renowned for its keen sense of smell. Developed in the Middle Ages, its physical characteristics and tenaciousness make it a prized tracking/trailing canine. It has been used in the U.S. since the 1800s to track fugitives and missing slaves. It is, however, a notoriously short-lived breed.

  Tuesday, July 25, 3:01 PM

  Tidewater Drive

  Norfolk, Virginia

  Meg waited as McCord approached from down the street. She was standing on the corner of Tidewater Drive and East Charlotte Street, having parked her car along one of the side streets as he’d instructed. She scanned the area around her. Only a few blocks away from downtown Norfolk, this appeared to be an area that the city forgot long before Cole swept through. She stood across from one of Norfolk’s middle schools, with its lower windows bricked in and the athletics field now simply an unattended swamp. The other side of the road held low income housing—identical two-story, plain-faced, redbrick structures with front doors every fifteen feet down their length for maximum occupancy. In front of her, Tidewater’s uneven grading was evident in the half of the road underwater. The sewer system was still too backed up to handle the post-storm drainage.

  Street flooding was likely a sign of the area’s bigger problem, as evidenced by the state of the subsidized housing. Many of the units had belongings tossed out onto the muddy front grass, and clothing and towels dangled from upstairs windows.

  Meg turned toward the south. In the distance, over the raised access of the I-264, she could see the tall floodlight towers of the baseball stadium. Beyond lay the Elizabeth River.

  This neighborhood would have been hit hard on Friday night and would have been inside the evacuation zone because everything would have been underwater once the storm surge rolled in.

  She turned back to watch McCord’s approach. He was wearing khaki shorts with sneakers, a T-shirt emblazoned with FRIEND OF THE POD, and sunglasses to shade his eyes from the glare. He waved in greeting.

  “What’s with all the subterfuge?” Meg asked.

  “I gave you directions on where to meet me. Where’s the subterfuge?”

  “You wouldn’t tell me anything. Why we’re here, or what you found out from your contacts.”

  He crouched down to greet Hawk, who enthusiastically licked his face. “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?” He pushed to his feet. “I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but I miss Cody.”

  Meg fixed him with a puzzled stare. “Why on earth would you be embarrassed? You’re with animal people. I miss Hawk like the devil whenever we’re apart. And Cody’s fine. Cara takes care of him like he’s one of her own.”

  “I know. And she Skypes me so I can see him and talk to him. It always confuses the hell out of him. He can hear my voice but he hasn’t figured out I’m the picture on the screen. He’s cute, but he may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

  “He’s a smart boy. He’s just a little behind the curve when it comes to technology. So? What are we doing here?”

  McCord scanned the area around them, then spotted a bench out in front of the YMCA on the opposite corner. “Come sit down and I’ll catch you up. Then we’re going to take a little walk.”

  “Where?”

  “All in good time.”

  “Have you been told lately that you’re a pain in the ass, McCord?”

  He made her an exaggerated deep bow. “No, but it warms my heart to hear you say it.”

  Rolling her eyes, Meg sat down on the bench. “Okay, spill.”

  “Absolutely.” McCord sat down and held out his hands for Hawk, who came to sit between his knees. McCord stroked him while he talked. “So, Luke Reed. He is one nasty dude.”

  “Oh! I haven’t told you yet.”

  McCord’s hands stilled. “Told me what?”

  “Reed’s dead. Apparently, his attempt to get out of the van dumped him in a raging river and he drowned, according to the prelim autopsy report Van Cleave just passed on.”

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” Sarcasm rolled off every word. McCord ran his hands over Hawk again, who sighed and rested his muzzle on McCord’s thigh. “The late, definitely not-so-great, Luke Reed was a bad apple in every sense of the word. He was arrested three times for assault and had a rape charge dropped.”

  “That much I knew.”

  “Figured you would. What you don’t know about is the stuff he didn’t get caught for. Seems this guy was well-known for his brutal takedowns and temper. Did your girl talk about that?”

  “She said he knocked out one of the girls with a single right hook.”

  “That sounds about right for him. He was all about control and would use physical force to get it.”

  “He used drugs on a lot of the girls,” Meg said. “Kept them high and wanting more. They’d do whatever he wanted.”

  “As I said, couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” McCord’s words were rock hard. “I got similar info from numerous contacts. One of the girls knew about him but refused to tell me anything. Now that I know he’s dead, I’ll circle back to her and see if she’s got anything new.”

  “When you talk to her, ask her if she’s heard anything about any of his other girls. Three of them were out working the night of the storm, and
we’re trying to find them. The cops are coming up empty so far, but maybe your contacts will know more. Did any of them know Reed by his real name?”

  “Most of them did. One person knew the house on West 48th you told me about and could identify him from the location. Another guy goes by the name of Razor—”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. He goes by the name of Razor, and I got the most information out of him. Razor is still on the outside, but I got the impression from his lifestyle that the clock may be ticking on that one. Razor has his fingers in a lot of pies.”

  “Little girls?”

  “No. He made it crystal clear he’s not interested in kids. Truth to be told, I think he’s all hardcore drugs, but they interact with these lowlifes keeping the kids. Want to keep the kids hooked and in line? You need a dealer who may wonder about the amount you’re buying, but will keep his wondering to himself.”

  “Right. Makes sense.”

  “Good ol’ Razor was a little loath to discuss business with me until I forked over two hundred and fifty dollars. Don’t worry,” he said, patting Meg’s knee when she winced. “I had it on me because I expected I’d need to do a little you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours. I have a discretionary fund at the Post for just this kind of thing. I’ll get reimbursed later. That’s sometimes the cost of doing this kind of business. Anyway, Razor got a lot chattier after that. Told me about a place where Reed liked to do business. A bar.” He turned on the bench and pointed down East Charlotte. “That bar, way down there.”

  Meg followed his finger. “That explains why we’re here.”

  “I bring you to the nicest places. Anyway, I want to check this place out. It was apparently where he often did business.”

  Meg sat up straighter. “You mean, met with potential clients and set up appointments with his girls?”

  “Exactly that kind of business. You wouldn’t want any of your clients to learn where your home base is. Piss one of them off, they can turn your whole operation over to the cops. Instead, you find neutral territory.”

  “Anything else come out of your contacts?”

  “Nothing else that you didn’t already know. The bar was the big piece of new info. If Reed was a regular there, I’m hoping the bartender or the waitstaff might be familiar with him.”

  “And his clients. Van Cleave wants to take them all down.”

  “No arguments here. Want to go over and pop in? We’re a little early for happy hour, but if the unemployment rate is as high around here as I think it might be, they’ll likely already be open.”

  “Works for me.”

  They got up from the bench and walked down the street toward a row of small shop fronts a block and a half toward downtown.

  Meg studied the various squat, brick buildings with windowed fronts. “Which one is it?”

  “According to Google Street View, it’s the one on the corner. See the sign MILLER’S TAP HOUSE? That one.”

  As they approached, Meg got a better look at the outside of the building. The side wall was covered with nondescript graffiti—huge bubble-letter words, smaller scrawls in different colors, and smaller, indistinct drawings. “Great area of town, McCord.”

  “And this is why I wanted to meet you down the street, not at the tavern. I didn’t want you there alone.” When she slid him a sideways glare, he clarified, “I know you’re more than capable of looking after yourself. I know what you can do, what Hawk can do. But I didn’t want to put you in the position of having to defend yourself, because then there are explanations and paperwork and interviews. I just figured there was a smaller chance you’d be bothered if I was with you.” He jabbed her with his elbow. “And this way, you can protect me.”

  “That’s your reasoning, delicate flower? You who’ve lived in a war zone?”

  “That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.”

  She laughed and shoulder bumped him back. On this third case with him, their working together was beginning to feel completely natural. Sometimes when he wasn’t around, she missed his irreverent sense of humor lightening the mood. McCord was never serious if he could be a smart-ass instead.

  Unless it was a situation devoid of humor.

  “I’m not liking the look of this.”

  Meg looked from the grim set of McCord’s mouth to where his eyes were fixed. “Damn. I didn’t count on that. They’re closed?”

  On the far side of the street, the tavern had a large handwritten sign on the door—CLOSED DUE TO FLOOD—and wooden boards crisscrossed over the windows. The rest of the street looked deserted and Meg wasn’t sure if that was its normal state or this was simply post-storm desolation.

  “They got hit by the storm hard. Looks like it even blew out their windows.” McCord quickly looked both ways and then crossed the street, Meg and Hawk trotting to keep up with him.

  “They’re close enough to the river that the storm tide would have left them pretty deep in seawater. It doesn’t look like an overly prosperous establishment. They may not be insured.”

  “Or they are and are fighting with their insurance company just like everyone else in the area. Not that you can clean up quickly from something like this.” Reaching the tavern, McCord leaned in to look through the window. “Not totally blown out, but a good portion of the glass is gone.” He grasped one of the boards and gave it a gentle shake. The wood rocked under his hand. “Not that these boards are going to keep looters out. Is the door locked?”

  Meg stepped up onto the concrete stoop and tried the handle. “Yes. The owner is likely doing what he can to keep people out with what he has at hand. Do we know who the owner is?”

  “No, but with your contacts, you can track that down pretty easily. You want to pay him a visit?”

  “We have to start somewhere.” Meg joined him at the window to peer into the gloom. Weak daylight trickled inside to reveal toppled tables and chairs, shattered glasses, a broken pool cue, and a mangled tin sign for Bud Light. She went back to the front door to look through the shattered glass. “Looks like we struck out. Again.” She allowed herself five seconds of pique and gave the heavy wooden door a solid kick. It rattled at the force of the blow, but stayed in place. “We have the world’s worst luck. Reed is dead, the best lead on him evaporated, and we’re back to square one.”

  “I really thought we had something here. But maybe we can still get some info from the owner. His place may be closed, but unless he died in it, he’s still around somewhere.” They started down the sidewalk toward where she’d parked.

  They were forty feet away, getting ready to cross the street, when movement caught Meg’s eye. Glancing back, she caught sight of a man crossing the street, heading straight for the pub. She grabbed McCord’s arm just as he was about to step off the curb. “Wait.”

  The man stepped up to the front door and put a key in the lock. Meg turned and started to jog back down the street toward him. The man turned at the sound of pounding feet, but his eyes weren’t on her; they were fixed on Hawk, running at her side.

  “Excuse me!” Meg jammed her hand in her pocket as she ran, and managed to extract her ID and flip it open. “FBI. Could I ask you a few questions?”

  The man shrank back into the doorway. “Call off your dog.”

  Meg pulled up sharply ten feet from him. “Hawk, sit.”

  The dog immediately complied.

  “He’s not going to hurt you. He’s search-and-rescue.”

  “Don’t need rescuing.”

  “No, sir. Could I ask you a few questions?”

  “’Bout?”

  “One of your patrons. You’re the owner of this establishment?”

  “For what it’s worth.” The man’s gaze shot over Meg’s shoulder.

  Meg turned to find McCord behind her. “Mr. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked back at the older man.

  The man paused for a minute before saying, “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Meg Jennings with the FBI. Mr. . . .”
>
  “Miller.” The name was a reluctant grunt through clenched teeth.

  “Mr. Miller, this is Mr. Clay McCord from the Washington Post.” When the man tried to take an involuntary step back but hit the brick wall instead, Meg hurried to explain. “He’s not writing a story on you or your place. He’s assisting me with an FBI case that is unrelated to you directly. We’re actually hoping you can provide some information about one of your patrons.”

  “People come to my place because I leave them alone to do their thing. Take a hike. Go talk to someone else.”

  He twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door, but Meg stepped up onto the stoop with him. “I’d hate to have to ask you to take this conversation out to the local field office, but I will if needed. Sir, you aren’t in trouble, but we desperately need your help.”

  Dark eyes squinted at her. “Who you need information about?”

  “Luke Reed.”

  Miller stiffened, his jaw tightening, but he remained silent.

  “If you’re worried about retribution from Reed, he’s dead. Drowned in Deep Creek on Monday. We know he was into some pretty awful stuff, and that children in his care were abused. We just want to make sure there isn’t anyone else involved. If there is, we need to help them.”

  The man continued to stare, his dark eyes flat and emotionless. “What’s in it for me?”

  “The FBI leaving you alone and not looking into your business venture.”

  Miller stepped forward, crowding Meg, who didn’t budge. “That’s fucking blackmail.”

  Hawk lurched to his feet, a low growl rumbling from the back of his throat. Meg put her hand on his head, but didn’t verbally tell him to stand down. She met Miller’s angry gaze without blinking. “It’s hardly blackmail. If you have nothing to hide, then I have zero power over you. Think about it. Is it worth a stand to cover the tracks of a dead man?”

  Miller cursed low under his breath, then he pushed open the door and stepped back. “We’ll talk inside.”