Meg stepped toward the door and his arm shot out. “No dogs allowed.” But then he hesitated, glancing through the door at his ruined bar, his lips twisted in a frown. He wasn’t going to be serving customers for a long time, if ever. “Oh, fuck it. Bring on the health department.” He waved her and Hawk in.
Meg stepped into the dim space, giving her eyes a moment to adjust from daylight into the interior gloom. Eyeing the shattered glass, she kicked a section clear and signaled Hawk into it. Pulling out his search-and-rescue boots, she helped him into them. No way was her dog being put out of commission by slicing up his paws in here.
Miller pushed past her, kicking debris out of his path as he made his way behind the bar. “They say the power’s back on. We’ll see.”
McCord stepped in behind her. “Charming fellow,” he muttered in her ear.
“I’ll say. I get that he’s pissed because he lost his livelihood and may never be able to afford to get it back, but he’s hiding something he really doesn’t want us to know. I don’t need to, but I’m happy to use the shadow of it as leverage.”
With an ambient buzz, fluorescent lights glowed dimly overhead, gradually strengthening, giving a clearer view of the chaos inside. It looked like the bar had been put through a blender—every item was thrown about haphazardly, mostly to land on the floor in pieces.
McCord whistled.
“Yeah, it’s done for. I’m done for. No way the insurance’ll cover this. The bastards’ll claim act of God.” Nevertheless, Miller started to pick up items, sorting them into whole and still usable, shattered and garbage.
With a glance at Meg that said This is your show, go for it, McCord started to lend a hand.
Why not? Meg gave Hawk the hand signal to sit and stay, and then picked up a bar stool and stood it upright. Minus the torn leather seat—and she wasn’t sure it wasn’t like that before Cole stormed through—it was still in decent shape. “Mr. Miller, what can you tell us about Luke Reed? We understand he was a regular customer here. That he liked to do . . . business here.”
Miller glanced at her sideways and, for a moment, his gaze held hers. She could see the calculation there. “What do you know about his business?”
Let’s get this out of the way once and for all.
“We know about his girls. Underage girls he trafficked into the sex trade. We’ve been led to believe by others outside his circle that he would sometimes meet clients here to set up meets with his girls. Can you confirm that?”
Miller glanced from Meg to McCord. “He’s dead. There’s no mistake?”
“None,” McCord said. “ID’d by fingerprints.”
“Mean son of a bitch. Had it coming.” When Meg stared at him silently, he said, “Went after a couple of my girls.”
“I can see why that would be upsetting.” Meg found a broom under some debris behind the bar and started to sweep broken glass into a pile. “I assume you knew the nature of his business?”
“He never came out and said it, but you hear things when you’re workin’. You make assumptions. I knew he was selling women, but you say they was little girls?”
“Yes. He might have had his hands in more than one pie, but this piece of it involved selling the services of underage girls to older men.”
“Fucker.”
The word was mumbled, but Meg still caught a wisp of it. “You thought he was prostituting women, and you never kicked him out of the bar or called the cops on him?”
Miller slammed a chair down defensively and took one step toward Meg. “Lady, I don’t know where you get off, but—”
“Hey, hey!” McCord stepped in between them, holding out a hand, palm out, toward Miller. “She’s just asking you some questions.” He turned toward Miller, putting Meg behind him, out of sight. “You know and I know it’s not that easy. That there are repercussions from doing things like going to law enforcement. You can’t afford to lose business, right?”
“Fuck, no.”
“And if word got out that you were a snitch, some people might not consider it a safe place to be or to meet contacts.” He turned around and gave Meg a pointed look. “We get that.”
She returned the pointed look and gave him a hand flick to move out of the way. His eyes clearly said Take it easy or he’ll clam up, but he stepped back.
Meg bent down and picked up a lowball glass. She held it up to the light, looking for cracks. Miraculously, it was intact. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, I wasn’t implying that you weren’t doing your civic duty. I’m just trying to get a feel for the atmosphere in this place when it was open for business. I can’t see that right now.” She set the glass down on one end of the bar. “Mr. Reed was a regular customer?”
There was a pause, then a vague grumble. “Yeah.”
“And how often was that to conduct business?”
“Most times.”
This is like pulling teeth. He’d answer in monosyllables if he could. “Did he have regular hours or were his visits random?”
“Random. But he always sat there.” Miller pointed to a booth at the back of the tavern, near the back corner and away from the kitchens and the bathrooms, but near the single emergency exit.
Meg used the broom to help clear a path to the back of the pub. The booth was tall-backed, with worn leather padding and a scarred table. She perched on the edge of one of the benches and looked toward the front door. “He could see everyone who entered the bar from here. And there was no reason for the waitstaff or customers to wander by accidentally.” She stood and walked to the emergency exit. On it, a sign proclaimed EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY, DOOR ALARM WILL SOUND. Meg gave the door a push and an ear-splitting shriek blared. She quickly pulled the door shut. “No one was using this door to go out and grab a smoke or to make a deal, that’s for sure.”
“No.”
“He would have had total privacy back here.” McCord joined her and stood by the booth. “If he was doing business, he would have wanted to keep the foot traffic and associated ears down to a minimum. Did he have an understanding with the waitresses?”
Miller nodded. “They knew to keep away unless he actually waved someone over for service. Whenever any of the girls got close, there was no conversation.”
“So how did you know what was going on?” Meg asked. “If no one could get close enough to hear . . .”
“Because my place is behind the bar.” Miller stepped behind the long stretch of wood, standing at the end closest to the booth, where a small inset sink was located. “This was the end for cleaning up, so we didn’t keep chairs this far down the bar. But I’d be down here working sometimes. I’d see things. Or hear them.”
“And Reed knew that?” McCord asked.
“He probably suspected. I never said a thing. Well, not about that.”
Meg crossed the room to stand at the bar and propped one foot on the dull metal boot rail four inches off the floor. “What about, then?”
“He roughed up one of my girls. He sometimes yelled or swore at ’em, but this time it got physical. When I got between them, he complained she was listening to his private conversations. She wasn’t. It was a busy night; all the booths were full and she was serving the booth next to him.” He slammed a whiskey bottle down on the counter. “No one roughs up my girls.”
“Understandable,” Meg said. “Did you throw him out?”
“Got in his face. Threatened to. Made it clear we’re not interested in his business, we’re just running a bar. After that, he continued to come, but most of the time it was when it wasn’t so busy and tables around him were empty.”
“You said you saw things,” McCord said. “What kinds of things?”
Miller glanced at Meg, but then addressed his answer to McCord. “Money changing hands.”
“A lot of money?”
“Looked like it to me.”
“What else?”
“The kind of people he met with. Looked like they’d never been in a place like this.”
“What do
you mean?” Meg asked.
“They come in with their fancy suits, looking really uncomfortable. Until they became repeat customers.”
“He had repeat customers?”
“Sure.”
“Any you could identify?”
“I’d recognize them if I saw them, but I don’t know who they were.”
“That’s a good start,” Meg said. “You saw money changing hands, but never any product? No drugs or anything?”
“Always knew he was selling a service. Never came in with anything. Customers never left with anything.”
“You say he never came in with anything. He never had a book with him? One of those spiral-bound organizers that fits in your pocket?”
“Oh, I saw that a lot. When I said he never came in with anything, I meant anything his customer left with. But he always had that book. Used to make notes after his meetings.”
Meg glanced at McCord. “That book must have had all his notes about his customers and which girls he planned to send to them. It wasn’t found on him, so it’s probably somewhere out in the Atlantic by now.” She looked back to where Miller had stopped cleaning up debris to lean against the back counter of the bar. Behind him, the remains of a mirror, now cracked and shattered to show only drywall behind, ran the length of the bar. Shelves that once held bottles now only held jagged pieces of glass. “Mr. Miller, I appreciate that you were reluctant to talk to us, but you’ve been a huge help. Is there anything else you can add? You’ve told us about his clients and his notebook. Did you leave anything out?”
“Like . . . associates?”
“People who worked with him instead of men who hired his girls?” Meg asked.
“There were a couple guys who’d come in sometimes. But mostly just one guy.”
“Do you know his name?”
“This guy was too cool to use his own name. Went by Maverick.”
McCord went absolutely still beside Meg. She cleared her throat before she trusted her voice to sound sufficiently casual. “Maverick?”
“Yeah.”
“He never used his real name?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he fit into Reed’s organization?”
“I think he was his boss. Reed was always so . . .” He seemed to be searching for the right word.
“Deferential? Always bowing to his instructions?”
“Yeah, like that.”
Meg stomped on the urge to fist-pump the air. They finally had their first solid hint that they were touching on the edge of a much larger organization. Reed might be dead, but there were others to take down.
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you be willing to work with a sketch artist to come up with a face?”
Miller shrugged. “Wouldn’t it be easier to look at a picture of him?”
“It would. You have one?”
Miller tipped his head up and scanned the dark upper corners of the bar. Then he pointed into the corner at right angles to Reed’s booth. “I might.”
Meg spun around to follow his finger and choked back a gasp before it could break free.
A security camera.
You’ve been out of investigations and doing search-and-rescue too long. You’re getting rusty. This wouldn’t have slipped by you when you were still on the Richmond PD.
She met McCord’s gaze. The clients. This could be huge.
“Three cameras,” Miller said. “One outside, two in.” He pointed to another at the far end of the room. “I got ’em installed a few years ago.”
“You have footage from the cameras? It wouldn’t have gotten destroyed in the hurricane?”
“Too big a risk to keep expensive equipment here. I been robbed before, so I had to do something so thieves knew they were watched and would stop after casing the bar. I got something called IP cameras and traded free booze for some college kid putting the system together and getting me online. What did he call it? The cloud? Offsite storage? All I know is no damned kids can steal my computer because it isn’t here. I’ll have footage from the last fourteen days that we were open and had power. May have some older bits too.”
“We would appreciate that. Would you prefer we served you with a warrant for it?”
For a second Miller’s eyes filled with alarm, but then calculation shone through. “That way I can say I had no choice but to give it to you?” He kicked a broken jar and it skittered across the floor, scattering green olives in a rolling spray. “In case I ever open again?”
“You’re doing us a favor, I can do the same in return. That way you can bitch about the feds and no one will call you a snitch.”
“I can go one better,” McCord said. “You let me know who your insurance company is, and I’ll give them a friendly call looking for a story about this place and their lack of support. The Washington Post is pretty well-known. That may give them a good scare and they may help you just to get me off their backs.”
“Why you doin’ this?” Miller’s words were laced with suspicion as he looked from one to the other.
“Mr. Miller, I really want to find out what’s going on here and to find other girls we know are involved. Reed and his associates hurt children without a single thought. Anyone who does that needs to pay. You help us do that, I’m happy to help you come out of it squeaky clean.” Meg looked around the bar. “You’ve lost a lot of glassware and bottles, but the place looks like it dried out okay. You’ll be back in business in a couple of weeks. And you may even have a pretty good story to tell from behind the bar. Just keep this all on the down-low for now. When can you get the data?”
“I’ll call the kid back in as soon as you come in with a warrant. He can get it right away.”
“Perfect. How about noon tomorrow to give my colleague enough time to get the warrant.” She turned to McCord. “And in the meantime, you have some threads to pull.”
Meeting his gaze, she knew he was focused on the same thread as she.
Maverick.
CHAPTER 20
Confinement Search: A search where the objective is to confine the subject within a specified area.
Wednesday, July 26, 8:12 AM
FBI Field Office
Norfolk, Virginia
Meg propped one shoulder against the doorjamb. “Good morning.”
Van Cleave looked up blearily. “Morning.”
“I thought you’d be here early, but don’t tell me you were here all night.”
“No. Came in around six. I have your warrant.” He started sifting through the pile of paperwork on his desk. “Somewhere. I swear. Ah, here it is.” He pulled a white business envelope out from beneath a stacked pile of forms.
Meg entered the office with Hawk at her side, and took the proffered envelope. “Miller says he’ll be back at his tavern at noon, so I’ll take this to him around one o’clock just to give him some leeway. Then we’ll see what the security footage gives us.” She dropped into a chair and motioned for Hawk to lie down. “I’d love it if we got clients identified from it. Getting the scumbags who run the ring is only part of the process in my mind. We need the buyers as well as the sellers. Oh, by the way, I have something else for you.”
“What’s that?”
“McCord came through with a name for us overnight. When I woke up I found the email he sent at five this morning. His last line was ‘Going to bed finally. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’ Looks like it took him a while to get the information he was looking for.”
“A name for Maverick?”
“Yes.” Meg pulled out her phone and opened McCord’s email. “Tuco Ramírez.”
“You’re kidding.”
Meg looked up. “Sorry?”
“The name. You’re kidding me, right?”
“No.” She turned her phone around to show it to Van Cleave. “See?”
Van Cleave took the phone, scanned the email, and handed it back. “Well, that’s an alias if I ever
saw one. Let’s look him up with that assumption in mind.”
“Why would you think it’s an alias? There are lots of Mexican immigrants in this area.”
“Because that’s the name of one of the three main characters in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”
“With Clint Eastwood?” Meg rolled her eyes and flopped back in her chair. “I’m surrounded by cowboys.”
Van Cleave looked up from typing the name into his system, his fingers frozen over the keys. “How so?”
“McCord? Clay McCord? The Deputy?”
Van Cleave stared at her, brows drawn together in confusion. “I don’t follow.”
“McCord, my reporter friend from the Washington Post. His father named him after the lead character in a 1950s TV show called The Deputy.”
“Huh. Must have missed that one.”
“And you call yourself an investigator. Now, what about this Tuco character?”
“It’s thinking, give it a minute.” He picked up his coffee mug and took a long sip, closing his eyes in pleasure.
“You were in early. Did something pop?”
“You might say that. I got the list of names we were waiting for from yesterday’s warrant.”
“The juvenile names from Pate?”
“Yes. And right from the get-go, I knew we had a problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“The list of names he sent?” Van Cleave picked up the printed list he’d been staring at when she knocked on his door. “It’s incomplete. For starters, Emma’s name isn’t listed, and we know she was there.”
Meg whistled. “They wouldn’t know that because we never told them about her.” She held out her hand. “Can I see?”
He handed her the list. “Who knows who else might be missing? The son of a bitch made sure we gave him time to comb through the list, getting rid of any names that he didn’t want on there.”
“You think he requested the warrant so it looked like we were forcing his noble hand, but in reality, he was buying time to make sure his list was sanitized. If that’s true, then he’s guilty as sin.”
“Certainly looks that way. Now I need another warrant to seize his electronics and I’ll let the geeks at Quantico do the hard digging there. We need to find more than just one missing name. He could claim to have just missed Emma’s name by accident. We need actual proof. Then I’ll happily slap him with interfering with a police investigation and obstruction of justice.”
Storm Rising Page 19
