“You do that, and he’s going to know you’re on to him. Wouldn’t it be better to string him along for a few days so he thinks you have no idea? What if he’s not the only person involved, and nailing him makes others cover their tracks, or worse, bolt?”
“You may have something there. I need to think about the best way to get him into a corner that still works to our advanta—” His computer gave a soft ding. “Let’s see what we have here.” He was silent as he scanned the information on his monitor. “Looks like we won’t need those security tapes after all. Not for this identification at least. Although they’ll be gold as far as charging this one and being able to trace his business dealings.” He turned his monitor so she could see the face displayed on screen. The man had messy dark hair, a thick neck, and a mole at his left temple. “Tuco is an alias. His real name is Dominic Russo, age thirty-five. Dominic is a very bad apple. Multiple arrests. Assault. B and E. Theft. But notice the lack of drug charges. He stayed away from anything that came with suffocating mandatory minimums.”
Meg scooted forward to sit on the edge of the chair so she could see better. “Did he go through any reentry programs?”
Van Cleave clicked a few times, then paused to read. “Well, fancy that. He went through the Chesapeake Community Corrections Service Center.”
“So that place is definitely ground zero in this.”
“Apparently. Now, the question is—did Reed and Russo overlap, and if so, who taught whom the trick about recruitment?”
“Maybe Russo recruited Reed. Maybe that place wasn’t all about the victims. It could also have been about strengthening and expanding their business structure. If they were both adults at the time, he would have had lots of time to coerce Reed to his team. It wouldn’t have been limited to adult and juvenile mentoring time.”
“That’s good. That could be something,” Van Cleave said. “His team. What if he was using the reentry program to form his team?”
“You mean like it was a pyramid scheme? He was under the guy above him and then he would have several guys leading groups below him?”
“Roughly, yeah.”
“That could work. And reentry would certainly house the kind of people who would be more likely to get involved in that kind of scheme. Not exactly the cream of society, if you know what I mean.”
“I certainly do.”
Meg stood. “I’m going to give McCord another hour to catch up on his beauty sleep and then I’m calling him. I’ll see what else he has on Russo or if he’s still got feelers out. And I have a lead to follow up on. I’ve reached out to my old sergeant from the Richmond PD and he said to give him a call later this morning. He may be too far afield to have any expertise on trafficking this far south, but I thought it was worth a shot.”
“Absolutely. Departments get involved in each other’s cases more than you might think.” Van Cleave tapped his index finger on the list on his desk. “We’re getting there. The net is slowly tightening.”
“I’m just worried it’s tightening too slowly and people are slipping through. Undocumented adults far from home with no one to miss them. Kids out on the streets, easy targets for predators. If we don’t move fast, lives are at stake.”
“Then we need to make sure that doesn’t happen. By any legal means possible, we’re going to bring down as many of them as we can.”
CHAPTER 21
DIY: A type of volunteer rescue where participants improvise and do whatever it takes to help.
Wednesday, July 26, 5:22 PM
Motel 6
Norfolk, Virginia
Meg threw herself down into a padded chair by the balcony doors while Webb propped himself up against the headboard of the bed, stretched out his legs, and crossed his booted feet over the edge of the coverlet.
“Just make yourself at home, you two.” Hands on his hips while Hawk milled around his legs, McCord eyed them both.
“Been a long day,” Webb said. “This hero stuff is exhausting. Time to take a load off. And she took the only chair.”
“You have a good point.” McCord sat down on the foot of the bed.
“So?” Meg prodded. “You called and said you had something and we needed to come. We’re here. What have you got?”
“Things really started to move when you gave me Russo’s real name. Suddenly I had people coming out of the woodwork who knew the guy.”
“Maybe that’s why he used the alias. And then an alias for the alias,” Webb said. “He was getting too well-known and didn’t want it traced back to his real persona and actual track record.” Hawk nudged at Webb’s hand and he patted the bed. “Come on up, bud.”
Hawk didn’t need to be told twice. He launched himself onto the bed, turned around a few times and then flopped down with a heavy sigh, pushing his head against Webb’s thigh. Webb gave him a good rub and looked up to find McCord staring at him. “What?”
“First you sack out on my bed and then you invite the dog up. What if I didn’t want the dog in my bed?”
“You’re going to tell me you don’t sleep with Cody?”
“And another point to you.” He stroked Hawk’s head and silky ears. “Maybe your mom will let you stay the night with me. I miss the little guy.”
“The ‘little guy’ is a year old and is still mostly insane. But the best kind of insane.” Meg smiled down at Hawk. “And no, you can’t borrow my dog overnight because then I’d miss him. Now . . . what have you got?”
“All right, all right.” Out of his back pocket McCord pulled a small, beaten-up notepad with a pen jammed down the spiral binding. He opened the notepad and flipped through it a page at a time. “Okay, here we are. So, Dominic Russo is a man cloaked in mystery. You want something, Russo can get it for you. Need a worker? A girl? A contractor? A contract killer? Russo is your guy. This guy seems to be the central hub when it comes to connections. If he can’t get you what you’re looking for, he can find someone who can.”
“For a price, I assume?” asked Webb.
“Always for a price. His services aren’t cheap either. But they come with an iron-clad guarantee. Russo’s word is his bond. If he says it will get done, it will.”
“That kind of dependability could move him far up the ladder of most crime circles,” Meg said.
“I get the impression it has. But while he has a reputation for being a jack-of-all-trades as far as procurement goes, he’s also a ghost. No one knows where he came from, or where he lives. He just appeared in the middle of all this one day and started clawing his way up the ladder.”
“The question then, is who’s at the top? And where does he get his people from?”
“I might have some insight there.” McCord turned a few more battered pages. “A Short Trip To Hell.”
“Are you describing this case?” Meg asked.
“It’s a drink,” Webb said.
McCord turned around slowly and pinned him with a disgusted look. “You just got kicked out of the Manly Man Hall of Fame. How do you know about a girly schnapps drink?”
“One of the guys on second shift moonlights as a bartender. He can put you flat on your back inside of two drinks. I remember that one. Looks like a girly drink but it’s multiple kinds of schnapps mixed with Jägermeister and Red Bull. It’s a sledgehammer in disguise and really is a short trip to hell, especially if you mix it with a few different cocktails. But somehow, I don’t think you’re talking about a kick-your-ass cocktail. What do you mean by ‘a short trip to hell’?”
“It’s the name of a bar.”
“Charming,” Meg said. “And what does this bar have to do with anything?”
“Remember, these guys don’t do business out of a storefront or their own homes. They have a public place they can get lost in or can escape from, with a back entrance. A place where similar rabble will feel comfortable.” McCord clapped a hand on Webb’s shin. “Speaking of rabble, wanna go out and get some girls tonight?”
“I think the one in the chair on the o
ther side of the room would hurt us both if I said yes to that. Wanna be more specific about what you’re aiming for? Because I know you left a girl at home, so that’s not your real goal.”
“No, but I want to take a run at this guy.”
Meg sat bolt upright as alarm streaked through her. “Russo?”
“Yeah.”
“You can’t do that. You’re not law enforcement. Even if you were, you certainly can’t do that alone. He’s a dangerous man.”
“She’s getting hard of hearing,” McCord said in an aside to Webb. “I don’t think she heard me ask you to come along.”
“She’s not wrong, you know. Going in there on our own, without real backup, could be idiotic,” Webb said.
“I can always go solo,” McCord shot back. “The most important thing to make this work is not being law enforcement. I can do that by myself.”
“Going on your own would be beyond idiotic. Fine, I’m in just so you don’t hang yourself with this stunt. Don’t make me regret it.”
“Neither of you are law enforcement,” Meg insisted, “so you can’t even try this.”
Webb sat up and swung his boots to the floor, causing Hawk to raise his head and blink sleepy eyes. “A guy like that will smell law enforcement from a mile away. It’s one reason he’s so successful. We can do this better than they could.”
“I’m beginning to sound like a broken record. You can’t do this on your own and without Van Cleave’s approval.”
“He’d throw off the whole mission. If he looks like a Feeb and smells like a Feeb, he’s probably a Feeb. And you certainly can’t come with us.” McCord stood and started to pace the length of the small hotel room. “I can’t walk into a bar like that with a woman—worse, a woman with a dog—and track down a guy to ask about buying a girl for sex. I can walk in with a buddy.” He looked Webb up and down appraisingly. “One who looks like he could hold his own in a bar fight. One who’s likely been in a few.”
“A couple in my day,” Webb said. “I held my own. What about you, if things get squirrelly?”
McCord poked his chest with an index finger. “Iraq War, remember? You were here having bar fights when I was dodging bullets and IEDs.”
“I spend my days running into burning buildings. You’re not seriously questioning my courage, are you?”
McCord grinned. “Nah, just making sure we’ll have each other’s backs if this goes south.”
“Damn straight.”
Meg wanted to yank her hair in frustration. “Put the goddamn Y chromosomes away for a few minutes. You’re seriously considering going to hang out at this Short Trip To Hell?”
“Van Cleave can’t stop us from going to a public place.” McCord grinned at Webb. “And you never know who you’ll meet at a place like that.”
“Which also means we may meet no one,” Webb said. “Meg, there’s no guarantee that he’ll even be there. We’re working on the assumption that McCord’s intel is correct—”
“Hey!” McCord’s expression was pure outrage.
“—and Russo will be there. We may end up spending the night nursing beers and listening to bad music.”
“And if he’s actually there?” Meg asked.
“Then we’re going to approach him and inquire about girls,” McCord said. “We’ll tell you one hundred percent of what he says and turn the information over to Van Cleave. We’re not looking to take him down, just to find out any information that might be useful.”
“And if he makes you?”
“He won’t, but if by some strange chance he does, we’ll defend ourselves.”
“With what? You didn’t bring firearms. And even if you did, unless you applied to the state for a nonresident concealed carry permit, you can’t carry one anyway.”
Webb stood and walked over to Meg’s SAR pack to nudge it with his boot. “You brought weapons. At least two of them.”
“It’s illegal in Virginia to concealed carry either my military switchblade or my SAR knife.”
“It’s not illegal to open carry. That’s one weapon for each of us.”
Meg flopped back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s that easy, is it?”
“It could be,” McCord said. He squatted down in front of her so he was at her eye level. “Help us do this safely. We’ll let you know when we’re going in, and we’ll let you know when we’re free and clear. We’ll be careful.”
“We’ll have each other’s backs if anything goes wrong,” said Webb. “And no one uses a weapon unless a life depends on it.”
Shaking her head, Meg dug into her pack, pulling out and handing her sheathed SAR knife to Webb and the folded military knife to McCord. “Do not get into trouble. I’m not pulling strings to bail you two idiots out of jail.”
“Would we do that?” McCord asked. But he quickly shot up a hand to stop Meg when she opened her mouth. “On the other hand, don’t answer that.”
Meg certainly hoped there would be no need to go back on her word and make arrangements to bail them out of jail if their cockamamie scheme went sideways.
CHAPTER 22
Trailing canine: A search dog that exclusively follows the scent of a specific targeted individual.
Wednesday, July 26, 10:49 PM
A Short Trip To Hell
Norfolk, Virginia
Webb and McCord stepped into the bar to the rib-rattling thump of 1970s classic rock. McCord scanned the room: Ninety percent of the patrons were male between the ages of twenty and forty, with heavy facial hair, many wearing leather vests with motorcycle club names. Despite the name of the club, McCord was pretty sure there wasn’t a schnapps bottle in the place. This was an establishment where beer, bourbon, and whiskey ruled, and metrosexuals weren’t welcome.
“You live in D.C. long enough,” Webb half shouted, “you forget what a smoky bar smells like. Then it all comes back like it was yesterday.”
“I believe that’s your designated, isolated smoking room over there.” McCord pointed to a room toward the back of the bar, where the door was propped open with a bar stool as a waitress passed through with a loaded tray of drinks. “So much for a separate area.”
“They won’t give a damn as long as the health department doesn’t come through the door. Do you see him?”
“No. And if we stand here much longer gawking, we’re going to get made. Come on.”
McCord led the way through tables toward the bar as the crack of pool balls breaking echoed from the back of the bar, followed by a masculine yell of triumph. They grabbed two empty bar stools as a brawny, tattooed bartender swaggered toward them.
“What’ll you have?”
“Old Virginia,” Webb said.
McCord glanced sideways at him, hoping he could hold his liquor if he was starting with whiskey. “Make it two.”
The bartender nodded, grabbed two shot glasses, poured whiskey, and pushed the drinks in front of them. Webb tossed a ten down on the bar, and the bartender grabbed it and wandered in the direction of the cash register.
“Bottoms up,” said Webb, and tossed back the drink.
“I guess a nice Chablis isn’t something you’re partial to.” McCord picked up his drink, stared at the amber liquid, and then shot back the contents. The whiskey burned all the way down and McCord fought the urge to cough it back up. He thumped the glass down on the bar.
“Not a whiskey drinker?” Webb’s eyes were laughing, even though his face was straight.
“Not usually.” McCord’s voice came out choked with a heavy rasp. “I’ll buy the next round and it’ll be beer.”
“I can live with that.” Webb’s gaze scanned the bar nearly from one side to the other before shooting back partway. “Don’t turn around and look, but I’ve got him.”
“Where?”
“Booth on the back wall, by the washrooms. Bet that’s where the emergency exit is. It’s dark and less traveled.”
“Just like the setup Reed used.”
“He w
as probably taught by the master.”
“Is he alone?”
“For now. He’s looking at his phone and texting.”
“We need to get another round and join him before someone else shows up.” McCord waved down the bartender and ordered and paid for two beers. “Ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
They picked up their beers and wound their way through the bar to the booth at the back. Without saying a word, McCord slid onto the bench seat opposite Russo, Webb sitting down next to him.
Russo, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a thick neck and heavily tattooed forearms, looked up from his phone. His eyes narrowed into a mean squint. Everything about him was hard, from the set of his jaw to the bulk of his muscles. McCord hoped they wouldn’t find out about that the hard way.
“Can I help you . . . gentlemen?” His voice was a jagged rasp, and the last word carried a sneer.
“We’re hoping you can help us,” McCord said. “We’ve been told by a reliable source that you’re good at . . . finding desired objects.”
“What source?”
“He swore me to secrecy. But he said you could help us out.” He raised his beer in Webb’s direction, then took a sip before setting it down.
“I can’t do business with someone who just walks in off the street. You could be a cop trying to entrap me.” He head-jerked toward the front door. “Get gone.”
Webb started to get up, but McCord caught his arm, dragging him back down. “Okay, okay. He may never deal for me again, but it’s Blackjack Fuller, from the west side.”
“How you know Blackjack?”
“We’ve done some business. Granted that business got interrupted when he got put away for assault on his old lady.” McCord curled his lip, hoping it reflected disgust. “Bullshit charge. A man should be able to have a say in his own house without the cops raining fire down on his head. Blackjack certainly agrees, but he has to play it safe while he’s on probation.”
Storm Rising Page 20
