Meg ran her hand through her hair. “God, that seems like a lifetime ago. When was that? Tuesday? So much has happened since then.”
“How much can you tell me about what’s going on?”
“We have two arrests on public record, so I can certainly talk about those.” She filled Cara in on the previous few days, including Webb and McCord’s visit to A Short Trip To Hell, her tracking of Russo after, and the op and the arrests that followed. When she got to today’s arrests, she noticed that Webb and McCord had stopped paying attention to the baseball game and now had their attention firmly fixed on her. “So, while Russo is scared to death and is willing to sell his soul to make a deal, Pate considers it a minor inconvenience.”
“Jail is a minor inconvenience?” said McCord. “This is a guy who runs a private prison, he should know better. I’ve interviewed my share of inmates. Prison is brutal.”
Meg carried the laptop over to the bed and sat down on it, cross-legged, beside Webb, giving her dog a gentle shove to give her more space. “Shift it, Hawk. Stop hogging the bed.” She placed the laptop on the far corner so it was like the four of them were sitting in a circle. “Then what is it that he knows that we don’t know?”
“Maybe he thinks Russo is an unreliable witness,” Webb said. He looked at McCord. “What you do think? We met him. He might provide drugs to his vics, maybe even take them himself, but Russo seemed pretty solid to me. Totally in control of the situation.”
“Agreed,” McCord said. “But we don’t know what their business arrangement is, or how much contact they had. Maybe Pate thinks he can discredit Russo as a witness? What evidence do you have besides that?”
“The fact that he left Emma off the list of juveniles that went through his facility. The tech boys are still going through the computer data and cross-referencing it to known victims. The problem there is if a certain girl is not a known victim, then she could be left off the list and we’d never make the connection. We only made the connection with Emma because we had her full story.”
“That’s not going to be enough to hold him. Any decent lawyer would get him out of that error.” McCord made air quotes around the word “error.” “What if he’s not worried because he’s assuming he’ll go to his own facility? Once he’s there, he’d expect to be treated like royalty.”
“Not buying that,” Webb said. “First of all, he shouldn’t go there at all simply because he’d managed that facility. And even if some miracle occurred and he was sent there, he’d still be confined. He might have some luxuries provided to him on the sly, but he’d still be a prisoner. It wouldn’t be the same. I’m assuming this would be a pretty hefty jail sentence?”
“Definitely.” Without looking, Meg’s hand dropped to scratch behind Hawk’s ear and his tail thumped in response. “Even a prisoner with luxuries would be a prisoner for far too long.”
“Keeping that in mind,” Cara said, “what if it’s not the prison at all? What if he thinks he’s never going to get there? Never going to be convicted. What’s his get-out-of-jail-free card that could happen before that? The trial? The world’s best attorney?”
The idea hit Meg so hard she actually jerked. She turned to face Webb, who stared at her curiously. “Not the attorney. Too much uncertainty in how the trial might go. But what’s better than an attorney to get you out of a trial?” When three blank faces met her gaze, she said, “A judge. A judge you know will bail you out of a situation.”
“You think he has a judge in his pocket?”
“What if he’s had one in his pocket all along?” She paused for a second, staring down unseeingly at her dog as the puzzle pieces started to fall into place. Then she looked up. “The amazing thing is that Pate dropped this point on us the first day we met him, but it didn’t penetrate until now. So, we have people being arrested for various crimes, getting their day in court and being sent away. We have those same people being assigned to one specific reentry program. Now, how do people get there? A social worker can recommend the program, they can request it themselves or . . . a judge can specify both the treatment and the facility as part of the sentence.”
“And there it is.” McCord sat back against the headboard. “Jail here for X amount of time, followed by reentry here for Y amount of time. It’s genius if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“I think so, and you can thank Cara for steering me in that direction.” She looked into the webcam. “Leave it to you to always find a pattern in something.”
Cara grinned widely. “We all have our skills. I just get to help on the quiet, and then watch you bring down the bad guys.”
“Let me make sure I’m following,” Webb said. “You’re suggesting a more complicated setup. You think you’ve got a dirty judge who’s getting some sort of kickback for sending select perps and kids to a specific reentry program. In this case, one run by Mason Pate. The judge is sentencing the kids and then specifically targets them, giving Pate recommendations on who would be vulnerable as a victim or would make a good ringleader, based on their criminal past. Pate is heading the trafficking operation, and he’s using his private facility to single out those ringleaders and victims, or identify new ones, depending on who gets sent in. He makes sure they get thrown together and connections get made. The trafficking rings expand, the judge gets a finder’s fee, and Pate gets a significant cut of the overall operation’s profits?”
“Jesus Christ,” McCord breathed. “It all makes sense. All the dots connect, including Pate specifically trying to keep certain minors out of the picture.”
“More than that,” Cara said, “he could be betting that whoever this judge is, he’s going to make sure he gets Pate’s case, which he’ll then throw out of court for some reason.”
“He could use a technicality,” McCord said, “but a better way to handle it would be deciding that the evidence wasn’t strong enough and finding Pate not guilty. Or influencing a jury, if there is one.”
“Or allowing, or not allowing, certain statements or evidence to become part of the court case. He could totally steer the case away from Pate. Once found not guilty, the Fifth Amendment says he can’t be tried again for the same offense,” Meg said. “Double jeopardy will save him.” She pulled out her cell phone. “I need to call Van Cleave.” She winced. “He said life-or-death emergency only, but I think this qualifies. If I’m lucky, he’s still drinking scotch and having dinner with his wife.” She looked toward the laptop. “Cara, stay with us, but we can’t let him know you’re listening or that you contributed.”
Cara waved away her sister’s concerns. “I know the routine. Do it.”
Meg called up Van Cleave’s cell number and dialed it, putting it on speaker and holding the phone out on her palm in the middle of the group.
It rang for so long, Meg was surprised by his live voice instead of voice mail. “Van Cleave.” The words came out as a growl.
“Van, it’s Meg. I know you’re finally home, but I wouldn’t be calling unless it was really important. I need to run something by you. It’ll be worth your time.”
A sigh heavy with exhaustion carried down the line. “Shoot.”
“I’m here with Todd Webb and Clay McCord. After your unsuccessful round today with Mason Pate, we’ve been turning over some potentials and we have something we want to run by you.” She summarized their theory and then sat back, waiting. Seconds ticked by. Meg glanced up at Webb, who returned a pointed look and shrugged.
“God damn it!” Fury exploded from the phone, followed by rapid footsteps, the sound of glass solidly striking wood, and then typing.
“Van?”
Typing. Silence. More typing. A mumble. Keystrokes again.
“Van?” Meg said it a little louder this time. “Everything all right?” A few more seconds of silence, then the squeak of a desk chair. “Van!”
“Bloody hell. I think you got it.”
“We did?” Meg reached out blindly for Webb, caught and held on to his thig
h. “What did we get?”
“I logged on to the system from home so I could run some quick searches. The same judge sentenced Emma, Reed, and Russo to go to the reentry program. That specific reentry program.”
“He did it at the time of sentencing?”
“He did.”
“Yes!” Meg pumped her fist in triumph. “Van, we need to find out who else he sentenced to go there. And we need access to his banking records.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m already ahead of you there.”
“What’s his name? The judge?”
“Marcus Fairfax.” He heaved out a big sigh. “And now reality and caution are starting to rear their ugly heads. We need to keep in mind that this could just be a judge who’s convinced the reentry programs do serious good and, as a result, he tends to order inmates there near the end of their sentence.”
“You don’t seriously think this is a coincidence?”
“No. But it’s experience talking. When you’re knee-deep in an investigation, you’re always looking for links, and sometimes you look too hard. That being said, we will consider the possibility that he may be connected somehow. I don’t have any problem going after a dirty judge—and that’s a big assumption that he is—but to even make that attempt, we have to be beyond certain. Right now, we’re just tossing out the possibility of a connection. If we go after this guy, we have to be one hundred and ten percent sure. It can’t be something that could be chalked up to coincidence.”
“Agreed. A few prisoners could be sent to the reentry facility, as you said, by a judge who thinks that reentry programs show promise, and he wants to throw a bunch of people at the system to really try it out. But if he really is involved somehow . . .”
“Then I will cheerfully take him down. I don’t care what your rank is. You break the law, you get me on your back.”
“There’s the white knight I’ve come to respect. We have to be sure, but then we need to take him down if it’s him.”
“With you, all the way.”
“What’s our next step?”
“The financials are going to be the key. If we can tie him to kickbacks, and if we can find that they’re coming from Pate or the Harper Group, then we’ll slam that door behind him hard. Thank you, all of you. This may be the break we need. If we can identify Fairfax as the source of both the vics and the ringleaders, we’ll be able to trace them to new locations and unknown victims.” There was a pause filled with the clinking of ice cubes. “I’ll settle better now with this blank filled in, but I have to get some sleep. I’ll hit this first thing tomorrow, I promise.”
“Good enough for me. Get some rest.”
“God willing.” With a click, he was gone.
With a shaky laugh, Meg dropped her phone on the bedspread. “It’s official. You guys are awesome.”
“It was your breakthrough,” McCord said.
“Yeah, but I never would have had that without Cara lining it up for me and you guys setting it up for her. Teamwork. We’ve proved time and again we work better together. It never gets old.”
Webb put his arm around her and pulled her in as McCord lifted the laptop over Hawk’s head to speak to Cara directly.
Meg looked around her, studying the faces of the people she’d come to depend on as steadfast friends and helpers.
No, she had that wrong. Not friends.
Family.
CHAPTER 27
High Value Reward: A reward that a working dog finds highly motivating—bacon, steak, a living search object, etc.
Friday, July 28, 7:22 AM
Motel 6
Norfolk, Virginia
Meg woke to the insistent ringing of her cell phone. She opened her eyes to a strange room cloaked in shadows, but the comfort of a familiar scent.
She rolled over and grabbed her cell phone after a few clumsy misses. “Jennings.” The single word came out hoarse and scratchy, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Jennings.”
“Meg, I’m sorry I’m calling early, but I need you ready to roll.”
Meg’s eyes snapped open as sleep fell away. Van. “What happened?” She squinted at the bedside clock but only got a red blur. “What time is it?”
“About twenty after seven. I know it’s early, but I wanted to get a warrant from one particular judge, and the best place to nail him down is during his dawn run. He’s predictable, always takes the same course. I thought I’d join him.”
“After the last few days you had?”
“I was in bed by shortly after seven last night. I ate and pretty much lost consciousness. By five I was awake. I did some more research this morning, and by six had my Nikes on and I met him partway. By seven I had my warrant signed.”
“We’re doing this then?”
“Damn right we are. The warrant covers Fairfax’s home and office and includes all his electronics. We can also go after his ISP if we need to dig further. We’ll go in two teams; I’m heading the team to his house. I thought you’d like to join me.”
“I would. Text me the address.”
“Will do. Be there at 9:00 AM.”
“You don’t want to start earlier?”
“And risk Fairfax actually being there? You know the law. We have to knock and wait a respectable amount of time. After that we can make a forced entry. In this case, I have an agent who could make a career breaking and entering with his lock-picking skills, so we’ll go in that way. By nine, Fairfax, who lives alone, should already be at the courthouse. Which reminds me. I found another commonality while I was comparing cases this morning. Not only did they all have the same judge, they all had the same prosecuting attorney. That made me dig further. There are a lot of convictions with this combination of prosecuting attorney and judge, and many of those sentences included the Chesapeake Community Corrections Service Center. That gives us a pool of inmates to track down.”
“It’s the prosecuting attorney who recommends the sentence for the judge to rule on, right?”
“Yes.”
“You think he’s involved too?”
“I’d say we have a good chance. The house of cards is falling in on itself. Again, not enough evidence to accuse him, but definitely enough to get a warrant. I hope to have enough to make the accusation later today. Now get up. See you in an hour and a half.” Van Cleave hung up.
Meg put her cell phone back down on the table and rolled over again to limply collapse. Warm arms came around her.
“Good morning.” Webb’s voice was a low rumble.
“Morning.” Smiling, she leaned over and kissed him. “Sleep well?”
“Like the dead. You exhausted me.”
Laughing, she rolled her head off his shoulder to lie on her back. She glanced sideways at him. His dark hair was standing up in every direction and stubble darkened the line of his jaw. He looked sleepy and sexy as hell. “We exhausted each other.” Laying one hand on his chest, she ran it down under the covers. “I have to meet Van for a residence search at nine, but if we’re quick, we have time for round two.”
“Round two? Try round four.” In a lightning-fast move, he rolled over her, trapping her body beneath his. “Maybe we’ll fit round five in there too. We firefighters are a pretty inventive lot and we know how to make do with whatever time we’re given.”
She was laughing when his mouth came down on hers, and she forgot all about victims, searches, and investigations.
CHAPTER 28
Multiple Hides: A search area containing more than one source of odor.
Friday, July 28, 8:58 AM
Bar Harbor Drive
Norfolk, Virginia
The winding driveway leading to the house was already full of FBI vehicles, so Meg parked her SUV against the rounded edge of the cul-de-sac. She hopped out and opened the back door for Hawk. He jumped down and stood still while she snapped the leash onto his FBI vest.
They walked past the cars to the group of agents clustered around Van Cleave. Van Cleave was finishing the l
ast of his instructions when he noticed her.
He stepped out of the group. “Good, you’re here. We’re just about to get started, but I wanted to update you first.”
“You have something new?”
“Norfolk PD has found two of the three missing girls. They were staying at one of the Norfolk community shelters until an officer thought to check there.”
“Smart girls. Free food and lodging, and the safety of being nothing more than faces in an anonymous crowd. It’s probably the most normal few days they’ve had in a long time. They’re okay?”
“They’re physically unharmed and are now tucked away in a safe location. They’re also working with Norfolk PD to help locate the last girl.” He grinned. “Things are turning around for us. I’ve got a good feeling about this. We’re going to tie this one up tight.”
“Music to my ears. Go to it. We’ll stay out of the way until you give the okay to go in.”
Meg pulled back to stand near the line of virtually identical black SUVs as Van Cleave and his group of agents mounted the steps. Van Cleave rang the doorbell, waited ten seconds, then banged on the heavy front door with his fist, calling, “FBI! Open the door. We have a warrant to search the premises.” He then stepped back and waited.
He met her gaze over the heads of the agents standing on the steps below him and grinned.
No one home. Just like he planned.
While they waited, Meg studied the house. It was magnificent in its own way—three stories of blinding white clapboard with a square front porch flanked by twin garage doors. Over the porch, a three-sided projection extended from the house, each level a line of curved picture windows rising to the roofline. It was a beautiful house, but Meg couldn’t feel any warmth from it. Even from a distance it felt cold, sterile.
Van Cleave waited a full five minutes and then repeated the doorbell, the banging, and the announcement. When there continued to be no response, he motioned for one of the men to come forward. As the agent dropped to his knees and went to work on the lock, Van Cleave made a phone call after pointing out the small sticker beside the front door that identified the alarm company.
Storm Rising Page 24
