Parker looked annoyed beyond endurance, but he nodded in the agent’s direction. “Let’s see what he wants.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
They left Becker and a bewildered Wesson with the bomb paraphernalia while they followed Sloan across the concrete floor to a desk tucked away in a far dark corner. He pulled up two chairs and took the one at the desk, without bothering to turn on the lamp.
Miranda was tempted to invite the exasperating man outside for an ass-whipping, but instead she sat down.
His face in shadows, Sloan leaned on the desk rubbing his temples while Parker settled in next to her.
Finally, Miranda couldn’t take much more of this secrecy. “What do you have to say, Sloan? We’ve got a little girl to find.”
He raised his head, his face rock hard. “Why don’t you tell me about what happened in Atlanta.”
She blinked in surprise. Was he talking about the Dylan Ward Hughes case? “You know what happened in Atlanta. You were with us.”
“Not Kennesaw. I mean Sweet Water Park. About three months ago?”
Miranda felt as if she’d had the breath knocked out of her. She looked at Parker. His expression was as grim as the special agent’s.
Was Sloan talking about that terrible underground lab they’d found in that park? The tangled labyrinth constructed under the ruins of the old mill there? The place where they’d both endured unspeakable horrors?
Her mind raced. The FBI had been contacted after they’d escaped.
Sloan read her expression. “That’s right, Ms. Steele. Your Lieutenant Erskine contacted our offices about what they’d found. Animal experimentation, mind control drugs. We’re still testing some of those chemicals.”
It wasn’t news. It’s what she’d expect the FBI to do. But she hadn’t thought Sloan would be involved.
She sat back and folded her arms. “Sounds like you already know what happened.”
He ignored her remark. “That night at the park a man was shot and killed as he was trying to leave.”
“Okay.”
“I assume you know who he was?”
She did. Becker had found information about him after the shooting at the bank in Atlanta. “His name was Drew Iwasaki. What of it?”
“Did you know he was in charge of a network of gangs out here?”
She remembered the data Becker had dug up on him. He was a lowlife criminal, who’d done some dirty business in LA. “He ran with some Asian gangs out here. So what?”
“He was in charge of them.”
How could that be? The guy had only been in his mid-twenties. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t make statements I’m not sure of.”
Miranda wanted to shake the g-man. What did Drew Iwasaki have to do with anything?
“Why did the FBI bring you in on the case in the park, Sloan?” she said. “I thought you worked with a covert branch. The Custodians, you call yourselves. And don’t tell me you were just following orders.”
Grimacing, Sloan closed a fist and tapped his knuckles on the desk. The man didn’t want to tell them things they weren’t supposed to know, but he was obviously looking for something from them.
“I’m sure you both recall the house in Kennesaw.”
“Of course, we do,” she huffed.
“Now you’re talking about the Dylan Ward Hughes case,” Parker said.
“Yes.”
That was the last time they’d seen Sloan and his crew. And the house had been a huge fancy mansion.
“When we looked at the laptop we confiscated from the house, we found some disturbing data.”
Miranda’s mind went back to that place and what she and Parker had been through there. The mansion in Kennesaw had been owned by one Eustace DeBow, a wealthy young man from a railroad family. He’d turned out to be the groomer who had been training the boy for life as a sex slave.
Sickening.
Sloan stared into the dark screen on the desk. “One of our guys stopped DeBow’s computer halfway through its automatic self-destruct mode.”
Miranda drew in a slow breath. It made sense that DeBow would have set up something like that to destroy incriminating evidence if the computer ever fell into the hands of the authorities.
She was glad it hadn’t worked. “And what did you find?”
“Emails. Encrypted messages. Communications with Akuma.”
She frowned. “Who?”
“It translates roughly to ‘Evil One.’”
“The Devil,” Parker said in an ominous tone.
Miranda hadn’t known he knew Japanese.
She raised her palms. “So DeBow had a pact with the devil. You don’t need a computer expert to figure that out.”
Sloan pointed a finger at her. “But which particular devil? Or in this case devils. Among other things, Akuma is heavy into the sex trade. Especially the sale of children. And they work out of Los Angeles.”
Her stomach tightened. “So you found the buyers for the kids DeBow was kidnapping.”
“More than that. Last October we set up a team out here in LA to look further into Akuma activities. A few weeks later, I get a message from the agent working the Sweet Water Park case in Atlanta. He tells me about Iwaskai and his underground lab in Atlanta.”
“So?”
Sloan leaned forward. “Iwaskai ran Akuma, Ms Steele.”
What? Miranda felt as if Sloan had socked her in the chest. She didn’t know how to process that revelation.
Sloan pointed at her, then at Parker. “And then our agent tells me you two were caught up in the Sweet Water Park case. And now, while we’re looking into that connection, I’m called in about a bank bombing, and lo and behold, here you two are again. And there’s another child involved.”
A chill ran down Miranda’s spine. She glanced at Parker. He was thinking the same thing she was. The same thing she’d wondered after their ordeal in the park.
Was someone targeting them?
But all the details didn’t match up. “So you think Akuma is your Group 141? I thought it was run by the Ukrainian syndicate.”
“We still think so.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you much, but one of our operatives discovered someone out here we think might have taken Iwasaki’s place.”
“As the leader of the sex trafficking ring?”
“Yes. His name is Ostap Savko. He heads a real estate investment company called New Heights Holdings. Worth nearly a hundred million dollars.”
Wow. “But you don’t think that income is just from real estate.”
“No. We think the holding company is a front for criminal activity.”
“So you’re saying DeBow and Iwasaki were part of the same group? That they were connected by this Akuma, and somehow it’s all controlled by this Ukrainian dude named Savko?”
“That’s what we suspect.”
It sounded crazy. But someone with big bucks had to have financed that underground hell in the park in Atlanta. If there were a syndicate, it would certainly have the funds. But that lab under the mill was used to create and test mind control drugs. Why would Group 141 be interested in that?
To make kids more susceptible? Cut out the middle man? Get rid of the groomers?
And in the park, another person had gotten away. Maybe they’d moved the whole operation to the West Coast.
Miranda’s troubled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing in the distance.
She looked up and saw the dark-haired woman in the lab coat.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Miranda watched the thin women’s quick steps as she hurried over to the desk. “I have something, sir.”
Sloan sat up. “What is it, Greenwood?”
“A match on that sketch you gave me. I can pull it up here.”
Sloan got up and gave her the chair.
Greenwood sat down, turned on the screen, and after a set of efficient moves on the keyboard, a clear digital photo appeare
d next to a scan of the sketch.
Another mug shot.
Miranda’s stomach lurched. She took in the features. Stringy, straw like hair to his shoulders, darker beard, narrow face. And a thin scar running down one side of his face from his eye to his chin. But it was the eyes that had shivers running up and down her spine.
They had the icy stare of a stone cold killer.
“That’s him,” she breathed. “That’s the guy we followed last night.”
Parker read off the information. “Douglas Vaughn. Goes by the name Draco. Works as a set fabricator for Thunderclap Studios.”
Set fabricator, Miranda thought. Fancy name for a carpenter. Was he into special effects, too?
She read on. “He has a record. Gang association. Savage Skulls.” Axel’s gang. She looked at the dates of his last incarceration. Ten years ago. Around the time Axel had been in the Los Angeles County Jail. Did they meet there?
Sloan scrolled farther down. “Look at this.”
She scanned the text.
Vaughn, a.k.a. Draco, was suspected to be involved in drug deals with several local Asian street gangs including—Miranda’s heart nearly stopped as she read the name. “Akuma.”
“See what I mean?” Sloan said.
“No, I don’t. Okay, I can see the connection between Iwasaki and the Asian gangs. And DeBow. But it doesn’t necessarily mean this Draco guy is involved in sex trafficking. The file says gun running and drug deals.”
“One thing leads to another,” Sloan insisted. “And he could also be involved with the Ukrainian syndicate.”
“That’s a big jump.”
“Not really.”
“Why do you say that?”
“A confidential informant told us Savko seems to be expanding into the movie business.”
“So?”
“We learned today he’s in negotiations with Thunderclap Studios.”
Miranda stared at Sloan as the whole huge lab started to spin around her. The gang banger who picked up Imogen at her school might be involved with both Akuma and Group 141? How could that be possible?
“According to our source,” Sloan continued, “Savko is planning to meet with executives from Thunderclap tomorrow for a business luncheon. How would you and Mr. Parker like to have lunch at Hudson House?”
“Hudson House?” Feeling like she’d had the wind knocked out of her, she looked at Parker.
“It’s a famous eatery where Hollywood’s elite conduct business,” he told her.
She pressed a hand to her head. If all this was true, Imogen was in terrible trouble. They should be going after this Draco, not chasing some hunch.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Sloan.”
“It’s members only, but we can get you a pass. I’ll loan you a bionic hearing device so you can listen in on what they say.”
“I said, I don’t know.”
Sloan raised his hands as if ready to give up. “I thought you wanted my help.”
All they’d wanted was to examine the evidence from the explosion today. So far, that had told them nothing. Except it was made in the same fashion as a fake explosion on a movie set. That didn’t necessarily connect it to the studio. But it could.
As if summoned by that thought, more footsteps sounded. Miranda turned her head to see Becker and a distraught Wesson marching across the floor toward them.
“What’s going on?” Wesson said. “What have you found?”
Miranda pointed to the screen. “Intel on Dragon-Boy. Sit down and read it.”
Greenwood rose. Sloan dismissed her and she hurried off back to her desk while Wesson took the chair and read the screen.
Becker scooted in next to her.
Miranda watched Wesson’s eyes grow big with horror as she took in the data.
She put her hands to her face. “Oh, my God. This is a really bad guy. Akuma? What’s that?”
Miranda didn’t know how to tell her. So she didn’t. She noticed Becker had his phone out. “Do you have something there?”
“Oh, yeah.” He held it up. “You’d think the reception in here would be really limited, but it’s terrific.”
“What do you have, Becker?” Miranda said again.
“A hit on that address you gave me last night. Marie Applegate. She’s a dental assistant. Single mother of two, never married. Modest income. No criminal record.”
“Who is this?” Sloan wanted to know.
“The woman who owns the house we tailed Draco to last night.”
“The two kids called him ‘Daddy,’” Wesson said bitterly.
“We need to bring her in for questioning.”
“No.” Wesson spun around in her chair and glared at Sloan.
Miranda agreed. “She’s right. We promised our client we wouldn’t go to the authorities.”
“And your point is?”
“Sloan,” Parker said. “You know it’s very likely Marie would let this Draco know if she were interrogated by the FBI about the bank bombing.”
Sloan folded his arms. “We’ll be discreet.”
“You can’t do that.” Wesson shot up from the chair, as if she was about to lunge at the g-man.
Sloan gave her a long look. That tenderness was back in his eyes. “All right, we’ll wait until after lunch tomorrow.” He pointed at Miranda and Parker. “If you two will do what I asked.”
Good grief, what a tyrant. Sloan’s request could turn out to be a total a waste of time. “We need to find this Draco character.”
“We’ll do a deep search on him,” Sloan said.
“I can do some probing, too,” Becker said, pointing to the screen. “Now that we have this intel.”
Sloan raised a questioning brow. “Lunch tomorrow?” He’d given her no choice.
Giving up, Miranda raised her palms. “Okay. We’ll do it.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A little after eleven the next morning with Parker at her side, Miranda stepped into the glitzy members-only eatery on the top floor of the Hudson House hotel on Sunset Boulevard.
Parker handed a tall blond-and-tan hostess the pass Sloan had given them last night.
While she checked her reservation list, Miranda breathed in the smell of top-of-the-line dishes and took in the view through the lofty windows. From this height she could see the urban sprawl of LA stretching all the way to the city with its tall buildings shimmering in the sun.
Downtown. Where they’d spent most of the night.
It had been after four in the morning when she and Parker had finally gotten back to their hotel room and into bed. She’d had only a few hours sleep. She didn’t feel at her best.
She just wanted to get this over with.
But there seemed to be a small problem with the reservation. Hoping Sloan hadn’t screwed up, she tried to seem bored with it all.
While the hostess consulted with one of the waiters, Miranda eyed the décor. Shiny glass and cutlery on shiny tables surrounded by the shiny gold accents. Ritzy was this spot’s middle name.
Thank goodness Parker had gotten her used to extravagance back in Atlanta, or she might not be able to pull off this ruse. But the atmosphere filling this room was more than ritz and glitz.
It was ambition.
She watched the diners being seated at the fancy tables. Adorned in ultra-chic clothing and hairstyles, they all seemed so very, very happy to be here. The men in polo shirts, chinos, and designer sunglasses. The women tan and blond, with low-cut tops and bare midriffs, tight upscale jeans with horizontal zippers, thigh high boots, and lots of dangly bracelets and earrings.
She realized the room was filled with stars, wannabees, talent agents, producers, directors. Everybody seemed to know each other. Everybody seemed to want something from each other. Smiling and laughing, they shook hands and did a kiss-kiss thing on upraised cheeks as they greeted each other.
Who knew sucking up could be so glamorous?
She and Parker fit in well enough, she supposed.
<
br /> Parker was in one of his more expensive suits, and she had on a little black dress she hadn’t known he’d packed for her until this morning. Not as trendy as most of the crowd, but it would do. Plus the dress had a matching jacket with an inside pocket where she’d tucked Sloan’s listening device.
In the middle of the room Miranda spotted four people around a table in a gold semi-circular booth enjoying appetizers. She recognized them from the photos Sloan had sent on the secure phone that morning.
The elegant looking gray-haired man in the suit was Jeremy Koval CFO of Thunderclap Studios. The hefty one beside him in a blue checked Eton shirt with a polka dot tie was Benjamin Bruno, top attorney for New Heights Holdings. Next to Bruno was an older woman in a mauve knit dress with a surly look. That was Tallulah Hall, Thunderclap’s Chief Communications Officer.
But it was the man beside Ms. Hall who drew Miranda’s eye.
He was big-bodied, maybe in his mid-forties, dressed in a green polo shirt with a leather jacket over it. His head was shaved and he wore a neatly trimmed dark beard with a touch of gray. His face was well-proportioned with a broad nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two. Under thick black brows he scanned his menu with mean-looking eyes.
He matched the photo Sloan had sent over and marked as Top Secret. This was their target, all right.
Ostap Savko.
The booth next to them was free.
Parker handed the hostess a hundred dollar bill and indicated the table. “We’d like that one.”
“Of course,” the tall blond smiled, slipping the bill under her neckline. Apparently she’d worked out the reservation glitch. “Follow me.”
“Make sure Sloan pays you back,” Miranda muttered to Parker under her breath as she trailed the hostess to the table he’d indicated.
“I intend to,” he said, sounding a little dangerous.
Okay, then. She slid into the booth and got her bearings.
She felt herself relax a bit. The cushions were so soft and cozy they made her want to take a nap. But there was work to do, so Miranda took the earpiece Sloan had given her out of her pocket, slipped it into her ear, pressed her back against the booth, and listened hard as she pretended to study the menu.
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