by Leslie Wolfe
“Oh,” he said, shooting me a quick glance. There was a dark intensity in his eyes I’d seen before, but not since his daughter had been taken.
“We were close, the three of us. Anne and Andrew shared the camaraderie of having served together. Anne and I shared the passion for justice, for setting things right no matter the cost, and Andrew and I… we used to share a life.”
He turned on to my street and pulled in the driveway. “Thank you,” he said quietly before getting out of the car.
“Let’s move,” I replied, forcing the emotion away from my chest. There would be a moment for it later. “We don’t have time to waste.”
I asked him to wait for me in the living room and get himself something to eat or drink while I packed a few items. His eyebrows shot up while he watched me rushing up the stairs.
Once in my bedroom, I didn’t hesitate. I’d rehearsed what I had to do in my mind over and over and knew every step I had to take to get ready for that night.
I stripped into my bra and panties and pulled out a small wheelie from the closet. I packed two different sets of clothing. A dark blue, Anne Klein pantsuit with a Miu Miu white blouse and Jimmy Choo heels to match, and a pair of stretch jeans and a UNLV sweatshirt paired with sneakers. I gave it a moment’s more thought and threw in an Altuzarra, one-shoulder, black, stretch dress with generous side slits and added assorted heeled sandals. I quickly went through my jewelry drawers and picked a few long, thin necklaces in gold, then pushed the open suitcase out of the way.
Still in my undies, I pushed the racked clothing items to the side and exposed the back wall. I pressed the button on the far edge of the shelf, and the wall shifted to the side, released from its locks, revealing a second closet.
“Whoa,” I heard Holt’s voice behind me. It gave me a start and filled me with instant rage.
“Don’t you ever do as you’re asked? What the hell is wrong with you?”
He completely ignored my questions, inviting himself to look into my second walk-in closet. “Are you CIA or something?” he asked, then whistled when he laid eyes on my gun collection.
“Or something,” I replied. “Now, because you’re here, sit your ass down and shush.”
He threw one more appreciative look at my hidden treasures, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Make it quick, Baxter, we ain’t got all night.”
I opened a small drawer and extracted a subdermal GPS tracker, then fitted it inside the implantation syringe, while Holt stared at me with disbelief. I approached him and said, “Drop your pants. We’re going to put this where they won’t be checking.”
“Where the hell is that?” he asked, eyeing the needle as if it were a twelve-inch blade.
“Inner thigh,” I replied.
“Is it an RFID microchip?”
“No,” I replied, getting ready to poke him. “Radio frequency identification is reactive; it sets off alarms a mile out. This is a silicone-coated GPS tracker. I’ll have your location on my cell phone.”
“How long will the battery last? Can’t be much time.”
“Not that long, six hours, tops.”
“That’s some serious tech, Baxter. It’s hundreds of dollars apiece.”
I plunged the needle in, and he flinched. “I only had this one. You owe me dinner at a really fancy place, so better not get killed tonight. Now pull up your pants and sit back down.”
I needed eyes and ears on him too, not just a locator. I opened a small, plastic box and pulled out a tiny camera and its receiver. I flicked the switch and tested it with an app I had installed on my phone. It was low resolution, but it got the job done. I turned to look at him, in search of a place to put it.
There was a lot I didn’t know about what he expected.
“What do you think is going to happen, once they pick you up tonight?”
He shrugged again. It was becoming an annoying habit. “Probably beat the shit out of me and then kill me,” he said calmly. “Unless I can find my daughter and get the hell out of there first.”
“You don’t have an action plan figured out?”
“Based on what? There’s not nearly enough information to build a tactical plan. He has my daughter and is looking for revenge. That’s all I have, all I know.”
“And you just said yes to Snowman’s request to meet,” I stated the obvious, still in disbelief.
“‘Never say no to the hostage taker’. You know the rule. For the rest, I’ll think of something on the fly.”
“Yeah, okay, but why not bust through the doors with a bunch of SWAT and be done with it? Why play his game?”
“The Snowman I know wouldn’t keep Meredith where he’s meeting me. He’s smarter than that. If I don’t follow the rules, he’ll have her killed just to see me scream.”
He had a point. We had no way of knowing where Snowman was going to take Holt after he picked him up or where he kept Meredith. Even if I followed Holt after the 2:00 AM meet, I couldn’t be sure I’d have the girl’s location.
“They might tie you to a chair and beat you up,” I said, my voice slightly trembling. “That would make the shirt collar a bad choice for this thing. One drop of blood and it’s out of commission. How about here,” I said, then pinned the tiny camera onto the hem of his left pants leg. “If you can, lift your trousers when you sit, so the hem will point up.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied, studying it curiously.
I grabbed his left hand and slid a silver wedding band on it, a simple one without any design. “If anyone asks, you’re engaged. This is an encrypted frequency reactive device that will only respond to the paired emitter. In case the GPS malfunctions or runs out of juice, and we lose you. But this ring requires us to be in close proximity.”
“How close?”
“Under twenty-five yards,” I replied, worry seeping in my voice.
“This is Fletcher’s paradise, and he doesn’t even know about it,” he commented as he tucked in his shirt. “Or does he?”
“No, he doesn’t,” I replied with a nervous smile. “Let’s keep it like that.”
I went back into the closet and opened the gun cabinet. I pulled out a bra holster and put it on, then inserted a Sig 365 in condition one, ready to use. I picked up a fresh pair of slacks and a clean shirt and got dressed.
“Where do we go from here? Henderson?”
“No,” he replied grimly. “The Strip. I’m willing to pay big bucks for an underage, high-end escort who’s into kinky stuff. She might have a thing or two to share.”
I took one look at him and groaned. No one in their right mind would send him a high-end escort, the way he looked tonight. Raw knuckles on both fists, a bruised jaw, a cut eyebrow, and a monumental shiner.
I took off the shirt I’d almost finished buttoning and folded it, put it in the wheelie, and fished out the little black dress instead. The slacks went into the suitcase, while the black sandals came out. In went the pants belt with my service weapon and two full mags, out came a thigh holster with a Sig 938 in condition two.
Holt watched me change clothes without saying much, eager to get going.
“One more thing,” I said. “You need a new set of fingerprints.” I pulled what I needed from the closet, then slid the wall back in its place and rearranged the clothes on their hangers. I led the way downstairs, carrying the fingerprint kit, two new burner phones, a prepaid satellite phone, a military-grade monocular, and two radios, just in case we needed them.
“Real fakes or smudged?” I asked, offering him a choice between two, tiny, plastic containers.
“What the hell is this?” Holt asked, staring at me as if he’d never seen me before.
“I’m giving you fake—”
“I know what you’re giving me, but who the hell are you?”
At first, I thought he was joking, but he was dead serious. Apparently, there was a limit to Holt’s tolerance for the unexpected, and I’d exceeded that limit.
I started applying adhesive to my fingerti
ps, then pasted on a set of fake prints. Within seconds, the adhesive had congealed, and the silicone prints were in place, ready to use.
“Why don’t we discuss that after we get your daughter back?”
He looked straight at me, and I sustained that piercing gaze without batting an eyelash. After all, he’d just dug out a cocaine brick from his wall. Who was he to judge me?
“Real or smudged?” I asked again, impassive.
“Smudged,” he replied. “Where do you get the real ones?”
I smiled, proud of my craft. “Terminal patients in a clinic in Sichuan, China. I get the molds sent over, the rest is up to me.”
I applied the adhesive to his fingers and noticed the slight tremor in his hands. “Tired?”
He gave me a sad version of the lopsided grin I knew so well. “What do you think?”
“I think you’ll get her back, Holt, that’s what I think. I know you will.”
As he waited for the adhesive to set, I texted Fletcher with the IMEIs and SIMs for the new burner phones and the subdermal GPS tracker frequency. He was the only one who knew where we were and where we were going.
Then I touched up my makeup and accessorized generously, aiming for the high-end escort look myself. A tiny, envelope-flap, clutch handbag in black leather ornate with Swarovski crystals completed the attire.
I was ready.
27
Fear Factor
Thirty-seven hours missing
We approached the vast lobby of the Scala Hotel and Casino from the adjacent parking structure, walking along endless, lavishly decorated hallways and riding down on wide escalators. I watched the huge, digital displays rotating through adverts for shows, restaurants, and concerts, and, for a brief moment, I let my focus slip away, wishing Holt and I were there for a real vacation, set to enjoy Gordon Ramsay’s gourmet cuisine, or watch Elton John live in concert.
We reached the lobby and had to stop for a minute; Blue Man Group was doing its preshow parade, filling the space with rhythm, sound, and color. As soon as the actors cleared the way, we scurried across the marble floor toward the check-in counter. As discussed, Holt waited some fifty yards away, near the elevator bank, watching for anyone who would’ve paid too much attention to either of us.
I dazzled the receptionist with my megawatt smile; he was a thin, young man with a bleached mullet, about twenty-two, yet he checked me out shamelessly.
“I have the penthouse for the night,” I whispered and extended a matte black American Express card without a name on it.
His brash smile froze as he mumbled, “Yes, ma’am,” and started typing on his keyboard.
I held my breath, hoping Fletcher had managed to tap into the Scala systems on time and snatch that reservation. I relaxed a little when he generated a magnetic keycard bearing the Scala logo and extended it to me.
“Two, please,” I replied calmly.
He obliged, then finalized my check-in quickly, and I was able to join Holt near the elevators. A few moments later, we entered the forty-fifth floor Scala penthouse, among the best Las Vegas hotels have to offer to those willing to fork out over two thousand dollars per night.
The living room was extensive and lushly decorated with modern furniture. Leather armchairs, a couch facing the breathtaking view of the distant mountains, a fireplace burning happily, and two sets of French doors leading to the terrace. That outdoor oasis of luxury was a wonder in itself, something I’d never seen before. White cushioned lounge chairs were scattered around the marbled space, surrounding on three sides a private, infinity pool overseeing the city’s million lights below. I could’ve spent a lifetime enjoying that place.
Instead, I shot Holt a look, and we rushed downstairs. We had work to do.
My first stop was at the bar, where I sat on a plush, burgundy sofa, leaning against gold, silk-fringed pillows and crossed my legs, showing a lot of skin. The bartender took less than a minute to notice me and appeared by my side.
“What will it be tonight?”
I patted the seat cushion next to me. He hesitated a little, stared at my bare legs for a split second, then sat on the edge of the couch. His nervous smile revealed crooked teeth and a tiny bit of lettuce stuck between his upper incisors.
“I think you could help a girl in need,” I whispered, leaning toward him provocatively.
“Uh-huh,” he replied, nodding a couple of times. “Anything.”
“I need some… company, if you know what I mean,” I said, tugging playfully at my necklace, twirling my fingers around the fringe medallion, and looking at him sideways.
“You mean, um, me?” his voice climbed, conveying his disbelief.
I touched his cheek with the tips of my fingers. “Not so fast, handsome, I have different tastes. I like girls,” I added, then licked my lips and batted my eyelashes for added effect. “Sometimes I want men like you to join the party, but the girl has to be special.”
He swallowed hard and tugged at his tie knot, releasing it a little bit. I saw tiny beads of sweat forming at the roots of his brown hair and on his tan forehead. “What kind of special would you like?” he asked slightly stuttering, then swallowed again.
“Young, really young and innocent,” I murmured. “I love to open their eyes to the pleasures of the flesh. Will you make that happen for me? Then, maybe the two of us could share a virile man like you.”
His hands were trembling so badly he would’ve said yes to delivering me a date with a crown prince, then would’ve died trying to make that happen. He nodded spasmodically, and I squeezed his knee, sending a noticeable shiver through his entire body.
“I’m in the penthouse,” I said, running my finger across the edge of his lower lip. “Send her up, wait a couple of hours, then join us.”
“Y—yes,” he replied.
I stood and sashayed away, swaying my hips with every step. When I turned toward the elevator, I caught a glimpse of him slamming the tray and the order book on the counter and rushing toward the back.
Good.
Soon, Holt and I would have someone we could talk to.
I’d just stepped into the elevator when a chime alerted me that I had a message. As I read it, my gut twisted into a knot, as if a terrifying creature was unfurling in there. Dr. Hickman, the ornithologist, had sent a list of other locations, dates, and times when the vultures had circled in similar patterns.
Five locations. Five dates, roughly one week apart. Five possible girls who’d been buried alive, endlessly raped and tortured until death finally found the mercy to release them from their hell.
I dialed the number for my boss, Captain Morales, and steeled myself, anticipating the myriad questions he was going to ask. Where was I, and what was I doing? Did I know where Holt was? When was I coming in? What news did I have about Meredith and the search for her kidnappers? How about the case I was assigned to, the murders of Alyssa Conway and Elizabeth Lovato, the two girls found in the desert? Anne had probably shared with him the identity of the second girl, Elizabeth, and the fact that she’d died immediately after being given the modified tetrodotoxin; her asthma an unforeseen complication that had left her killer frustrated and likely to take another girl out there soon.
As I waited for Morales to pick up, I swiped my keycard to unlock the door and signaled Holt to stay quiet, then put the phone on speaker.
“This is Morales,” he said, almost startling me.
“It’s Laura Baxter, Captain. My apologies for the late-night call, but I need your assistance with the case I’m working on.”
“Shoot,” he replied quickly, and I thought I heard someone else talking around him, a male voice I didn’t recognize. It was almost ten in the evening; the man presumably had a life.
“I have a list of five possible crime scenes out in the Mojave, and I believe it’s time we bring in dogs and thermal-sensor helicopters, in case the sick bastard has another victim buried alive out there.”
I expected him to ask me why he had to do
my job for me and dispatch all those units, and I had a well-rehearsed lie ready to serve.
“Consider it done. We’ll start our search tonight.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, then hesitated, unsure if he had anything else to ask or say.
“Good luck, Baxter. Catch that bastard.” Then he hung up, leaving me slack-jawed in disbelief.
“What just happened?” Holt asked. “Does Morales know what we’re up to?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of; there’s no way. Maybe he was just busy, distracted, or who knows. Tomorrow he’ll have our hides nailed to his office door, like any other morning.”
That moment, I heard a timid knock on the door. I signaled Holt, and he disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.
I removed the chain and opened the door, smiling, then gave the young girl an encouraging nod. She walked inside, looking around with round, fearful eyes, checking out every corner of the room. The excessive makeup she’d applied on her eyelids made her appear cheap; her foundation was caked, her inexperience probably a factor. Where her skin was left uncovered by cosmetics, it was pale. She looked unhealthy, thin, and weak, unstable wearing the four-inch heels she didn’t know how to walk in.
“Come in, take a seat, my dear,” I said, showing her to one of the armchairs.
She sat, seemingly a little relieved. I sat across from her and offered her a cold can of Coke. She smiled, then popped the cap and drank a few gulps.
She was yet to say a single word.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Chloe,” she replied in a tiny voice, shooting me a squirrelly look.
“We need your help, Chloe,” I said, all the seduction from my voice gone, replaced with a friendly tone. “We’re looking for a missing girl your age.”
That moment, Holt stepped into the living room, and she jumped to her feet.
“I—I don’t… I can’t, no, sorry,” she said, rushing to the door.
Out of options, I grabbed her thin arm and stopped her. She yelped.
