by Nick Stevens
Ross shifted forward in his seat, his bulk crashing into the table. He opened his mouth, but Cooper cut him off. “Yeah, you’re free to go for now. But don’t leave the city. We may have more questions for you.”
Mason pushed back from the table and stood at the door. Ross waddled over, unlocking the door.
Before he squeezed past Ross, Cooper offered a last plea to Mason. “You’re sure there’s nothing else you can tell us? There’s a missing girl and, as far as we can tell, you were one of the last to see her.”
Mason turned back to Cooper. “I’m sorry, Detective. That’s all I know.”
Squeezing past Detective Ross, Mason ducked out of the cramped interview room.
“Why’d you go so easy on him? You know the guy did it, right? If he didn’t have anything to do with the Rock Creek victims, he sure as hell knows more about the girl.” Ross pled with Cooper, his partner for the last year.
Detective Cooper slammed the case folder closed. “We’ve got nothing to hold him on. Other than the apartment security guard’s statement, we don’t have evidence that he did anything to Fitzgerald other than walked her home.”
Ross plopped into the seat formerly occupied by Mason, facing his partner.
“You know that’s bullshit. As soon as we get anything else, I’m bringing him back in here for questioning. He’ll crack. Just need some time. The girl’s father’s all over the lieutenant’s ass to find his little girl. That guy draws a lot of water in this town.”
Cooper knew the kind of pressure Washington’s powerful could bring to bear. It was why his lieutenant pulled him onto a missing person case, his old beat, from homicide.
Pulling a file from the bottom of the teetering stack on the table, Cooper dropped it in front of Ross. “You read that? Got it from a friend at the Bureau.”
“No. What is it?” Ross grabbed the file. He pawed through it.
“Mason isn’t just some dumb security guard. He’s a former deputy marshal. Was a member of their Special Operations Group. That guy brought in some of the worst fugitives you can think of. He even supported federal investigations in Iraq and Afghanistan. Before all that, he was a counterintelligence specialist in the Army. Ranger.”
Ross tossed the file back at his partner, the papers fanning over the table. “So? Doesn’t mean he’s not a kidnapper, rapist, or murderer. We see it all the time. Remember Bobby Anderle? Respected executive, decorated veteran, and an avid teeth collector from his multiple victims?”
The detective remembered and wished he hadn’t. Cooper found his objectivity, even if his partner couldn’t. “That’s all true. If he’s our guy, he knows how the system works, which means catching him will be tough. But I still don’t think he’s the one.”
“Why’d he leave the Marshals Service?”
Flipping to the page in the file, Cooper turned it so Ross could read it. “Says here he resigned shortly after his wife died in the Dupont Circle terrorist attack over three years ago.”
Chapter 7
Stepping into the mid-morning air, Mason turned through the events of the last forty-eight hours. He’d learned of not one, but two women disappearing. Laurel had been with him until just before five in the morning on Sunday. Mason recalled Laurel talking about her father, and how he’s the head of some massive defense contractor.
As far as he knew, no one made ransom demands for Chloe. If a ransom demand came in for Laurel, the FBI would have questioned him, not local cops.
Recalling the picture of Chloe from Borisov’s house, she had the same dark hair and eyes as Laurel. During the walk home Sunday, Mason remembered Laurel came to his shoulder, but she wore heels. He didn’t know Chloe’s height, but estimated Laurel’s height at around five-four.
Both women were college students in D.C., although attending different colleges.
He reached for his mobile as he walked towards the nearest Metrorail station.
Looking up Sal’s number, he paused, finger above the call button.
Chloe’s father held immense power over civil and criminal cases as a district court judge. Laurel’s was the CEO of a defense juggernaut.
Mason’s investigator instincts hummed. Two young women disappeared less than two weeks apart. Each with a powerful father.
He used his phone to search for any news on Laurel Fitzgerald. Her social accounts turned up, but nothing showing the family launched a public plea for their daughter’s safe return.
Even in Washington, there were too many similarities for these disappearances to be random.
Then the matter of the four dead bodies in Rock Creek. Mason interrupted what looked like a sexual assault in an alley, but Laurel made it sound like something else. Fear soaked through those men. They should have fled after the first one went down with a busted jaw. Instead, they dug in. They needed Laurel. They had something to lose.
Getting hauled in by the police complicated things. Mason knew he was on their radar now as a probable suspect. Not for the murders, but for Laurel. The police had nothing on him, but Cooper and Ross didn’t have all the information.
Mason punched the call button on his phone’s screen as he swiped his Metrorail pass.
It was ten in the morning by the time Sal and Mason joined Chief Justice Jonathan Borisov and Judge Harrison Stewart in Bethesda. The day grew hot, unseasonable even for a D.C. Spring, forcing the group into the arctic air conditioning in the Chief Justice’s study. Exhaling, Mason swore he could see his breath as he took a seat in Borisov’s ice cave of an office.
Mason recounted his encounter from the previous Saturday night and Sunday morning. He’d already brought Sal up to speed over the phone and on the drive over. Mason thought she’d be tough to convince. Instead, she agreed without hesitation, then walked back her eagerness, blaming it on mounting boredom from the suspension. Mason suspected more to the story but didn’t push it.
Harry Stewart paced the room as Mason described the desperation of the men in the alley. Stopping behind the imposing desk, he shifted his weight back and forth. “So now you believe me?”
Mason met his stare. “No. But I can’t ignore the shared elements between the two women. I also believe I’m a suspect in the Fitzgerald disappearance, giving me a little extra motivation.”
“So, you’re just doing this to cover your own ass,” Harry spat.
“That’s partially true, I admit. But the guy that didn’t report his only daughter missing because of the professional impact doesn’t get to evaluate my motivations.”
Harry stomped toward Mason, his face crimson, fists clenched. “You son of a bitch!”
Mason stood, ready to meet Harry. Borisov jumped from his chair, getting between the two men.
“This shit isn’t helping! These young women are missing. If Mason’s right, police don’t have the full picture, and giving it to them implicates you as well.” Borisov stuck a twisted finger in Harry’s chest, moving him back a few inches.
Harry backed up, the red draining from his face. He resumed pacing, burning off his anger in a way that didn’t involve getting beaten by Mason.
“If you’re done, I’m going with the idea we’re looking for these girls,” Sal said, introducing a sense of calm in the room.
“That’s my intention,” Mason said to the room.
Harry nodded, his anger preventing a verbal response.
“Okay. We need to know everything you can tell us about Chloe. Social media, boyfriends, girlfriends, problems she was having at school, all of it. And, Judge Stewart, we need every detail of the cases you’re hearing.”
Harry blanched from across the room, his mouth hanging open. “Some of those cases are confidential.”
Taking a seat behind Borisov’s desk, she commandeered an empty yellow legal pad and pen. “If you want your daughter back, nothing’s confidential. I’m police.” She paused. “I was police. I can keep a secret.”
“And this one?” Harry jabbed a finger at Mason.
“Oh, no worri
es about me. The guild of security guards prevents me from sharing anything said in confidence. Applies to drunk college girls and district court judges.”
Harry rolled his eyes. Left without options, he shared every detail he could think of. As the judge described his cases and the people involved, Mason didn’t expect a joyous reunion for the Stewarts.
The interview complete, Mason and Sal walked to her car. Other than some posts on Chloe’s social media accounts, they only had two leads. Harry told them about Jasper, her boyfriend, and how things had gotten rocky after her Stanford acceptance. The other lead meant a visit to the District City Royals, the same gang that had killed Sal’s partner.
Sal looked at Mason across the roof of the car. “You want to start with Jasper?”
Pausing outside Sal’s car, Mason said, “I think we start with the Royals. They have the most to gain from holding the judge’s daughter.”
Sal cringed. “I put one of their guys in a wheelchair. Going near them only gets me in more trouble with the department. Guy has a restraining order against me, and you’re a civilian. Who knows what they’ll do to you?”
Shrugging, Mason backed down on seeing the Royals first. Unless they got lucky with Chloe’s boyfriend, Mason knew they’d have to talk to the Royals, restraining order or not.
Mason opened the passenger door, stretching his leg into the cramped car. He checked his watch for the time. Eleven. “Then let’s start with Club Trinity since that’s the last place she posted on her Instagram. Looks like she flew solo based on the pictures.”
“Pretty college girl, drinking on her own? Anything could have happened.” The natural police skepticism crept into her voice.
Sal looked up the bar on her phone for directions. “Says here the place doesn’t open until nine. What do you want to do until then?”
“Let’s head over to Jasper’s apartment. If he’s there, maybe he knows something.”
As Sal started the car and pulled away from Borisov’s house, Mason called Clay. Clay knew every club owner on the east coast. If anyone had dirt on Club Trinity, Clay knew everything.
Clay answered the phone, panting. “Mason! You’re interrupting my spin class, man.”
“I always took you for a Tae-Bo kind of guy.”
“Funny. What’s up? It’s not like you to call off-hours.”
Mason told him about Chloe’s disappearance and her social media posts from Trinity.
The music and shouts from the spin class coach faded from the background as Clay left the studio. “I’ve heard about people going missing from there, but they usually turn up a few days later. Mostly underage college kids having too much to drink and getting into some kind of trouble. Dave, the owner, doesn’t run as tight a ship as we do. Sometimes kids get rolled by the local tax collectors.”
Tax collectors. Mason knew Clay’s shorthand for stick-up kids. He’d picked up the phrase from a club owner in Buenos Aires while researching Gridlock’s design.
“What can you tell me about the guy that owns the place?” Mason wanted some background before knocking on his door.
“Dave Goldsmith. He owns Trinity and a few other smaller clubs in the city. Real piece of work. Rumor is he uses the clubs as a front for drugs.”
Moving drugs at a nightclub was common, at least in Mason’s experience. The party atmosphere welcomed a little chemical enhancement, while the noise and crush of bodies created enough of a distraction for open sales on the floor or in rest rooms. Mason tossed dozens of dealers from Gridlock in the years he’d worked there. Dealers coming in are expected. They’re responding to market demand. Using your club as a front crossed an invisible line for Mason. Clay, Mason knew, felt the same way.
“What’s he selling?”
“Caters to college kids, so likely lots of Adderall, weed, and ecstasy. Cocaine is making a comeback, too. Don’t know of anything else.”
“Do you think he’s involved in anything else? Trafficking, maybe?” Mason knew it was a long shot.
“Going from selling study drugs to college kids to selling people is a major fucking leap, Mason. And I imagine the jail time gets a lot more serious. He’s a proprietor first.”
Mason nodded, making mental notes. “Fair. I had to ask. Anything else you can tell me?”
“Dave’s no fan of mine. He tried to bid on the old First Bank of Washington spot, but I beat him to it. He’s been salty ever since. Don’t like me, or Gridlock, very much. You’ll want to be careful with him. He likes to look important. Always has two or three guys with him for muscle.”
“Listen, I hate to ask with short notice, but I need tonight off. I’m wrapped up in this somehow and I need time to work it.”
“It’s not a great time for that, Mace.” Clay knew Mason hated being called Mace. He did it anyway. “I’m shorthanded on the manager front.”
“You’re shorthanded? What happened?” It took Mason months, but he’d built a loyal security team for Clay.
“You didn’t hear? Cindi got a new job in Baltimore. Closer to home for her.”
“How about I come in late? My guys will fill in for me, but I need some time to chase some leads.”
“That works, Mace. See you at nine on the dot.”
“Enjoy the Zumba. And work on those Kegel’s.”
“I told you it’s a spin-”
Clay’s voice cut off as Mason ended the call.
Dust floated in the rays of sunlight coming through the small cabin window. From the cot in the corner, Chloe tried to focus on them. The effort made her dizzy. Bile rose in her throat. She closed her eyes, not wanting to wretch into the bucket beside her. The acrid smell of vomit already filled the space, invading her nostrils. She couldn’t block it out.
Her hair clung to her face, matted with sweat. The sound of her breathing, shallow and ragged, echoed in her head.
Chloe had no memory of how she’d gotten into the cabin. She remembered dancing in Adams Morgan. Celebrating something. School? Was Jasper celebrating?
What’s a Jasper?
Fragments of a woman’s face flashed in her mind. She remembered blonde hair. She tried remembering the woman’s name. Becky? Beth? She’d made that joke.
What’s a Jasper?
Nausea overcame her without warning. The burst of bile bubbled onto her face, dripping into her nose and eyes. Panicked, she pulled herself to the edge of the cot, only covering her hand in thick, green ooze as a second surge ejected from her mouth. She edged over the side of the cot before the third wave struck, getting some into the bucket. The rest splashed on the dirt floor.
Chloe didn’t know low long she’d been in the cabin. The first time she woke up here, she recognized the sweet scent of alcohol and sugar. She’d known more than a few hangovers, but nothing this excruciating and constant. Her skull split with a headache beyond anything in her experience. Lights pulsed behind her eyes as she clenched her eyelids against the throbbing pain.
She faded back to sleep.
Hours later, she realized someone swapped her clothes, replaced by a simple white dressing gown stained with a range of colors.
Other than the small metal bucket filled with her sick, the rough canvas cot was the only other thing in a cabin. The canvas ground against the skin exposed by the thin cotton rag she wore.
Chloe tried piecing together how she ended up in a tiny cabin. The threads, just out of reach, wouldn’t knit together.
A man visited her often. Before he arrived, the gauze masking her senses weakened a bit. A loud thunk of metal against the wooden door signaled his return.
She didn’t know when he visited. Sometimes light poured through the narrow window above the cot. Other times, it was dark. A small lantern accompanied him in the darkness. She remembered those from camping with her family. Her father had an old Coleman lantern, and she wondered at the brilliant light that came from it.
Chloe noticed his kind eyes the first time he entered the cabin. Kind eyes like her father. Delicate wrinkles forme
d around them when the man smiled. Her father never smiled.
Instincts pushed through the haze, telling her to fight, run, scream - anything. The pain in her mind crippled her. She felt like little more than a passenger in her own body.
Hot tears ran from the corners of her eyes, pooling in her ears. The man stroked her hair, comforting her.
“There, there. It’s okay. You weren’t feeling well, so I had you brought here. I’m taking care of you. We’re all taking care of you.”
Chloe fought to speak, the words screaming in her mind. Who? Where am I? What’s happening?
Only a tortured gurgle formed.
The man’s gentle hands grasped her arm. Chloe noted the tender skin, expecting hands like sandpaper. She caught a rapid, practiced motion out of her sight, followed by a tightness gripping her arm. Something cool and damp ran over the inside of her elbow.
A syringe. Chloe screamed, flailing her arms and legs at the man. Or she thought she did. Her scream came out as a dull whimper, drool pooling on the canvas cot as the man pressed the syringe’s plunger.
“Just some vitamins. We need to get you healthy. Big plans for you.”
A soothing, euphoric feeling fell over her as the man shut the door behind him.
Chapter 8
The apartment building was typical of those near the Georgetown campus. Sixteen units spread over four floors, each unit identical. Built cheaply, the buildings were always in some state of disrepair. As they approached, Mason counted two cracked windows and spotted several splotches of hastily repaired exterior walls.
Scanning the roofline of the building and tops of light posts, Mason didn’t see any security cameras.
Mason smiled at a young co-ed walking into the building. Wearing the standard uniform of college women everywhere of hoodie, yoga pants and fuzzy boots, she smiled back.