"What's not to believe, missy? Facts are stubborn things and our hands are tied. We simply do not have the manpower to mobilize for a drug bust of that magnitude." He put his glasses back on. 'And you can thank the mayor for that bit of reality. Now, if you don't mind . . ." He started to read his book.
Jodi took a deep breath. Her priority, after all, was the dead boy, not the flagrant sale of drugs.
'Actually I'm here to report—or whatever—a dead boy."
This time the sergeant looked directly at her through his glasses. His eyes, like those of a walleyed bass fish, filled the lenses, thick as Coke bottle bottoms. She heard the echo of Officer Dexter's folding chair landing on all four feet across the room.
"That's a rather serious statement to make, Ms. Adams."
Jodi licked her lips. "Well, my ftiend Bruce and I both saw him— the victim, or whatever you guys call him. I'd guess he was maybe seventeen years old."
"When and where?"
"Tonight, at that rave I told you about. I don't know, maybe, like, thirty minutes ago."
"At the rave. Hmm." Sergeant Schmidt leaned back in his swivel chair, hands folded behind his head. 'As a police agency we do not have the luxury of speculation. We deal in facts, as I'm confident you can appreciate."
She nodded in earnest.
He cleared his throat. "As such, I cannot have one of my officers
56 ^ LaHaye and DeMoss
climbing through abandoned warehouses sifting through garbage on a wild-goose chase. What makes you think the victim is dead?"
"We checked for a pulse and didn't find one. Plus, he was, like, cold when I touched him." Jodi rolled her head around her shoulders trying to release the throbbing at the base of her neck.
'Any sign of a struggle?"
"No."
'Any blood?"
"No."
'Any wounds?"
"No." She bit her bottom lip, sensing where he was going with this line of questioning.
"I see." Sergeant Schmidt made a fist with his right hand and used it to cover his mouth as he coughed. "Did you consider the distinct possibility that he was just sleeping?"
"With no pulse?"
"It's entirely possible you missed it. Frankly, people don't just die from dancing too hard." He had no smile. "Just making an observation."
Jodi started to respond, to tell him about the syringe they found, but he waved her off. "Listen, I can appreciate your sincerity. You're to be commended for doing your civic duty. We'll make a note of your report for the file."
File? What file would that be? He didn't ask for the location of the building, or the location of the boy in the building, or what he was wearing—or for that matter, even a basic description of the boy. Jesus, what now? she wondered.
"Excuse me, Sergeant Schmidt."
He grunted.
"I was just wondering if you, like, had one of those ride-along programs in this department."
His eyes narrowed as he rubbed the stubble on his chin.
Jodi continued. "I mean, the warehouse is just a few blocks away.
ALL THE RAVE ^ 57
It's just on Christopher Columbus. Maybe Officer Dexter and I could ride over there, you know. I could take him right to the spot."
He scratched the side of his head. "This isn't the only case we're dealing with—"
"It wouldn't take but a few minutes," Jodi pleaded.
"Hang on . . . hang on." He turned to his left. "Dexter, feel like getting some fresh air? Maybe take her for a ride to humor her?"
"Sure, whatever."
Sergeant Schmidt rolled his chair back several inches, opened his middle desk drawer, and withdrew a single sheet of off-white paper. He held it up as if presenting a piece of fine art.
"This here is what we call our Waiver Form. Fill out the top part. Sign and date it on the bottom line." He slid it across the desk and tossed her his pen. "I'll need to see a picture I.D. . . . driver's license . . . learner's permit. Something along those lines."
Jodi snatched her I.D. from her purse, held it out for him to examine, and then tucked it back in place. She knelt on one knee and started to fill in the requested information on the edge of his desk.
"Keep in mind, by signing this paper you release us from all liability in the event of an accident, shooting, or other altercation that may jeopardize your safety In other words"—he paused to cough— "we are not responsible for what may happen to you. Is that understood, Ms. Adams?"
Chapter 1 2 ^ Saturday, 1 2:44 a.m
With the help of two other workers, Carlos Martinez took less than fifteen minutes to completely clear the chill room. The ravers who had been partying, resting, or, in some instances, engaging in sex, were moved to a room in another section of the enormous warehouse.
Gone were the lanterns that had previously lit the second-floor area. Gone were any traces of recent activity.
Gone, too, was the body of the boy with the Tweety Bird shirt.
His task complete, Carlos began to provide stimulants to the crowd. He had sold product at several other raves for Reverend Bud, but tonight was by far the biggest score he had ever made.
Thanks to Reverend Bud working out the deal like a well-oiled machine, sales had been extraordinarily good. He provided the drugs and fixed the prices. Carlos and the others who, as Reverend Bud put it, "spread the love around" were permitted to keep 20 percent of everything collected. Sure beat flipping hamburgers for minimum wage.
Carlos, unlike the other dealers, never used the drugs himself. He preferred instead a clear head to work a little scam of his own. He found it easy to con or, in many cases rob, the stoned partygoers of their drugs. It was a simple task in the dark environment. He in turn resold the stolen narcotics and kept 100 percent of the profits.
And why not? Who would a raver complain to in the middle of the night? The police—who were never around? Even if the cops showed up, what could they say? "I bought some illegal dope and
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got ripped off"? Hardly. Carlos knew he was taking a risk, but the payoff was too good to pass up.
But tonight the encounter with Jodi had rattled him.
He had first met Jodi two months before. During their near-deadly voyage on the Chesapeake Bay he had watched Jodi put her convictions into practice, even at great personal cost. She wasn't afraid of self-sacrifice. And he came to see her motivation as being "into Jesus."
That made him even more uncomfortable, especially since his guiding principle was the motto "Every man for himself" You only go around once, right? Grab for all the gusto, even if that means taking from some loser who doesn't know any better.
Eat—or be eaten. Sure, it was shallow compared to Jodi's way, but it was his truth.
If he had any doubts about her sincerity, if he had wondered whether the whole houseboat experience was done for show, tonight erased all of that for him. The care for Kat's well-being that Jodi demonstrated was more than he could process.
Maybe there was something to Jodi's Jesus. Maybe.
He found it easier to shove the thoughts from his mind. Instead, he scoped the incoming crowd for his next transaction. Perfect. Two kids—definite newbies—had just entered. He wanted to get to them before the other dealers landed the score. As he approached them, Carlos passed two figures standing against the wall in the shadows.
Five minutes later, a hundred extra dollars were added to his private stash. He decided to step outside to see if Reverend Bud had arrived. He knew if his boss was around he would be hovering by the makeshift ticket stand.
Once outside Carlos felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned around, half expecting to see Reverend Bud, but was surprised to be staring at a very large, bald man. Beside him was another unfamiliar face.
6D ^ LaHaye and DeMdss
"Carlos, yes?"
The accent sounded foreign. Carlos squinted. "Do I know you?"
"My name is Illya. This is Zhenya. Please to walk with us." lUya's rock-so
lid hand wrapped around the base of Carlos's neck. He had no real choice in the matter.
'Actually I'm . . . I'm about to meet with—"
"Carlos, first we talk, yes?"
"Um, sure thing. Um, like, so where are we going? I've really got to see Reverend—"
"No more words now."
Carlos felt himself carried along, very much against his will, across the parking lot in the direction of a train track. The track, which, in years past, had serviced the warehouse, ran parallel to the street about one block from the building. A row of now abandoned railroad cars remained parked in place. Zhenya reached up and opened a rusty sliding door to the middle car. They pushed Carlos inside before stepping in themselves.
Carlos, his heart about to burst, struggled to stand. He'd seen the Russians from time to time with Reverend Bud in the past. He didn't know the nature of their business and didn't care to ask. Now he wished he knew. Especially since they didn't appear to be the kind of guys who had a sense of humor: tight, all-business faces. Cold, narrow eyes. Moved with directness and purpose. He knew this was no social visit.
"Listen, um, guys. There must be some mistake here. I work for Reverend Bud ... you can ask him, for real." Carlos felt beads of sweat roll down his forehead. The stale smell of urine, deposited by homeless drifters who used the railroad car as shelter, greeted his nose.
"Zhenya, door, please." Illya removed his nutcracker and cracked open a Brazil nut while Zhenya closed the door. They stood in the darkness as Illya cracked another shell open. The sound bounced off the hard, metal interior. A moment later, Zhenya flicked on a powerful flashlight.
ALL THE RAVE ^ 6 1
"Carlos, in Mother Russia we say, 'Bez izveneniV I believe American say. There's no excuse/"
"Uh ... the thing is, like, 1 really don't have a clue—"
"Shhh. I say you what I think," lUya said. "I watch you. Your fingers become sticky for money. Our money Understood me?"
Carlos swallowed hard. They must know about his skimming from the drug money But how long had they been tracking him? Just tonight? Or for the past several months? For the first time in his life, Carlos tasted a fear so thick he almost choked. Like a slow Internet connection, he began to piece together a picture of his situation. He realized he was in way over his head.
He couldn't run.
He couldn't fight.
He had no defense.
For a second, he wanted to concoct a story, something about a destitute mother, a brother who needed an operation—that's why he skimmed; anything to deflect the reality that he was in deeper than the ocean. And by the looks on their faces, that's exactly where he feared he'd end up.
"You think you clever man," Illya said. His right hand rapidly opened and closed the nutcracker as he spoke. The sharp clack, clack, clack sound of metal against metal made Carlos's heart race faster Illya added, "Zhenya . . ."
The two men traded what was in their hands: Illya now held the flashlight, Zhenya the nutcracker. Zhenya grabbed Carlos by the forearm. His fingers dangled helplessly in midair. With a twist, Zhenya yanked the two gold nugget rings off" Carlos's fingers and placed them in his suit pocket.
Zhenya then turned his attention to the two golden necklaces around Carlos's neck. Still gripping his outstretched hand, Zhenya stripped the fine jewelry from Carlos with a harsh, downward pull. He placed it, too, in his pocket.
Carlos thought the worst was over. They had what they wanted,
62 ^ LaHaye and DeMdss
right? They had the gold and they'd succeeded in humiliating him. He'd do anything they ask. So what more could they want?
lUya, still pointing the flashlight at Carlos, nodded to Zhenya and then sneered, "I say, Carlos not so clever no more."
Zhenya jammed the pinkie finger from Carlos's right hand between the jaws of the nutcracker but didn't clamp down immediately. His eyes remained riveted on Carlos.
Carlos, now aware of what was about to happen, fought in vain to pull away. He shouted, "NO-OU" But he knew that the music from the party, which filled the air around this makeshift torture chamber, would prevent others from hearing his cry.
A nasty smile crossed Zhenya's lips. He snapped the nutcracker shut around the fragile finger. It cracked like a brittle twig.
Carlos roared in pain, his scream amplified by the harsh interior of the railroad car. The instant Zhenya released him, Carlos slumped to the wooden floor.
A minute later Illya spoke. "Nine left . . . not so bad ... I make deal. You bring stolen money—all of it, Zhenya breaks no more. Seven thousand dollars. By noon, Saturday. But. . ."
Carlos whimpered, curled in the fetal position.
"... if you no do, Zhenya will fix all nine. Mi poneali drook drooga?" Before offering the translation, Illya kicked Carlos in the stomach with the point of his highly polished boot. He struck with enough force to send Carlos's body briefly airborne into the side wall of the car.
"Do we understand each other?"
Chapter 1 3 * Saturday, 1 2:45 a.m
Dr. Julius Blackstone finished his work in the basement of the Pet Vet Welhiess Center—at least for the time being. With a click, he switched off the overhead light above the table. He pulled off his rubber gloves with a snap and tossed them in a chrome hopper. He removed his gown, face mask, and safety goggles.
He turned and studied his two assistants, who were likewise engaged in their postop cleanup. They had been handpicked by him, and he had full confidence in their skills. Naturally, he had personally trained them to be proficient in several key areas of expertise.
But were they trustworthy?
As far as he could tell, yes. Who wouldn't be for how he compensated them? That was the beauty of money. People would do just about anything—for the right price. They were no different from other greedy humans. And he always paid them under the table, in cash.
But still—were they trustworthy? The thought nagged at the back of his mind. How could he know for certain?
"Listen, I want plenty of ice . . . Ice is our friend," Dr. Blackstone quipped. "Frozen water is still cheap." He hung his gown and accessories on a metal hook mounted on the wall. "Kindly make sure everything is packed tight. I don't want anything leaking in transit."
"Yes, sir," said the older of the two assistants.
"As you can imagine, that would be a disaster on several levels," Dr. Blackstone said, stretching his arms. "Come to think of it, toss out the old shipping cartons. Use the new ones tonight. They're in the storage room. Make sure everything is red labeled."
64 ^ LaHaye and DeMdss
"Got it. What time is the pickup?" the second assistant asked, scrutinizing his watch.
'About an hour, so time is of the essence," said Dr. Blackstone.
"We'll be ready, sir."
His eyes moved between the two helpers. "You'd better be." His tone reflected an edge produced by both his mood and his own exhausted state. Dr. Blackstone turned to leave but paused by the outside door. His voice softened slightly. "Get some rest. Tomorrow^ is a big day."
* * *
Jodi collapsed in the backseat of the late-model, blue-and-white squad car. Her head rested against the window. She was thankful for its cool surface. She closed her eyes and wished her mind would stop replaying the last thirty minutes. Talk about a real disaster zone, she thought. She had never felt so embarrassed and stupid.
Officer Dexter drove the squad car back to the station without saying a word. Jodi's mind, try as she did to stop it, filled the sflence with another painful instant replay. Upon their arrival at the warehouse, everything had appeared pretty much as when she'd left it: the bizarre-looking outfits, the sweaty bodies swaying in the laser lights, the ear-splitting music. If anything, the crowd was larger, and perhaps a bit rowdier, Jodi thought.
She and Officer Dexter had stood just inside the entrance, allowing their eyes to adjust to the darkness within. After several moments, Jodi pointed to a doorway across the room and to the left. Officer Dexter h
ad grunted as he hiked up his belt around his waist and took the lead through the crowded dance floor. She had no choice but to fall in line, feeling as conspicuous as a baby duck foUowing the lead of its parental unit.
The moment they began to climb the stairs she knew something was amiss. The lanterns in the stairway were gone, requiring Officer Dexter to use his flashlight. At the top of the stairs, she scanned the
ALL THE RAVE ^ 6 5
room in complete disbelief. She was dumbfounded to find it empty—with a capital E. She kept throwing her hands up in the air as if somehow the crowded room would reappear before them,
"You sure this is the right spot?" Officer Dexter had asked, huffing after the workout of climbing the steps.
"Well, I... yes, I'm positive. See that broken glass by the window?"
He trained the beam of light in that direction.
"That's where we found him."
"Who? The victim?"
"Yes. And . . . and over there were kids leaning against that wall smoking, like, dope or something plastic-smelling." She took several steps in the direction of where the kids had been sitting. She turned and faced him. "I mean, there were kids everywhere up here. You've just got to believe me—"
He scrunched his nose. "Then how do you explain—"
She shook her head from side to side. "I can't."
They stood motionless for a long minute. The music below pounded the floor with a thump, thump, thump.
"Miss Adams"—he cleared his throat—"you've had your fun; now we had better be going."
"Fun?"
"Well, the way 1 figure it, you dreamed up this whole dead boy story so as to get us down here." Officer Dexter had redirected the light into her eyes, now that she was the focus of his interrogation.
She squinted. "Um, and why would I do that?"
"Well, as 1 recall, you burst into the station all worked up over the drug situation and—don't get me wrong—I'm against drugs, too, you know. I appreciate your concern. However, like the chief already explained, our hands are tied—"
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