Cee didn’t need money. Unless… “Please let me do the job. Please.” Had she wanted to fund her own shadow League? But where did Tyler fit into this mess? Had she contacted him for the money?
Crud. She went back to the computer, checked her connections. One of the screens blinked on. Finally. She began to type in her access codes to bring up the GPS locator.
Nothing she typed showed up on the screen.
She tried again and a video of her mother, Sheila, popped up. Dumbfounded, she listened as it played. Her mother was giving the exact same testimony she’d given about Andrew Lincoln Rush, except the voice asking the questions wasn’t asking about Rush.
This was what Dusty had told her about—one of the other versions of her mother’s recording. How the heck was it on her screen?
“Gracie Divine?” John stepped back from the monitors. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him looking like he was getting ready to run, straight to the police.
Tyler. She needed to focus. Find Tyler.
Gracie fished her cell from her purse to call Leland. Her cell rang in her hand. She looked at the screen. Victor. So not a priority right now. She sent him a “Can’t talk right now” text.
She dialed Leland.
He picked up on the second ring. His voice was military gravel and too many roughly-barked commands. “Gracie, how’d it go today?”
How’d it go? Oh, the hospital. “Leland, I’ve got a situation. Can you ping Cee and tell me where she is?”
Leland must’ve heard the anxiety in her voice, because he didn’t even question. “Hold on. Let me get to the right computer.”
She bent and continued to try and get control of her computer system. After a moment, Leland said, “She’s on campus. In her room.”
Her room? Thank God. But then where was Tyler? “Are you sure? She couldn’t have taken her chip out?”
“No. We’ve finally figured out a way to program the chips to go off if removed, without making them vulnerable to hacking or easily destructible.”
Gracie let out a breath. She mouthed to John, “She’s there.” And then to Leland said, “Can you get her? I need to talk with her.”
“I’ll have home security run her down. No problem.”
“Thanks.”
The video of her mother was now on every monitor. Playing over and over. Each one with a different time stamp and a different man being mentioned. She squeezed her cell between chin and shoulder and continued to type commands, but nothing was happening.
The click of a call coming through her cell buzzed in her ear. She ignored it, let it go to voice mail.
Someone had taken control of the system. Someone had blocked her.
How…?
The fire. They hadn’t been searching for something. They’d been planting something. Fudge. This was bad. “Leland.”
“Hold on.” She heard Leland talking with someone, then come back on the line with a gruff “Security searched Cee’s room. She wasn’t there. They found a chip.”
“You said it couldn’t be removed.”
“This one was clean. Not a speck of blood. She must’ve had a duplicate made.”
“Wouldn’t there then be two signals for her?”
“Not if she wore a device that blocked one of those signals. In that instance, the signal on the first chip might drop for a moment in the control center, but then we’d have pinged her and picked up on the second chip.”
“What about her cell?”
“In her room.”
She felt panic rising. Why would she do this? What game was Cee playing? Could she have anything to do with the attempt on her life, the club fire?
Tony was alive. Dusty was a huge liar. Anything seemed possible. Besides, Cee had gotten into the club when Gracie hadn’t been there. She could’ve planted explosives. Could’ve used the money from Tyler to get them made. Could Cee’s need for payback extend to her? Had she lured Tyler away to hurt Gracie? “Tyler is missing too. John is here. Says Ty and Cee have been in contact. Why would she do that?”
“I don’t think we’re going to get an answer on that unless it’s directly from her. But I’m going to work on how.”
“You think Rome…?”
“I’m going to go talk to him now.”
“Thanks. I’m on my way over.”
She hung up. Her cell rang again. She ignored it. Turning to John, she braced herself to tell him she had no idea where their son was, tell him that the family he had feared—had rightly feared—had taken Tyler.
Chapter 56
It wasn’t so much a dirty main street as a poor main street. Boarded-up businesses, like missing teeth, were interspersed with open businesses—an old-fashioned pharmacy advertising the lowest price on cigarettes, a thrift store, and a corner market that smelled like pickle brine.
Having traveled by bus an hour from his home, Tyler stood in front of the store, eating the beef jerky he’d just purchased with cash. He lowered his baseball cap. This didn’t seem the type of city to have high-tech cameras, but he’d been told to avoid cameras. He had on special sunglasses that blinded facial recognition software, but he could still be filmed, so his hat came down.
He put his hand in his jeans pocket, feeling the smooth steel of his folded pocket knife. A gun would’ve been better. But his family didn’t have one. And he’d only ever practiced with one once. His friend’s father had taken the two of them to a range. And though Tyler’s father had told him to “Just observe,” Jake’s dad had let him fire a couple of rounds.
When his hand grew slick against the knife, he took it out. Felt like he’d been waiting for this moment forever. And here it was.
A shiny limo pulled up to the curb. A big guy with a nose that had been broken once or twice rolled down the window. They’d sent a limo? Tyler leaned on the open window. The man inside said, “Your mom sent me. Time to go.”
He hesitated. Then remembered not getting into a strange car were instructions you gave little kids. They didn’t apply to a six-foot covert vigilante.
Besides, it was a limo. Why would they advertise if they intended to hurt him? He opened the door and slid into the back seat, shut the door. The cold temperature in the car was a relief. It smelled good in here, a new-car smell. The partition between him and the driver slid down. “Help yourself to a drink,” the man said.
There was a fridge. Awesome. He took out a grape soda from the small fridge. The inside was lit with a blue light. Neat. Flicking open the silver tab, he took a long sip. Tasted incredible. His parents never stocked soda or any sugary drinks.
There was food and candy in an inset cabinet, too. Shouldn’t eat the candy. That was for kids. But since the driver had lowered the divider, he asked, “Do you know where we’re headed?”
Duh. Of course he did. He was driving. Nice, Tyler. You’ll make one observant spy.
“Yes, sir,” the driver answered as if Tyler hadn’t just said the stupidest thing in the world. “We’ll be arriving at our destination in two hours.”
Two hours? A phone rang out through the speakers. The driver must’ve accepted the call, because suddenly he heard Cee’s soft Spanish accent. “You’ve made it. You are officially one of us.”
A burst of joy raced through his chest, making him want to shout. He’d done it!
After all the jumping through hoops. He’d stolen from his parents—well, technically, taken money from a trust that was his without them knowing. But he’d lied to his parents, visited the dark web, planned, plotted, snuck around, and now he was going to meet his…Gracie Parish. “That’s great, but two hours is a long time. You told me not to bring a phone, so how can I let my parents know when I’ll be back?”
His mom would freak when she found him missing. Luckily, it was summer, so she probably wouldn’t discover him gone for a few hours.
�
�We’ll text her for you. Even make it look like it came from your phone.”
“You can do that?”
“Your mom can. Now settle back. You’ll be there soon enough.”
Ty relaxed in his seat. They’d taken care of everything. This was what it meant to be part of an elite covert group. So cool. He rested his head back. Took another sip of his drink. He suddenly felt so tired. His eyes drifted closed. And the world went black.
* * *
Tyler woke up in a bedroom that was and wasn’t familiar. He struggled to place the light-blue walls, the Mario lamp on the nightstand and matching curtains, and then it came to him. He was in his bedroom at the family cabin—far from home. So thirsty. He licked his dry lips, tasted like chemicals. His head hurt. What had happened? What time was it?
He sat up in the bed and fought back the sick that rose into his throat. His stomach turned. He reached into his pocket for his knife. It wasn’t there.
“You’re okay.”
He turned to the doorway, to the person there. Cee. Taller than he’d expected. But he’d only ever seen one photo of her, and it had been blurry. Her long, dark hair draped around a pale face. She wore dark sunglasses that were way too big for her face. “Cee. What’s going on?”
She shook her head, began to cry, covered her mouth.
“What’s wrong?”
He tried to get out of bed but found the weight of his head nearly tipped him over.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought… I didn’t realize what she had planned. I’m so sorry.”
What was she talking about? He wanted to ask, but his lips felt numb and his body so heavy. A flat-screen television was in his room—where had that come from?—and was playing a video. Fighting to keep his eyes open, he watched.
It took him a minute to understand the images, but when he did, he began to scream.
Chapter 57
Standing in the debris-strewn corridor outside the kitchen of Club When?, Dusty watched as Gracie and John headed up the stairs. What had just happened? Gracie had been so angry that she’d shut him down and had gone upstairs with John because he needed to talk “privately.”
And he was sure John did have something to say, but he was also certain it wasn’t going to make Gracie happy. Judging by the pain written all over her sweet face when she’d walked in, she’d already had a bad morning. Seeing her like that… Nearly killed him.
But then she’d caught sight of him, and her pain had changed into rage. Why was she so angry at him? It couldn’t be about last night. Yes, she was upset, but when she’d texted him this morning she’d seemed distant, not angry. And he got the impression she was giving him her schedule, so they could meet up later. She’d told him she was going to the hospital to see some of the injured and meet with Victor before coming to the club.
Victor.
Could he have said something, made some comment against Dusty? He took out his cell, searched for and found Victor’s number, then dialed. He put the phone to his ear.
A couple of the construction workers came in through the back entranceway, carrying equipment. He nodded to them and stepped out of the way.
“Cops are here,” one of the guys said as he went past.
Dusty turned to find Mack in the back doorway. Victor answered the phone with a “Yeah.”
He had a half second to make the decision. He shielded his phone and whispered, “Call Gracie. Tell her to take the escape route. Now.”
Wearing a black suit and sporting a bruised nose and dark circles under his eyes, Mack entered the back hall of Club When? like he owned the place. He had two police officers with him. Dusty flexed his slow-things-down muscles. He approached Mack as if a dear friend, held out his hand. “Mack.”
Mack ignored it. “Dusty.”
Dusty dropped his hand, shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. Casual-like. “What’s going on?”
Mack held out a folded paper. “We have a warrant to search the upstairs and confiscate evidence.”
Dusty’s hackles rose, along with his temper. He set it to simmer. “What’s that all about?”
“You wanted proof. I’m here for proof.” He hitched a thumb toward the steel door that led upstairs. “Proof that Gracie and her family are involved in blackmail and extortion. I have reason to believe it’s contained on a computer upstairs.”
Gracie had told him whatever was left on the servers was harmless. “What specifically are we talking about?”
“I have the destination for a file that will show that Gracie Parish has taken part in a series of blackmail schemes against elected officials and business leaders.”
Evidence? “Don’t do this, Mack.”
Mack shook his head. “We follow the facts where they lead, Dusty. You know that.”
Sure. “DNA, evidence, facts—none of it will make a lick of difference if you’ve decided to toe Rush’s line. And he doesn’t need your help. Kind of control people like him have over information—whole media empires dedicated to his spin—isn’t likely facts will ever play too large a role.”
Mack smoothed the lapel of his suit jacket. “Not sure what you’re talking about. You laid the road for this drive. Now, is Gracie Parish here? Because I also have a warrant for her arrest.”
Dusty squared his shoulders. “On what grounds?”
Behind Mack the two officers tensed, exchanged a get-ready look. They didn’t stand a fucking chance. But no reason to make them wary. He unhitched his shoulders, gave them both an all-good-here nod of his head.
Mack took it all in stride. Seemed to be enjoying himself. “The exact things your investigation uncovered: blackmail and human-trafficking. Add to that arson.”
Bullshit. His stomach churned. Mack was determined to shield Rush, even if that meant fabricating evidence. “You have evidence of her involvement in human-trafficking? Arson?”
“The fire marshal has plenty of proof it was arson. Know how long it took someone to set these devices? Hours. Not something some guy can come in and do on his lunch hour. She lives and works here. You telling me she wouldn’t have noticed the devices being set? Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if we found evidence of purchases to make those devices when we search.”
“Why would she want to destroy her own club?”
“She obviously knew we were onto her and tried to burn her club down to destroy the evidence. A lot harder to get evidence off a burnt computer than a wiped computer. And you were there when she turned on her partners in Mexico.”
Oh, sure, and the area upstairs where the evidence is just happened to be unharmed. He blinked at Mack for one dumbfounded moment. Gracie had been set up. “This is my case, Mack. I’m not going to let you railroad her.”
“As we’ve already discussed”—Mack ran a finger over his still-swollen nose—“you are no longer on this case.”
Bastard. Although Dusty knew the records showed why he’d started his investigation, he hadn’t proven Gracie and her family had been in Mexico on a vigilante mission. Could what he had put in his reports be misconstrued to support Mack’s theory?
Maybe. Especially if Mack had other information to guide the narrative. Time to stall. “I think Gracie’s in the front of the club.”
“Not here,” said one of the construction guys, carrying a halogen work light and an extension cord through the hallway. “Maybe upstairs.”
Dusty closed his eyes, counted to three, and tried another tactic. “Let me go up and get her. There’s only one way down.” He pointed at the door. “It’ll be easier. Then you can go up and search for your evidence.”
Mack shook his head. “You’ve gone too deep on this one, pal. Take a step back. It’ll save what’s left of your career.”
Mack turned to go up the steps. Dusty stepped in front of him. “You’ve got her life in your hands, Mack. Rush will know exactly where
she is and how to get at her.”
A tinge of disappointment seemed to weigh down Mack’s shoulders. “Give me some credit, Dusty. I checked it out. He wasn’t even aware of the attempt on her life.”
He wasn’t? “Did you check Porter out too?”
Mack ignored him, walked past him and started up the stairs, cops in tow. Dusty followed them, tried again. “You bringing her to jail makes her a duck in a shooting gallery. How easy would it be for Porter to get her there?”
His loafers making gritty sweeping sounds as he ascended the steps, Mack shook his head. “Trust me. That won’t happen.”
“I’m going to fight you on this, Mack. You are going to look like a fool.”
Mack stopped, turned. “Not if I get Mukta to confess.”
Confess? “Why would she do that?”
“I’m pretty sure she’d do just about anything to get her daughter out of jail.”
Mack continued up. Dusty stopped in his tracks. Of course, Mack was right. Mukta would confess to blackmail to get her daughter off of worse charges. And Mack was smart enough to let Mukta pick her poison. Confessing to the blackmail—a white collar crime—would get her a few months in a cushy club fed.
Mukta might do that, if it got Gracie out of the more serious charges, and if she had no other choice. But she did have a choice. So why not send a team of lawyers today and have Gracie out of jail in a heartbeat?
As he started back up the stairs, Dusty stewed on this, picked it apart like a dog picks meat from a bone, bit by bit. And as he broke from the relative darkness of the stairwell to the light of the upper floor, it hit him. Mack was going to take Gracie to a black site. Once there, there would be no way for Mukta to get Gracie out.
Mack could keep Gracie there, in that limbo between being arrested and being set free, for weeks. Gracie would be a prisoner, tortured—no matter what they called it, not letting someone sleep, sit down, piss, was fucking torture—until she confessed too.
The Price of Grace Page 22