“Good thing I have a few federal connections.” I people watched as we waited for the elevator. “Genie here?”
“No. I asked her to stay in the Atlanta office. I’m not sure how much information we’re going to get out of this guy. So far, he’s not talking.”
“Oh, he’ll talk,” I said, checking my hair in the reflection of the elevator as we rose to the eighteenth floor.
“You can’t torture him,” Kierson said, looking at me sideways.
“I don’t need to.” I stepped off the elevator and waited for Kierson to take the lead down multiple hallways, through several security doors, and finally into an interview surveillance room. The double-sided mirror provided a view of the six-by-nine room with Nola’s goon cuffed to the table. “What do we know?”
“Not much,” Kierson said, handing me a file from the nearby table. As I flipped through the file, Kierson provided me with the highlights. “Name is Axle Sorato. He’s had a few arrests for assault, mostly domestic. He lived in the Midwest and might’ve been associated with the motorcycle club you obliterated a year ago.”
“The Hell Hounds?” The Hell Hounds were a violent motorcycle club who at one point went to war with my family, trying to get to Anne and Sara. It ended with a shootout that left several members of their club in the morgue and two dozen more in prison.
Kierson nodded. “He wasn’t part of the group arrested in Michigan, but he was affiliated with them at some point. He has the tats,” he said, flipping to the pictures of Sorato’s tattoos.
I easily recognized the Hell Hounds tats, but he had others that I flipped through. “What’s this one?” I asked, pointing to an odd shaped cross with a key hole in the middle.
“No clue. Could mean anything,” Kierson said, shrugging.
“What was his upbringing?” I asked, flipping to the back of the folder.
“Single mother, two sisters, father was in prison before Axle was out of diapers. They lived in Jacksonville, Florida most of his childhood, before relocating to Birmingham, Alabama when he was fifteen. His father was released a year later, but he killed a man within the first two weeks of freedom and landed right back in prison. Didn’t even try to hide the murder.”
“Who did he kill?”
“A priest.” Kierson shook his head in disbelief.
“Got it.” I read a few more paragraphs before closing the file. “I’m ready.” I walked out of the room and through the next door. I held Sorato’s stare as I moved to the chair on the other side of the table. “You’ve had a tricky life, Mr. Sorato,” I said, shaking my head as I sat. “A priest, huh? Kind of a cliché if you ask me. The priest diddled you as a child, your mother moves the family away, your father kills the priest, and you follow your father’s path into a life of violent crime. I’m unimpressed.”
His glare hardened as his eyes narrowed.
“Here’s the part I do care about,” I said, taking the pile of photos I had carried in and spreading them on the table. “I want to know which of these children you were responsible for kidnapping and selling.”
“Fuck you.”
“Pause, Mr. Sorato,” I whispered, leaning toward him. “Think this out for a moment. You know who I am. You know what I’m capable of. I killed Nola. I killed so many Hell Hounds that I never bothered to tally the numbers. I know people who can get to you whether you’re locked up or running free. And most of them owe me personal favors.” I leaned back, away from the table, and relaxed in my chair. “You don’t want to make me drag my son into a police station to look at the photos of the children you sold—because it will cost you. Whether by my hands or the hands of my family, you’ll pay a very high price.”
“Ms. Harrison,” Kierson said over the intercom. “May I have a moment?”
“No,” I answered without my eyes leaving Sorato’s.
I sat watching him in silence for a long time. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He knew my reputation. He knew I was well connected. He finally leaned back in his chair. “I never wanted to hurt the kids.”
“But you did,” I said, pushing the photos closer to him. “Now you’ll burn for it.”
Sorato pulled several photos out of the pile, and Kierson came into the room with a notepad and pen. I stood to leave the room.
“They call you demonio de muerte, a death demon,” Sorato said.
“I’ve been called worse.” I shrugged a shoulder before walking out.
~*~*~
Following the hallway to the end, I waved my visitor badge in front of a security panel. The light turned green, and I opened the glass door into a large room filled with desks and people. I stole a chair at an unoccupied desk and pulled my cell phone out of my handbag. I almost called Tech out of habit but caught myself, calling Genie instead.
“Please tell me Kierson wasn’t pulling my leg, and you’re filling in while Maggie’s away,” she answered.
“Demonio de muerte at your service. At least temporarily while Maggie’s figuring shit out.”
“The demon of death?”
“It’s not important,” I said as I grinned to myself. “Axle Sorato caved, but it was way too easy. What am I missing?”
“I sent Kierson everything I had. The information available on him is pretty light. The only good quality in his otherwise miserable life, was that he sends his mother money.”
“How much money?”
“Wires her a couple thousand every few months. The last wire was three weeks ago to the tune of three-thousand five-hundred dollars.”
“Nola and the Hell Hounds are out of business. Where’s he getting the cash?”
“No legitimate income that I found. He visited his father two months ago, though. Daryl Sorato is serving twenty-five years in Jacksonville for the murder of a local priest. Want me to pull the visiting room security video?”
“Not necessary. They would’ve talked in riddles. I’ll call you back.”
I hung up and called Mickey McNabe, a Miami crime boss and former convict. We had an odd friendship of sorts, held together by a web of violent history. Mickey was far from being one of the good guys, but there were lines he’d never cross and after the murder of his only daughter, his vengeful streak against child molesters was larger than my own.
As I listened to the phone ring, a skinny, pale man in a navy suit walked over and stared down at me. “That’s my desk.”
“So?” I raised an eyebrow, looking up at him.
He looked confused for a moment before sighing and walking away. I smiled, propping my boots up on the corner of the desk as I leaned back in the swivel chair.
“What now?” Mickey answered.
“Long time, no talk. Did you miss me?”
Mickey chuckled. “That’s a trick question. How’s my only cop friend?”
“Ex-cop. And I find myself a bit turned around at the moment. I’m sitting in an FBI office trying to decipher a child predator. He’s being too cooperative, and I’ve got a bad vibe.”
“And I was your first call?”
“Honestly, you were my second call, but you have a unique set of skills that could assist me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Seems the goon I’m talking with was recently in contact with his father, Daryl Sorato, who rents a room at Jacksonville. After their visit, the son drifted into another business arrangement of some kind. I’m trying to find the root of that business arrangement.”
Mickey chuckled, but it sounded a little sinister. “I’ll make some inquiries.”
“Appreciate it. Tell Daryl that demonio de muerte says hello.”
“Death demon,” Mickey said as he laughed. “I like it.” He disconnected.
I set my cell phone on the desk and looked at the ring on my right hand. The gems sparkled under the harsh fluorescent lighting. I lifted my hand, turning the ring in circles with my other hand. I looked up, finding the agent whose desk I had confiscated glaring at me from across the room. He was working from a table next to the coffee
pot. I offered him a finger wave before I picked my phone up again and called Maggie.
“Agent O’Donnell,” she answered on the first ring.
“You sound like all the other drones.”
“I feel like a drone. I’m surrounded by stuck-up suits.”
“I’m temping as a profiler for Kierson in your absence. I’m surrounded by the same ilk. What I wouldn’t give to see the looks on their faces if Alex strolled in wearing one of his more colorful outfits.”
“That would be a sight. Why are you temping? What happened with Silver Aces Security?”
“Nothing. I needed a change of scenery.”
“Let me guess. The constant glee of others was making you want to punch something?”
“Pretty damn close,” I admitted. “What are you working on?”
“Nothing. I’m stuck at a desk while I wait for another reassignment.”
“Heard you got your boss demoted.”
“I had nothing to do with it! Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
“Because it sounds like a lie.”
“Well, I didn’t. But someday you and I have to have drinks at a particular bar with a wicked-ass bartender. She’s a criminal through and through, but she’s got style. She’s the one who tanked the agent’s career.”
“I’ll check my social calendar. It sounds interesting. Meanwhile, can you spare the time to do some research for me?”
“As long as Kierson doesn’t find out, no problem. What do you need?”
“I need more information on a man we have in custody, Axle Sorato. Start with his sisters. Genie can get you their addresses. I need a history on this asshole: friends, business associates, behavior, trade skills. The list of associates I have are already dead.”
“Who do we already know about?”
“Hell Hounds and Nola.”
“Cheerful start,” she said. “I’ll run with it and let you know where I land. Do you need me to check into his parents?”
“His mother profiles as the type to stick her head in the sand and hide from reality. I already have someone digging into his father. He’s a guest of Jacksonville prison.”
“Mickey.” I visualized her nodding her approval. “All right. I’ll root out the rest of the intel you need.”
She disconnected the call, and I swiveled in the chair as I replayed the meager paper trail in my head. Kierson returned with four names and pictures of the victims. I checked the disappearance dates, rolled my eyes, and made my way back to the holding cell.
~*~*~
“Who do you think you’re dealing with, ass-wipe?” I asked, bracing my hands on the table and leering over him. “These cases are too old and too few. We can trace back every wire transfer you’ve made to your mother over the years and four victims don’t account for that much green. Either confess your shit, right now, or face the consequences.”
“I got nothing else to say,” Sorato said, trying to cross his arms over his chest, but the long cuffs attached to the table prevented him.
“Kierson,” I said, knowing he was standing somewhere behind me.
“Yes, Harrison?”
“This beautiful boy—the second victim—was from Miami. Transfer Mr. Sorato to the Miami correctional facility. I have some friends who’ll take special care of him there.”
“You can’t do that!” Sorato said, trying to stand. “You arrested me in Michigan!”
I shrugged, turning to leave. “You didn’t commit a crime in Michigan that we’re aware of.”
As I opened the door, I heard Kierson offer Axle another chance to save himself. I walked down the hall and back into the main room. The desk I had borrowed earlier was occupied by its owner. I could’ve scared him off, but I decided to grab a cup of coffee instead. I poured the sludge into a cup, but after seeing the thick oily mixture floating on top, I tossed it into the nearby trashcan.
“I have a fresh pot in my office,” an older man in a suit said as he walked by.
I followed him between the desks and around the corner into a glass-walled office.
He pointed to the pot. “Help yourself.”
“You look familiar,” I said, pouring coffee into one of the available ceramic cups.
“We met in Florida. I’m Special Agent in Charge, Jack Tebbs.”
“Ah, yes. I remember now. You backed me when I was arguing with a lazy Fed.”
“He’s still lazy. But he’s the nephew of a Senator, so the FBI’s stuck with him.”
I snorted. “Figures. What brings you to Detroit?” I confiscated a guest chair as he sat behind his desk.
“I’m on loan until they hire someone to run this office. The previous agent in charge retired. Hopefully, they’ll find a replacement soon. I’m not interested in spending a winter season in Michigan.”
“Some people say it’s beautiful here in the winter.”
“And yet you carefully exclude yourself from that population.”
“I’m not a fan of the cold, but as long as you don’t have to go outside, it is pretty.” I turned my attention to a bookcase on the far wall, scanning the pictures on display.
“I hear Kierson hired you to consult with a detainee. How’s that going?”
I looked back at Jack as I answered. “Axle Sorato is talking. We’ll get his past crimes, but he’s holding something more recent back that he doesn’t want us to know about.”
“At least some of the victim’s families will have closure.”
“The lies of a cop,” I whispered more to myself than him.
“Come again?” he asked, sitting up straighter and turning hard eyes on me.
“It’s the lie we tell ourselves.” I shrugged, leaning back into the leather chair. “As if finding the truth somehow lessens the pain. It doesn’t. It can’t. Maybe finding the buried bodies helps in some small way, but when your life is ripped to pieces, nothing is ever the same. It hardens you. It breaks part of your soul. It crushes your belief that good outweighs evil.”
The room was silent as I stared into my coffee.
“Who did you lose, Harrison?” Tebbs whispered.
“Myself,” I whispered back, getting up and walking out of the office.
I spotted Kierson standing in the middle of the room looking around.
“Done already?” I asked as I walked over.
“Where were you?”
“Jack’s office.”
Kierson’s eyes widened as he looked toward the hallway. “Please tell me I still have a job.”
“As far as I know,” I said, shrugging and drinking my coffee. “What did you get out of Axle?”
“I assigned two other agents to get the rest of this joker’s confession. We need to hop on a plane and head to North Dakota.”
“Can I take my coffee?”
He released a frustrated growl and walked out of the room. I carefully hid my smile as I followed, deciding to keep the borrowed coffee mug.
Chapter Nine
“What are we walking into this time?” I asked as I fastened my seatbelt. I was relieved to find that we weren’t flying commercial and instead occupied a cozy six-seater jet. I wiggled back and forth into the soft leather seats.
Kierson had stopped speaking to me shortly after leaving the FBI office. It seemed the gun I had checked in with security was from my unregistered-and-missing-serial-numbers stash. According to the other agents, carrying such a gun was a no-no. After an extensive argument, I took my knives and told them they could keep the gun. Kierson was less than impressed by my generosity.
“Kie-rr-son…” I teased. “You’ll have to talk to me, eventually. You might as well give in now. What’s the case?”
He sighed dramatically but handed me a tablet. “A possible kidnapping. Laurie Simmons, mother to Caleb Simmons, went missing sometime early this afternoon. But when the police started investigating, they discovered Laurie Simmons doesn’t exist. Her driver’s license and birth certificate are fake. The local cops have no idea what’s going on. T
he only things they know for sure are that when Caleb got out of school, his mother was gone, and there were signs of forced entry at the house.”
“Definitely forced entry,” I said, scrolling through the pictures. “And, they’re on the run.”
“What?”
“Laurie has go bags stacked in the corner of the bedroom. They don’t have more than a handful of personal items lying around. How long had she been living there? I’m guessing not more than a year.”
“Nine months,” Kierson answered. “You think she was a criminal?”
I shrugged. “Not everyone on the run committed a crime. Parental kidnapping is a possibility, though.”
Kierson called Genie and asked her to look into a match to any open parental kidnapping cases.
“Tell her to focus on domestic abuse situations.” I zoomed in on the blood splatters near an overturned chair. Laurie didn’t leave without a fight. I had no doubt the blood was hers, but it wasn’t enough to kill her.
Kierson repeated my request to Genie before hanging up.
“The kid can tell us more if the locals haven’t scared the bejeebers out of him before we get there.”
Kierson snorted as he reclined his chair and closed his eyes. “You better sleep while you can. It’s going to be a long day.”
There was no way I’d chance sleeping on a plane across the aisle from Kierson with my habit of having violent nightmares. He’d likely handcuff me and have me transferred to a mental ward and fitted for a straitjacket.
I waited until the plane leveled off before going back to the beginning of the electronic file and reviewing every detail. Several hours later, as the plane dropped elevation, Kierson woke and straightened his already straight tie.
“It’s like an alarm clock, isn’t it?” I asked. “The plane’s descent.”
“I sleep more on planes than I do in a bed. Welcome to my life.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, passing him the tablet. “Why were you called in on this case? Why isn’t the nearby FBI satellite office taking it?”
“Donovan called,” Kierson admitted while cringing slightly. “Laurie’s boyfriend is one of his employees. He wanted you on the case. I’m just along for the ride.”
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