Travis waited to see if Alicia would both comprehend what he had said—and if she would buy it.
Alicia took a moment to ponder everything that Travis had just explained to her. Then she nodded. She was buying it—or at least she was going along with it.
“And there’s one more thing. I want you to make sure that your date with this cop is at the Loft. You know that place, don't you?”
“Yeah. I know the Loft,” Alicia said.
The Loft was a former warehouse that had stood in one of the old German sections of Cincinnati since sometime in the early twentieth century. In the intervening years, the Germans had all assimilated and dispersed to the suburbs, and the original business for which the warehouse had been built was long since defunct.
The neighborhood was now one of the roughest parts of Cincinnati. But the town fathers and several optimistic investor groups were currently attempting to gentrify the bad areas of the city.
In practice, this usually meant establishing parks and businesses that were lightly patronized, because suburbanites were afraid to venture so deep into the inner city. The Loft had bucked the trend, though: On any night of the week, it hosted a vibrant crowd of college students and twentysomething hipsters.
“Make sure that the cop takes you to the Loft,” Travis repeated. “And make it for this Saturday. Don’t worry about him not being available Saturday night. Remember: This isn’t a real guy, he’s a cop, and he’ll do whatever it takes to pursue his lead.” He paused for Alicia to digest this before continuing.
“There’s a short dead end street opposite the main entrance of the Loft. It’s called Covey Avenue. You can’t miss it—not if you look. At 11:00 p.m. I want you to make sure that Don is on Covey Avenue. Do you think you can handle that?”
“Why do you want me to do that?” Alicia asked.
“Because I want to talk to him,” Travis said. “I want to explain to him that this has all been a big misunderstanding, and that he and his cop friends should leave Jessica and me alone. But I need to get him alone for that.”
It was a bogus and completely lame explanation, to be sure, Travis realized. But Alicia was a junkie. He figured that she wouldn't take the time and effort to critically dissect it.
“How am I supposed to convince him to leave the club and cross the street to enter an alley?” Alicia asked.
“Gee, I don’t know, Alicia. Only about a dozen ways that I can think of: Tell him you want to take a walk, that the club is getting too hot for you. Tell him that you want to smoke a cigarette, or that you want to make out. I’m sure you’ll think of something, for the money I’m paying you—when you’re done with the job, that is.”
“Okay,” she sighed. “I guess I can handle that.”
“And don’t forget to buy a burner phone,” Travis said. “And use cash. That makes you untraceable. You know that, right?”
“Of course I know that,” she said. “And you know I’ll need money for that.”
Travis sighed. He should have foreseen this incidental up-front expense. He was a businessman, after all—just like those guys who wore suits and ties all day. He was every bit as sharp as any one of them.
Travis leaned forward and retrieved his wallet from his pants pocket. He removed two bills and handed them to Alicia.
“This should be more than enough,” Travis said. “Don’t forget to use the burner phone—and only the burner phone—whenever you talk to the cop. He doesn't want you to know that he’s a cop, and you don’t want him to know who you are, either. Got it?”
“I got it, Travis.” While Alicia had been lethargic throughout their brief meeting, her hand darted forward now to take hold of the money. Almost like a normal person, Travis thought.
But Travis did not let go of the money immediately. “I don’t want to find you’ve used this money to buy a fix,” he said sternly, giving her a stare that left no room for ambiguity. “You can get high on your own time and your own dime, after this job is done and I’ve paid you.”
“Jeez, Travis. I got it. Lighten up a little, will you?”
“This is a serious matter, Alicia. No room for screwing up.”
Travis released his grip on the two bills and Alicia quickly pocketed them.
“You can trust me, Travis. I ain’t no idiot, you know.”
You’re a junkie, Travis thought. That amounts to the same thing.
“Okay then. I hope so. You’d better hope so, too.” Travis was confident that Alicia would perceive the underlying threat. He stood up and began walking back toward the Jeep. Alicia remained seated. When he was a fair ways away, she called after him.
“Travis?”
He paused and looked over his shoulder. She was holding the two bills for the phone aloft.
“I’ll be sure to buy the phone. But can I maybe—keep the change?”
Travis sighed and resumed walking. He called out over his shoulder: “Yes, Alicia, you can keep the fucking change.”
40.
“Lilith just texted me!” Dave said.
Alan was at his desk, combing through another law enforcement database for any recent information about Jessica Knox. He had put out an alert on the Jeep, but no law enforcement agency in southern or central Ohio had yet found it. It was possible, he supposed, that Knox and Hall had ditched the vehicle.
In fact, that would be the smart move, from a fugitive’s perspective. Cynthia Knox had almost certainly been lying when she claimed not to have had any contact with her daughter. That would mean that rather than helping the police locate Jessica, she would have tipped Jessica off.
But now this…
“She’s texting you?” Alan asked. He stood and headed over to Dave’s cubicle. “Are you sure it's the same ‘Lilith’?”
“I’ve only talked to one Lilith,” Dave said. “And she’s apologizing for bugging out on our earlier date.”
“That would indicate the same person.”
“Yeah. The phone number is different. But she mentioned our first date, and her taking off like she did.”
Alan paused. This development could have any number of meanings—including that they were pursuing the wrong lead.
“Why don’t you start by running a check on the number.”
“It’s probably a burner.”
“Yeah, it’s probably a burner. But that’s our starting point. I’ll be back over here in an hour. Let me know what you find.”
But the phone that Lilith had used to text Dave wasn't a burner. It turned out to be a government-issued phone, one of the thousands issued to low-income individuals as part of various government assistance programs. This particular phone was issued to an ex-con named William Mofford.
A cross-reference of the government records revealed that this was one of roughly a dozen phones issued to William Mofford. According to the rules of the program, beneficiaries were to be limited to only one phone every two years.
The bitter irony of the situation was not lost on Dave. “Yeah, it torques me off to think that we’re getting squeezed by budget cuts, and another branch of the government is issuing cell phones to convicted felons. So many cell phones, in fact, that a guy like William Mofford is able to collect them.”
Alan was a bit less surprised. He had been dealing with official bureaucracies—state, local, and federal, for more years.
“It wouldn't surprise me to find out that any number of government assistance cell phones are issued to William Mofford. But why would William Mofford be contacting you at all?”
“I don’t believe that he did. I just did some more research on William Mofford. He was listed a few years ago on the birth certificate of a child delivered by one Alicia Susan Griggs. Mofford was the father.”
Dave hit a few more buttons on his keyboard. A DMV photo of Alicia Griggs appeared on the screen.
Like Jessica Knox, Alicia Griggs roughly fit the physical profile of Lilith: She was somewhere in her early- to mid-thirties. Griggs had a slender build and dark hair. U
nlike Jessica Knox, however, Griggs’s face had an angular, sunken look that suggested long-term drug use.
“Did you check her record?” Alan asked.
“Yep. Two misdemeanor busts for drug possession. One more for solicitation.”
“And she looks sort of like a ‘Lilith’, doesn't she?”
“She’s got dark hair,” Dave acknowledged. “And her age fits, more or less.”
Alan knew that no photo of Alicia Griggs would match the dating site profile photos of Lilith, as those had already been identified as generic model shots pulled from the Internet. Dave’s memory would be a better guide here:
“Is that the woman you saw at the Terrace View restaurant that night?”
Dave paused for a moment, staring intently at the photo on the screen. Finally he shook his head.
“I can’t be sure. But she might be.”
“How does she compare to Jessica Knox, in terms of the likelihood of being Lilith?”
Dave thought again before replying.
“Sorry, Alan. She was too far away, and I only had my eyes on her for a few beats. I know, I know—I should have tried to get a better look at her.”
“That’s okay,” Alan said. “You didn't know she was going to take off running. You had every reason to believe that you were going to have an hour with her over dinner.”
“Maybe,” Dave allowed. He looked up at Alan. “So now what?”
Alan found himself suddenly thinking again about dead ends and wrong leads. There was a compelling case against Knox and Hall. Especially given the latter’s prison record, there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that the two of them were up to something. And while Seth Greenwald had done his best to protect himself, there was enough truth in the bank manager’s story to cast Jessica Knox in an unfavorable light, with or without Travis Hall.
Nevertheless, it was a circumstantial chain of evidence: The entire case against Travis Hall and Jessica Knox hinged on Travis Hall’s apparent presence at the Terrace View on the night of Dave’s first, aborted meeting with Lilith, and Travis Hall’s connection to Lorelei.
On the way home from his meeting with Greenwald the previous day, Alan had stopped by the Terrace View. Viktor Pudovkin remembered Alan; but when he showed the Russian a photo of Travis Hall, Podovkin had been unsure.
“It might have been him,” Pudovkin had said. “Yeah, it looks like him. I see his tattoo.”
The tattoo was clearly visible in Travis Hall’s prison photo.
But how many ex-cons were there with tattoos in that location? How many who—on a dark night—could possibly be mistaken for Travis Hall?
Moreover, there was no evidence, as yet, connecting either Jessica Knox or Travis Hall to the Internet dating site where Dave had made contact with Lilith.
But William Mofford was now connected. And if Dave’s hunches and investigatory work panned out, this Alicia Griggs—who looked suspiciously like both Lilith and Jessica Knox—was also connected.
“We need to check this out,” Alan said. He clapped Dave on the shoulder. “How would you like to go on another date?”
Alicia Griggs felt a warm wave of relief flood through her body. She pulled the needle from the exposed vein in the well of her elbow, and set the needle on the rickety end table beside her. Then she removed the makeshift tourniquet from her bicep—the length of thick rubber banding that she used to make her veins stand up.
The dinginess of her apartment began to recede into the distance. In the unit next door, a woman was yelling at a child—swearing at him or her—but Alicia barely heard.
She knew, on some level, that she had made a grave mistake a few minutes ago. She had contacted the police detective, Don, using a cell phone that Willie had given her.
Alicia had long ago received a government-issued cell phone of her own, but she had lost it. Or maybe she had panned it during one of her low points, when money was tight and she needed a fix in the worst way. She had applied for a new phone; but each aid recipient was held to a quota: She wouldn't be eligible for another one until next year.
Willie, on the other hand, had a lot of government-issued cell phones. Because Willie had connections.
Willie also had a long criminal rap sheet, of course. But the police wouldn't connect him to whatever it was that Travis and his girlfriend were doing on that dating site.
And what exactly was that? Alicia had tentatively accepted Travis’s explanation that he and his girlfriend were simply blackmailing married men. But she had her doubts. The police wouldn't even be aware of such a scam, in all likelihood. Married men who had been caught with their pants down and then blackmailed wouldn't be likely to complain to the police. They would provide the demanded payoffs, then disappear. In fact, the last thing a married man would want would be police involvement.
Then Travis had said something about the police looking for a killer, while he had insisted that he and his girlfriend hadn’t killed anyone.
And what about his peculiar instructions regarding the cop, and some dead-end street across from the Loft? Why would Travis want to talk to the police detective?
Something in Travis’s eyes had told Alicia that she was being lied to. In the circles in which Alicia traveled, liars were everywhere, and she believed that she knew how to recognize a lie when she heard one.
It’s not my fault, Alicia thought, as the warmth covered her, surrounded her, blocked out all other concerns. It isn’t my fault, so it isn’t my problem. The cop named Don can take care of himself.
And there was something else at stake here, too. Alicia had long ago admitted to herself that she had a thing for Travis. That woman he was with now—Jessica what’s-her-face—did Travis really love her? It seemed like more a business arrangement than anything.
Alicia knew that she would be a better lady for Travis. Besides…Why couldn't she just admit it to herself? Whenever she was around Travis, she felt like a schoolgirl. Not many men did that for her anymore. Not even Willie—who barely returned her phone calls nowadays.
Whatever happened to the cop, she was in this for Travis. And the money, of course. But she needed the money.
It would all work out, she assured herself. Everything was all arranged with the cop named Don, for tomorrow night, Saturday. Don would pick her up near downtown Cincinnati’s Fountain Square. Then they would go to the Loft for their date. Just as Travis had instructed her.
41.
“I made the date,” Dave reported, having suddenly materialized at the edge of Alan’s cubicle. “I’m taking her to the Loft.”
“The Loft?” Alan asked. “What’s wrong with the Terrace View? That’s where you met her the first time.”
“She expressed a strong desire to go to the Loft,” Dave said.
“You can’t let women walk all over you like that,” Maribel said.
Dave turned around suddenly. He had not heard Maribel approach, and had no idea that she had been listening.
“Women like when guys plan the date,” Maribel added.
“This one didn't. She was very clear about wanting to go to the Loft. Tomorrow night.” Dave turned back to Alan. “Is this going to be a problem? Is there anything wrong with taking her to the Loft, if that’s where she really wants to go? I figured since we know that it’s probably going to be Alicia Griggs who shows up, maybe she just wants to go to a high-class place. If she’s got substance abuse issues, then she probably doesn't get out to classy places very often.”
“I wouldn't call the Loft a classy place,” Maribel said. “Nothing more than a bunch of drunken college kids, from what I hear.”
Dave let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry. Look, I’ll admit that I’m much better at the research side of this job than I am at undercover operations with suspects. I repeat: Is there a problem with taking Alicia Griggs to the Loft?”
“No,” Alan said. “That’s kind of a dicey neighborhood; but we’re the police, after all. We should be able to handle it.”
“We? So I ta
ke it that you and Maribel will be running surveillance?”
“Only me,” Alan said. Before Maribel could object, he said: “No way, Maribel. You’ve got this weekend off.”
Maribel was, in fact, overdue for a full Friday through Sunday break from police work. As Dave had noted, the ODCI had faced state budget constraints in recent years. Alan’s group was officially short one investigator. The result was that three detectives had been doing the work of four for some time.
“This is nothing that Dave and I can’t handle by ourselves.”
“Enough said,” Maribel agreed. “But I would have enjoyed listening to Dave perform on another date.”
“Why is it necessary for you to be at the Loft tonight with Alicia?” Jessica asked.
It was late Saturday afternoon. Travis had just revealed his intention to trail Don and Alicia on their contrived outing that would take place in a few hours.
Travis’s presence there made absolutely no sense to Jessica. The entire purpose of the exercise was to convince the police that she and Travis had no connection to any of the men who had been murdered, and no connection to the online profile they had created: Lilith.
If Travis were seen at the Loft, or anywhere in the vicinity, then any successful diversion they might have accomplished through Alicia’s little game would be undone. The police would be right back on top of them. If they weren’t nabbed later tonight, then that creepy bald cop would show up at her mother’s house again within a matter of days.
“I want to talk to that cop,” Travis muttered, looking away from her. He sighed aloud. “Oh, what the hell? I might as well tell you. No harm in you knowin’, I guess.”
Then Travis revealed what Alicia was really supposed to do: She was supposed to lure Don the cop outside, into a little dead-end alley across the street from the Loft.
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