by Bob Mayer
"Asshole," Thorpe muttered at the broad back of the German as he left the bar.
King was also watching. "Something's wrong."
"What's that?"
"Rotzinger is a hard-core guy. No bullshit. And he owes me and Dan big-time. I think he does know something."
"I don't get it," Thorpe said. "Why wouldn't he tell us if he did?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." King stood. "Let's get you checked in on post. Let me get hold of him on my own and see if I can't get something out of him."
As they left the bar, neither man noticed the surveillance team parked across the street. The team was concealed inside a delivery van, using a camera built into the rack on the top to observe.
Thorpe and King also didn't notice the small man at the bar who had entered just after them and watched them covertly the entire time. The small man, though, did notice the van parked outside and he waited until the van left before leaving the bar himself.
***
Parker opened the door and was greeted by the vision of Sergeant Major Dublowski in civilian clothes. It was four in the morning and the pounding on the door to her BOQ room had gone on for a while before she'd roused herself.
"Dan!" She hadn't seen him in a long time, since the debriefings for the Omega Missile incident. He'd aged more than the time that had passed. "What's going on?"
"Colonel," Dublowski nodded. "It's Takamura."
"Thorpe's friend?"
"He's dead. I got a call from a buddy in the county sheriff's office. They found my phone number on the body. They're out at the accident scene right now and we can make it before they remove the body if we hurry."
Parker was still trying to process the first sentence. "Dead?"
"Yes." Dublowski looked at his watch. "We need to get moving."
Parker went to the closet and stepped inside the crowded space. She began dressing as she spoke. "What happened?"
"His car hit a tree."
"An accident?"
"He wasn't wearing a seat belt and he appears to have been drinking."
"Shit," Parker muttered. "He was supposed to be running the list using the profile I brought, not out partying."
"He wasn't out partying," Dublowski said in a sharp tone that drew Parker up short as she reached for her jacket "He called me an hour ago. Said he'd uncovered something. We were supposed to meet outside the Ranch this morning and he was going to give me it, whatever it is. I don't think he just hopped up, jumped in his car, and ran into a tree just for the hell of it."
Parker zipped up a jacket. "Let's go."
The drive was made in the numb silence that two people awakened in the middle of the night to tragedy sink into. They arrived at the scene of the accident a half hour after leaving the BOQ.
"He must have been coming back to the main post." Dublowski spoke the first words in that time as they pulled up and were bathed in the flashing lights from the various emergency vehicles.
Dublowski led the way, greeting his man in the sheriff's office with a cup of hot coffee he'd purchased on the way there. "What do you have, Sam?"
Sam eyed Parker distrustfully. His black face was deeply creased from his years patrolling the county, one of the drug byways in the 1-95 corridor. His once-dark hair was now stark white and cut tight against his skull under his Sam Browne hat.
"She's all right," Dublowski said. "I'll vouch for her. She's from the Pentagon."
Sam pulled up the lid on the coffee and took a sip as he considered that. He nodded his head toward the smashed car. "Head-on with a stationary object. The car lost. Not good for the occupant, particularly without a seat belt. On the site cause of death is a broken neck. Coroner will have to confirm that, plus do a tox screen. They're going to pull the body now." He led the way toward the car.
Parker had seen death before, and she'd never met Takamura, but the young man splattered against the tree, his broken body on the crumpled hood of his car, caused her to pause before following.
"You can smell the beer," Sam continued. "Couple of empties in the car. Besides being tanked up, he might have been trying to do too many things at once."
"What do you mean?" Dublowski asked.
Sam walked around the front of the car. He pointed at Takamura's left hand. A cell phone was gripped in the dead fingers. A cord was attached to it.
"There's something else," Sam said.
"What's that?" Dublowski asked.
The sheriff pointed to the left side of the BMW. "Paint marks. I think someone might have helped your friend off the road. Unless, of course, he's been driving around with the side of his car all dented up. We also got some bumper work in the rear that looks like someone hit the car from behind. Green car, looks like."
"Any idea who?" Dublowski asked.
"No. Like I said, we're not sure how this happened tonight."
"Can I?" Parker asked, pointing at the phone.
Sam nodded. "We got all we need. You can look at it, but I need it back."
She tried to pry the phone out of Takamura's hand, but the fingers wouldn't budge.
"Here." Dublowski offered her a Leatherman, open to the pliers.
"Jesus," Parker muttered.
"I'll do it," Dublowski said. He used the pliers to pry back the dead fingers one by one until he could remove the phone. "What's the cord?" he asked as he worked.
"It's an adapter for a computer. So you can send from a laptop over the cell phone with a modem."
He handed the phone to her. She pushed some buttons. "Here's the last number he called. Less than an hour ago."
Dublowski looked. "It's on post."
Parker wrote it down.
"Was there a laptop in the car?" Dublowski asked.
Sam shook his head. "Nope."
Parker pulled out her own cell phone and dialed the number. She pulled the phone away from her ear when she heard the static hissing in it. "It's a modem."
"First thing we do"—Dublowski was staring at Takamura's body—"we find what that modem is connected to."
"Where did he live?" she asked.
Sam took a deep drink of coffee, then crushed the Styrofoam cup. "Well, that's another thing. We got his address from his wallet. He lived outside Aberdeen on State Road 211. Just so happens the Aberdeen Fire Department responded to a call at the same address thirty minutes ago. Last I heard a trailer there burned to the ground."
Parker glanced at Dublowski.
"Mind me telling what's going on?" Sam added.
"If I had a clue, I'd tell you," Dublowski said.
"He had your number in his pocket, Dan. Don't bullshit me. I think we have a homicide here."
Dublowski sighed. "I'm telling you the truth, Sam. I don't know. But if he was killed and his trailer was burned down, then this is bigger than you or I and I don't think you're going to find the killer."
Sam nodded slowly. "Government shit."
"I don't know," Dublowski said. "But it's deep." He turned to Parker. "Let's go."
The two of them slowly walked to his car. They got in and Dublowski started the engine.
"What the hell is all this about?" Parker broke the silence as they left the scene of the accident behind.
"I don't know." Dublowski's jaw was working. "All he was doing was checking on people, looking for whoever killed my daughter. And he must have hit a live wire. Maybe it's a wire connected to her, maybe it ain't. But he's dead and I'm gonna make someone pay for that."
"You said this might be connected to the government back there," Parker said. "What did you mean by that?"
"I didn't say that; Sam did."
"But you did nothing to contradict him."
"You'd be surprised at the shit that goes on," Dublowski said cryptically.
"Actually," Parker said, "no, I wouldn't. I was in the Omega Missile launch control center, remember?"
Dublowski pounded a meaty fist into the dashboard, startling her. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Takamura was just a kid.
It shouldn't . . ." Dublowski just shook his head. The rest of the trip was made in silence.
Chapter Sixteen
"There’s a lot of drugs, sex, you name it, they do it." The driver of the car pointed out the window to a shadowy group gathered on a street corner. "Dealers. I've seen dependent girls—and boys—selling themselves to get money to buy drugs."
The car's wipers made loud squeaks every time they swept across the dirty windshield. Thorpe shifted his gaze from the exterior of the car to the driver. Morty Lorsen was the next point of contact that Master Sergeant King had directed him to after Major Rotzinger had turned out to be a bust. Morty was a wizened old man, so short he could barely see over the steering wheel, a thin fringe of white hair framing his wrinkled and age-spotted head.
King had told Thorpe that Lorsen was a retired master sergeant who had settled in Germany, his last duty station. Married to a German woman, he had spent almost half his adult life in Germany and knew the ins and outs of Stuttgart as well as any American. He spoke fluent German with a Bronx accent, a mixture Thorpe found most interesting.
"One of the girls I'm looking for didn't do drugs and she wouldn't have been standing on a street corner trying to sell herself," Thorpe said.
Lorsen gave him a sideways glance. "Says who? Her parents?"
"I knew her."
"We don't ever know kids," Lorsen said. "Even our own."
"Listen, I—"
"I've lived a lot longer than you," Lorsen interrupted. "I thought I knew things and every day I learn I don't know things." He tapped the side of his skull with a gnarled finger. "You listen to Morty, sonny boy. I know things."
"Do you know what happened to Terri Dublowski and the other girls?"
Lorsen turned a corner and drove down a narrow alley. He stopped the car, then leaned back in the worn upholstery. "Listen, my friend. I will ask around. But you might not like the answers you get."
Thorpe pulled out several bills and placed them on the seat between them. "I just want an answer."
Lorsen glanced at the money. "We Americans think we can buy everything."
"I was told you worked as a private investigator."
Lorsen pocketed the money. "I do. And I'm an American. You think you know so much, who were the guys watching your meet with Rotzinger?"
"How do you know about that?" Thorpe asked.
"Because I was watching you meet with Rotzinger," Lorsen said. "And there was other surveillance there. Lots of people around here watching each other."
"Who do—" Thorpe stopped as his phone rang. He pulled it out. "Thorpe."
"Mike, it's Parker."
He could tell by her voice that something was wrong. "What happened?"
"Takamura's dead."
Thorpe sank down into the car seat. "What happened?"
"His car hit a tree. The police think it might be a homicide. His trailer was burned down also."
"Jesus," Thorpe said. "What have we got into?"
"I don't know. He called Dan just before he was killed. Said he found something. We're going to check on it."
"Be careful," Thorpe said.
"You can count on that."
"Give me a call the second you find out what it was."
"I'll do that. You be careful too."
The phone went dead and Thorpe sat back in the seat, deep in thought.
"Bad news?" Morty asked.
"Yes."
"Care to share it?"
"No."
"Come with me." Lorsen got out of the car, pulling his old green raincoat tight around his frail body and grabbing a paper bag from the back seat. Thorpe followed as Lorsen slipped into an alleyway. The brick buildings on either side were three stories high and the alley barely wide enough to allow a car to pass if it weren't for the dumpsters and cans scattered throughout.
Lorsen was walking quickly, glancing neither to the right or left. Thorpe caught movement out of the corner of his eye and his hand was on the butt of the 9mm pistol Dublowski had given him.
"Leave it alone," Lorsen said.
A girl was on her knees, giving a blow job to a man, the two of them crammed between a dumpster and the brick wall. The man was watching Thorpe torn between pleasure and wariness, the girl concentrating on the job in front of her. She looked to be no more than fifteen, but it was hard to see in the dim shadows. The man was obviously over fifty.
Thorpe followed Lorsen to a narrow opening on the left side. Lorsen stepped in, motioning for Thorpe to follow. They went down a narrow space between two buildings, less than three feet wide. Lorsen suddenly disappeared to the right. Thorpe stepped up and saw that an entrance had been hewn out of the rock. He could barely see Lorsen inside. Hand firmly on the pistol grip, he stepped inside.
"Who the fuck are you?" a voice growled in English to the left.
"Easy." Lorsen was holding the paper bag out to the owner of the voice, a black teenager with a shaved head. The kid took the bag, looked in it, then tucked it under his arm.
"What else you got, old man?"
Thorpe heard the crinkle of money exchanging hands.
"What do you want?" the kid asked.
Lorsen tapped Thorpe. "Show him the pictures."
As Thorpe pulled the pictures of the missing girls out of his pocket, his eyes were adjusting to the room they were in. It was about forty feet wide, by thirty long. Several thick beams rose from the floor to support the ceiling. There were other people inside, dim forms, most lying about on ratty mattresses, one or two moving about. The only light came from one boarded-up window high on the far wall and several candles. There was a dank smell of decay in the air.
Lorsen took the pictures out of Thorpe's hand and gave them to the black kid. He squinted, looking through them quickly. "Yeah, and?"
"Have you seen any of these girls?" Lorsen asked.
"What's it to you?"
"Is Crew here?" Lorsen asked.
"Yo, Crew!" the boy yelled.
Another figure came out of the shadows, a white boy, slightly smaller than his friend, his arms heavily tattooed. His face was drawn, dark circles under the eyes. "What's going on, Cutter?"
"Yo, Crew, these dudes looking for these girls." Cutter handed the pictures to Crew.
Crew nodded at Lorsen. "Old man. How you been?"
"I've had some better days, young man. Some worse ones too. You?"
"Living." Crew laughed. "Just living. But that's something, ain't it?" His body shook and Thorpe could see a sheen of sweat on his bare arms, even though it was chilly.
"We—" Thorpe began, but Lorsen nudged him to be quiet.
"One of those girls is the daughter of a friend of ours," Lorsen said. "We want to make sure she's all right."
Crew looked down at the pictures in his hands. "There's five girls here."
"They're all missing."
"Maybe they don't want to be found, old man. Not everyone wants to be rescued."
"Maybe," Lorsen agreed. "We just want to make sure she's all right."
"You're full of crap," Crew said.
Lorsen laughed. "No, I'm not." He held out another couple of bills, the money Thorpe had given him. "Those girls are missing. We want to find them. It would be worth your time to help us."
Crew shook his head. "Well, it don't matter, 'cause I don't know any of them." He tossed the pictures at Lorsen. They tumbled to the ground around the old man's feet. Thorpe turned as he sensed someone behind him. The girl who had been in the alley squeezed past, not saying a word. She disappeared into the shadows.
Lorsen sighed. "Maybe you could ask the others here for me?'
"Listen—" Thorpe edged forward. Lorsen put an arm out and stopped him.
"Who the hell are you?" Cutter's right hand was hidden inside his Dallas Cowboys jacket.
"He's my friend," Lorsen said.
"You got too many friends, old man." Crew stepped forward. Thorpe pulled his pistol out of the holster, keeping it hidden inside his jacket.
"A p
erson can never have too many friends," Lorsen said. "Listen, we think these girls might be dead. That there's somebody killing them. And this person will kill again."
"I don't give a damn about—" Cutter began, but Crew put a hand across his friend's chest.
"Hold on, bro. Let's listen to the man. He's always been square with me."
"Whoever is doing this," Lorsen continued, "will kill again. Maybe one of your girls here."
"Hey, Marcy!" Crew yelled, his voice echoing off the brick. When there was no response, he yelled again. "Marcy, get your butt over here."
A slight figure came out of the shadows. A girl, her face thin and drawn. "Yeah, what do you want?"
"Check out those pictures." Crew pointed at the ground.
Lorsen beat Marcy to it, scooping them up, then handing them to her. "Do you know any of these girls?"
Marcy thumbed through, pausing at one of them. "That's Mary."
"Mary Gibbons?" Thorpe asked, remembering the names that went with the photos.
"Yeah."
"Do you know where she is?" Lorsen asked.
"She's been gone for a while," Marcy said. "I ain't seen her in weeks."
"Do you know where she went?" Lorsen pressed.
Marcy giggled. "To a party. She went to a party."
"What party?" Lorsen asked.
"With the Jewel Man."
"Oh, fuck," Cutter said. He pushed Crew. "See, man? See what you getting us into? You don't want to fuck with the Jewel Man."
"Who is the Jewel Man?" Lorsen asked, but he was ignored as Crew shoved Cutter back.
"Hey, man, that dude is weird," Crew said. He tapped the photos. "He could be doing these girls, man. Doing 'em bad."
"I don't want nothing to do with this." Cutter turned and walked away.
"Who is the Jewel Man?" Lorsen asked once more.
"Some crazy dude," Crew said. "I only seen him a couple of times. He always got drugs and money, but he's only interested in girls."
"Jesus." Marcy was looking at the pictures more closely. The giggle was gone. "All these girls are missing?"
"Yes," Lorsen said.
"I knew the dude was screwy," she said. "He's asked me to party a couple of times, but you can look in his eyes and tell he's weird. Freaky." She tapped the side of her head. "Some weird shit going on in there."