Bishop fiddled with the shears in his hands, clinging to his politeness. But meeting their hardened stare, he dropped the shears and his disingenuous smile. “Frankly, I don’t know what happened to her.”
“Did you send Eddy to threaten Abby?”
“You can’t prove anything.”
She knew that Eddy was a loyal dog. He wouldn’t say a word against the hand that had been feeding him for years. “The FBI have been consulting on this case, and helped uncover all the evidence we have on your illegal alcohol trade in Washington. We know about Magnus Pharma and the other shell corporations you’ve set up to launder money for Atleum Holdings. You’d be wise to help the authorities in any way you can right now, but I can just tell the Feds to keep on digging right away.”
He let out a single bite of laughter. “I never get the appeal of sassy redheads. They’re so unattractive.”
“That bad Botox will look even worse in prison.” She pulled out her phone, ready to dial, but Bishop interrupted her.
“Wait.”
“Ready to cooperate now?” Nick raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t tell Eddy to threaten that girl. I told him to just have a chat with her. I’m a married man. You wouldn’t want your sex tape with a prostitute broadcasted, would you? Especially with Nathaniel Jones in charge of the media here. He and Perez are thick as thieves. They would just love to ruin me.”
“What did Eddy tell you about their chat?”
“He called me after and told me that she was in a rush to leave,” he shrugged.
“But you didn’t hurt her?”
“Why would I? They stopped blackmailing me after Eddy talked to them. Want a drink?”
“Got any Tequiza?” Mackenzie said. Bishop narrowed his eyes at that and headed inside. They followed. “We know it’s been distributed to strip joints in the state. We want to know if there are any private collectors.”
Bishop smirked, pouring himself a bourbon. “Who collects Tequiza? It’s worth nothing. Just used to save money on cocktails.”
“Why don’t you leave that to us? We need names and delivery addresses,” Nick said.
“I don’t know about that.” Bishop took a sip and scrunched his nose. Turning the glass in his hand, he looked thoughtful and calm. But the rampant twitching of his eye gave him away. “I’m not admitting anything about this alleged trade. I employ hundreds of people. Anyone could have started something illegal and funneled the money back to Atleum. No doubt they’ll funnel it back out to themselves from there—I’m a victim here too.”
“Good point. Why don’t we ask the FBI to open an investigation right away to help find the perpetrator, and watch your stocks fall?”
“Fine,” he grumbled and slammed his glass on a table. “I need time to get all that. I don’t have that information. I have people who work for me.”
“We need one more thing,” Mackenzie said. “Lose Eddy Rowinski.”
“No.”
“He’s a liability. Do you really want to keep bailing his ass out of jail and paying Cromwell and Haskin out of your pocket?”
“Why do you care about him? I told you he just talked to that girl.”
Black dots spotted Mackenzie’s vision. She blinked to clear away the blur. But for the fraction of a second her eyes were closed, she saw Clara’s face. She saw her lying on the floor, her skin matted with bruises. Wondering where she went wrong. Wondering if life would give her another chance.
“If you don’t get rid of him, then not only will the FBI be knocking on your door but also that video will end up with Nathaniel Jones. You see, we know how to retrieve deleted files.”
“Eddy has been very helpful to me these past few years––”
“I don’t give a damn. You have enough on him to let him go.”
Bishop took a sharp breath. “Are you threatening me, Detective Price?”
“I’m making a deal and giving you an out,” she said with a scathing smile. “My threats aren’t this civilized. Trust me.”
Bishop gulped down his entire drink while keeping his eyes locked on Mackenzie. He exhaled in her face—she knew it was a bratty attempt to rattle her. He waited for her to show a sign of weakness, to cave. Instead, she took a deep breath. Little did he realize that it was the smell she’d known since she was a child.
“Fine. See yourself out.”
Sixty-Nine
October 12
Dear diary
I am nervous. I don’t know what will happen. I just hope I fix everything. We are all responsible for our own lives, right?
When Mackenzie opened her eyes, she saw a dazzling white light. She blinked profusely until the light dwindled into an orb that floated away from her. Gray-stoned walls rose around her. They erupted through the earth, shaking the ground. They climbed higher and stopped around the orb.
She was in the bottom of a well.
She looked down. Her chest was flat. Her body was small. She was young. A child.
She trailed her hands over the concrete slabs. The rocks were moist even though the well was dry. Moss cushioned her seat. Vines snaked through the cracks in the rocks. The only sounds that echoed were her harsh breathing and water dripping.
A movement caught her eye. Black liquid flowed out from one of the cracks. It branched off and spread around the wall.
Ink.
More ink spilled out of the cracks, splitting and merging, painting a canvas on the walls surrounding her. It swirled and spun into meaningless shapes and indecipherable words.
Until one word popped up.
Monster.
Then another.
Erica.
Soon the ink spelled out random words and phrases from Abby’s journal in her handwriting. The words and sentences scribbled all the way to the top of the well, where her eyes could not reach.
Shining too bright.
I can help.
Quinn.
Listen to me.
Game.
Dreams.
The words were splattered everywhere—incoherent and grimy.
“I like this.” Her father’s voice came from her side. He sat next to her, wearing his flowery shirt and beige pants. He looked at the words on the wall, mesmerized.
“What about it?”
“How this is our place, Micky. No one disturbs us here. It’s just us. Your mind and mine.”
“It’s only mine.” She looked away.
“I’m a part of you.”
“You never were. Never will be.”
“I like her.”
“Why?”
When he didn’t say anything, she jerked her head to look at him.
He stared at her with empty eyes. Like his soul had left him. “Come on, Micky.”
Her vision cracked. She knew she was waking up. But before darkness could engulf her dream, she heard her father’s whisper weave its way through to her.
“I’m always watching, Micky.”
Mackenzie swallowed the ibuprofen dry. She’d barely slept the night before. Her father’s whisper lingered in her ears long after she awoke. She spent hours trying to calm her sizzling nerves. It had been two days since the conversation with Arthur Bishop.
She was hopeful that there was at least one private collector. The cocktail napkins couldn’t be traced to any establishment. They were designed for private use. But why would someone take a personalized napkin to a strip club, or any other place?
A club must have a lair. A location where the members got together. Where they held their September girl captive. That’s where they had their drinks and used that napkin.
Mackenzie had kept tabs on Eddy. Bishop had kept his word; Eddy no longer had a hand over him. She had informed Isaac DeLuca that if he had cause to prosecute Eddy again, there would be no expensive suits in the courtroom defending him. She also called in a favor with Ned, asking him to check in on Clara. There was no one more brutal than Ned when it came to dealing with domestic abusers.
Why didn’t
anyone try to save them? Why hadn’t anyone seen what her father did to her mother every night? She wondered if the world was that blind or if Melody was that good at lying.
“Mack?” Nick waved his hand in her face.
She jerked. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
“Bishop just sent a list of the private collectors. Check your email.”
“Plural?” she snorted, opening her email. “Maybe that beer isn’t that bad.”
“Ten bucks says you can’t finish an entire bottle without pulling a face.”
“Make it twenty, and I’ll consider.”
She opened the Excel file. There were ten collectors in the state of Washington. The second column listed the delivery address. The next columns contained the dates of delivery for the last three years.
“I didn’t expect him to be this organized.”
“Illegal business requires skills, Mack.” He wheeled into her cubicle. “He really doesn’t want to go to prison. Too bad we didn’t quite manage to call off the Feds.”
He winked. The FBI had already started their own investigation into Atleum Holdings before they’d visited Bishop at home.
She turned back to the list, smirking. “Look, only three are in Lakemore.” She deleted the other entries. “Phil Segal. John Hang. Otto Graham.”
“Otto Graham?”
“Yeah. Rare name. Haven’t met an Otto in a while.”
“Mack! Otto Graham!” He egged her on to make the connection. When she drew a blank, he continued. “Quarterback for the Browns. Led them to three NFL championships. Guy’s a legend.”
“He lives in Lakemore?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. He’s been dead over a decade and was from Illinois. Do you know where I’m going with this?”
“Someone gave a fake name.” She moved quickly and looked up the delivery address.
“And they used a football player’s name.”
“It’s a cabin in the woods on the other side of Fresco River.”
Her heart kept its steady rhythm. But her mind sprinted. The profile matched. The address was deep in the woods—away from meddling neighbors and possible witnesses. Deep in the woods where screams for help would be swallowed. The fake name provided was that of a famous football player—a fan. A fan who started Club 916 again.
The records for the cabins weren’t well maintained. It took a phone call to Clint and for him to do some digging. Several hours later, Clint’s voice filtered through the speakerphone.
“Only one cabin is still occupied in that area, based on the bills. It’s registered to David Falkner.”
Seventy
The woods ran along either side of Fresco River. Both sides were thick with trees, their roots emerging from the ground, creating rifts and bumps. But things were about to change—the access roads on one bank were set to be closed, due to the upcoming construction of a dam.
The announcement had been made five months ago. The signs were already in place, warning hikers and tourists that the woods would be closed soon. However, work hadn’t started yet. All the cabins in the area had been sold off. There was a holdout refusing to sell their property, and the construction company was in the middle of negotiations.
The holdout was David Falkner. Mackenzie now knew why.
“Does anyone even come here anymore?” Nick asked as they ventured into the forest.
“They haven’t started working yet, but no. Which is why the Sheriff’s Office never checked this side of the woods.”
She looked at her feet, sinking into the moss growing over the trail.
She heard a giggle. A child’s. Carefree and musical. She looked ahead and saw a young girl playing, hiding behind thick roots. She had Mackenzie’s deep red hair, but lacked her control and rigidity. This girl ran like she was floating—her arms spread out like wings, wondrous eyes wide, and chest sinking and rising as she took deep breaths. She felt the fresh air and the earthy musk.
“Come on, Mack!” a man said. Her eyes settled on his muscular back. He wore a navy-blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. “We got to keep going! We’ll play when we get back.”
“Yes, Daddy!” She dashed toward him and clasped her hand into his.
“Mack?” Nick clicked his fingers in front of her eyes. She jolted and looked at him, dazed. The scene before her had vanished. “Where were you?”
“I used to come here as a child. Or I did at least once.”
“Oh. With your dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you miss him?” he asked, warily.
“I don’t know.”
The woodlands grew thicker. This side of the woods was never popular among the hikers. The space was not as vast as the other side, and the terrain was much rougher. There was no sign of the construction starting anytime soon, despite the company’s claims.
Nick pulled out his gun from his holster. “Alright, where’s David Falkner’s cabin?”
“A hundred feet north-west.”
The cabin soon came into view. It was nestled deep in the forest, much like Bill Grayson’s cabin on the other bank, but smaller and cheaper. There was no large deck, no barbecue grill, and no glass walls. The vegetation around the cabin had not been trimmed either. Vines and creepers climbed freely up the sides.
It seemed like nature was swallowing it.
Mackenzie pulled out her gun too but didn’t turn off the safety yet. As she inched closer to the structure, she felt doom crawling up her skin. She jumped at the faintest sounds, from the twigs snapping under her heels to the insects buzzing.
They circled the cabin once—searching for any back doors or open windows. They reconvened at the front door. An old Christmas wreath dangled.
Nick nodded at Mackenzie. She tried jiggling the knob. It was locked. She stood behind as Nick kicked the door down. It ripped apart from the hinges and hung loosely.
They pushed their way in with their weapons ready.
Mackenzie’s tactical training kicked in. She detached herself from her body—ignored her spiky skin and prancing heart. They moved soundlessly like panthers around the living room.
The space was standard, the decor less so. A wall next to the kitchen was covered in pictures of the Sharks. She paused to look at the teams over the years. Some pictures were official, some taken in the locker room and during practice. But they went all the way back to Bill Grayson’s time. She recognized Bill in the pictures—a much heftier version of his current self.
Another wall was ranged with shelves. They held the championship trophies, medals, and news articles. Everything the Sharks were prided on—the evidence of their triumph and talent—was displayed.
“Mack,” Nick whispered, and gestured to the coffee table. Coasters and cocktail napkins were piled there.
They all had the number “916” with the logo printed on them. The complete logo had a triangle on top with an eye in it. The all-seeing eye. There was a fireplace with three pokers sitting on the mantel. Their ends were shaped like numbers: “9,” “1,” and “6.” The same pokers were probably used to brand Daphne Cho.
There was no doubt that they were in the right place. This was the lair of Club 916. The assistant coach of the Sharks, David Falkner, was a part of it.
“I’ll go up,” Nick mouthed.
Mackenzie stayed put and inspected the first floor. There were no shoe prints and no blood. The kitchen sink had one glass in it. She picked it up and took a whiff.
Beer.
Someone had been here not too long ago. Most likely, David Falkner. She recalled his sleazy and vile behavior in the locker room. How he tried to lure Nick into going to that party with him for the “chicks”—girls who were underage. She remembered his temper and entitlement when Nick arrested him.
Perhaps the fact that he got away with killing Erica had gone to his head. If he could target Samuel Perez’s daughter and get away with it despite the massive media coverage and police resources, then he could do anything.
He was the assistant coac
h to the Sharks. He had been groomed to be the head coach once Bill retired. That day was not far off. There was already a rumor circulating that this year was Bill’s last. Falkner was not revered like Bill was, though he would be if he kept winning championships.
But who else was David working with? Bill Grayson? Perhaps some boys from the team, or the trainers? There was no evidence of anyone else in the cabin.
Mackenzie froze. She noticed that an empty section of wall next to the wall of fame was different. The fresh white paint glistened compared to the aged paint around it. She touched the wall curiously. It was then she felt a button under her fingers.
She had inadvertently pressed it.
There was a click.
A door built into the wall swung open slowly. Goosebumps sprouted up her arm. The hair on the back of her neck stood alert.
A set of stairs led down to the spinning darkness. She could hear Nick upstairs. He was checking every room and every corner. She pulled out her phone.
There’s a basement accessible through a secret door on the wall next to the display shelves. I’m going down.
She took out a coin from her pocket and wedged it between the door and the wall. She turned on her phone’s flashlight and started climbing down the stairs.
The secret door behind her swung shut. She was already halfway down. Besides, the coin would keep the door open. The temperature had dropped significantly. Even under her leather jacket, she felt the bite. Her toes curled in her shoes. All she heard was the sound of her own breathing.
Her mouth ran dry. Her movements became jerkier. She thought something would pounce out of the darkness and pull her into it. But she kept moving. She knew Abby was here. She knew that other girls had been here too. She could smell their blood and hear their screams.
A door appeared at the foot of the stairs. It opened with a creak, the sound slicing through the jarring silence. There was another sound—cloth rustling.
Mackenzie’s hand searched blindly for a switch. Light flooded the room, illuminating the moldy yellow walls.
Our Daughter's Bones: An absolutely gripping crime fiction novel (Detective Mackenzie Price Book 1) Page 28