He kept moving as he posed the questions, staring as if in expectation, knowing full well that no response was coming his way.
“Huh?!” he bellowed, taking a long step forward, just past the edge of his recliner, the semicircle of girls before him fanning backwards in fear.
For a moment nobody said anything, many sliding their top teeth out over their bottom lip, their faces trembling as if they might cry at any moment.
“Answer me,” he said, dropping his voice into a controlled rage. “Did you or did you not agree to work for, and earn, the money that we provide to you?”
Knowing better than to ignore him a second time, several heads bobbed up and down, dark hair swinging by pale faces. A couple even managed to find their voices enough to murmur in agreement, still nobody finding the courage to actually speak up.
Watching the display, knowing he had them exactly where he wanted, fearful but attentive, The Muscle stepped back. He allowed the amusement he felt for the entire scene to show on his face as he extracted the darts from his pocket, holding them up for all to see.
“I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t believe you. So, we’re going to play a little game.”
Turning perpendicular to the girls, he extended a hand toward the wall beside him. On it was taped each of the pictures The Businessman had given him, all of them pressed tight together, arranged in a swirl nearly three feet in diameter.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” he said. “On the wall over here are pictures of every person in the world you hold dear. Since apparently scaring you hasn’t seemed to have the desired effect, maybe hurting the people you love will instead.”
At this the fear in the room seemed to ratchet upward, glances beginning to be cast between the girls. Eyes went wide with terror as they stared at the cluster of photos, as if trying to identify which ones belonged to them. Some even bent forward at the waist to get a better view, the remainder of their bodies remaining rooted in place, the internal battle between self-preservation and wanting to protect their families on obvious display.
“So, who’s it going to be?” The Muscle said, taking up a post behind the recliner and turning to face the wall. Shifting the pile of darts into his left hand, he kept one gripped in his right, extending the tip of it out in front of him to draw aim before snapping it back toward his chin.
In one deft motion he flicked it at the wall, an audible gasp arising around him as it struck into the stomach of a middle aged woman, her face twisted into a gap-toothed smile.
“That’s one!” The Muscle yelled, letting the joy he felt for his impromptu game be heard as he grabbed up a second dart, snapping it out just as fast as the first.
This one struck into the shoulder of an older man with grey hair, a young boy balanced on his lap.
“Oh, a two-for-one,” The Muscle said, clapping his hands together before going back for more.
In total he fired a dozen darts, spreading his aim out enough that by the time he was done most of the room was either openly weeping or well on their way.
Only once his hands were empty did he turn back to them, replacing the smile with his usual glower.
“This was a warning. Get your asses out there and do what you were brought here to do. The next time we come together like this, people start getting hurt.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Reed had found that most people under questioning went one of two ways. The first group sat and fumed, acting like they had been severely abused by the system, even threatening to contact whatever persons in high places they knew to ensure that Reed lost his badge and the entire department went down in disgrace.
Not once had he ever encountered a suspect that could do any of those things, but that didn’t stop them from going through the posturing anyway.
The other group swung to the opposite end of the spectrum, clamming up tight, bordering on catatonia. Genuinely fearful, it so consumed them they were barely able to speak, offering only broken fragments of useful information.
The young man before him, named Caleb Basel, fell more toward the former as he sat on the edge of Bethanee Ing’s sofa, his hands cuffed behind his back, and stared up at Reed. His nostrils flared as he pulled angry breaths in and out through his nose, making sure each one was heard, trying to prove a point.
Thus far all it had done was manage to annoy Reed.
“Man, you don’t have anything on me. No way you can hold me here,” he snapped before retreating to snorting again.
Standing in the center of the room, Reed folded his arms across his chest. He had shed his overcoat despite the cool temperatures in the apartment, making sure that his badge and weapon were both visible.
Perched just to the side, her lower haunches on the floor, her ears extended straight up, was Billie, standing vigil over the interaction.
“I don’t have anything on you?” Reed asked, raising his eyebrows in faux surprise. “You mean besides fleeing and attempted assault on a police officer?”
At that Basel made a face, letting it be known he thought the accusations were ludicrous. “Man, you’ll never get any of that to stick. Do you have any-“
“Clue who your daddy is? Or your uncle is? Or your best friend’s mom is?” Reed said, cutting him off, filling in the punch line from the myriad ones he’d heard many times before. “No, I don’t, and no, I don’t care.”
“Well, you should,” Basel said, his mouth twisting up into a small smile as he looked at Reed before shifting his attention away and staring at the blank wall opposite them.
“Why?” Reed countered. “You think any one of them will be able to explain away the fact that you just walked right into the home of someone that was found murdered two days ago?”
The move might have been a bit unfair, but it had the desired effect. In a span of just a few seconds Basel swung from one category of interviewee to the other, his bravado bleeding away as he turned to face Reed.
“Bethanee’s dead?”
Staying where he was, his face giving away nothing, Reed surveyed the man before him. Delivering the last statement was meant to be a jolt for sure, a slap in the face to promote cooperation, but not once had Reed considered that Basel hadn’t heard about Ing’s demise.
More than ten years as a cop had equipped Reed with pretty decent instincts when it came to reading people, having spent more than his fair share of time in interrogation rooms or conducting impromptu interviews like the one he was currently embroiled in. The sum total of that time had taught him to see past the bravado and grandstanding, to read the small inconsistencies, see the twitches that gave away a person’s true reactions.
Everything about Caleb Basel seemed to indicate his surprise was genuine, the accompanying sorrow he displayed just as much so.
“You didn’t know,” Reed said, removing a bit of the edge from his voice.
“No,” Basel said, shaking his head, fixing his gaze on the carpet between them. “What happened?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Reed said. “That’s why we’re here. Why are you here?”
For a moment there was no response, Basel’s focus cast downward, before his gaze rose just slightly, stopping around Reed’s waist.
“Pictures,” he said, just barely a whisper. “I was here to drop off some pictures.”
“Pictures?” Reed repeated, inching just a bit closer. Opposite him Billie did the same, pulling herself forward before stopping, closing the misshapen triangle the three had formed.
“Yeah,” Basel said, his eyes glassy as he looked up at Reed. “I do some freelance photography on the side. Sometimes she throws me some work, helps us both out.”
It was clear the previous walls were completely gone, the shock of Ing’s death dissolving any animosity. Still, there was no way of knowing how long that would last, Reed continuing to press forward, needing to get everything he could before the opportunity disappeared.
“What kind of work?” Reed asked.
> “Shots for her stories,” Basel replied. “Sometimes it’s just basic exteriors of buildings, other times she asks me to do some snooping.”
At that he paused, again flicking his gaze to Reed.
“Nothing illegal, just tailing people, that kind of thing.”
The legality of such action was at the very least questionable but Reed let it pass, much more interested in the situation at hand.
“Why you?”
“We went to undergrad together,” Basel said. “OSU’s a massive place, but the arts department is pretty small. The writers, painters, photographers, whatever, we all got to know each other pretty well.”
Knowing the answer seemed just a bit too sanitized Reed waited, maintaining his pose, using the greatest tool any interrogator had at their disposal.
Silence.
It worked.
“I mean, yeah,” Basel said, “we dated for a while, but it was short-lived and ended years ago. I swear.”
“Was she seeing anybody now?” Reed asked.
“Not that I know of,” Basel said, “but before this job it had been a while since I heard from her. Since she went full time at the Dispatch, she’s been pretty one-tracked.”
The statement seemed to jive with what Blair had said just hours before, painting Ing as someone with a singular focus, not letting things like corporate structure or personal relationships stop her from what she wanted.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Reed asked.
Again Basel fell silent, setting his jaw as he stared at the ground. He remained that way a moment, a fresh sheen of moisture glazing his eyes as he tried to keep from crying, waiting until it passed before speaking.
“Bout a week ago. I met her at a coffee shop not far from campus.”
“Not here?” Reed pressed.
“No,” Basel said. “She had someone with her, someone I don’t think she wanted knowing where she lived.”
A slight tremor passed through Reed as he seized on the words, shifting his weight from side to side.
“This someone being?”
“A girl,” Basel said, “young, Chinese.”
“Like Bethanee?”
“No,” Basel replied. “Not Chinese-American, Chinese. She barely spoke English, seemed very scared, like she hadn’t been here long, was still getting used to her surroundings.”
This too seemed to fit with what Blair had mentioned, things clicking into place in Reed’s mind.
“As in, fresh off the boat?” Reed asked, borrowing a cliché he hated, but knew Basel would understand immediately.
“Definitely. And she was young, maybe sixteen at most. Much younger than either of us.”
Unfurling his right hand from beneath his left arm, Reed raised it to his face, rubbing it over his chin.
“And what did she want you to do?”
“What I do,” Basel said, “take pictures. I think she just wanted us to meet so that the girl wouldn’t be afraid if she saw me, might even be able to set up some things so I could get them on film.”
For a moment Reed envisioned the three of them huddled together somewhere in the corner of a coffee shop, imagining Ing as the ringleader, trying to sell a scared young girl on this scruffy guy with a camera sitting across from her.
“I’m guessing the girl was a little hesitant about the whole thing?”
“Ha,” Basel said, the word lacking any mirth, instead filled with bitterness. “She hated every aspect of it. Made it very clear she was afraid for her life, thought that just sitting there with us could get her killed.”
“Could it?” Reed asked.
Once more Basel cast a glance up at him before returning to his previous position. “Not from what I got on film, but I don’t know. All I saw was the front end, not the rest.”
“Which was?”
“No clue,” Basel said. “Bethanee didn’t tell me everything, just gave me a quick overview, outlined what she needed from me.”
From the picture he was beginning to have of Bethanee Ing, her actions could have been for anything from wanting to protect her friend to being fearful of disclosing too much of a hot story she was following.
“But she was convinced there was some higher player pulling the strings on it all?”
“Adamantly so,” Basel replied.
“So why didn’t she just take it to the police?” Reed asked.
More than once the question had passed through his mind, surfacing every time he looked at one of the images of her after being pulled from the river.
“I don’t know,” Basel said. “Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t want to blow her story. Maybe she made promises to the girls.
“I didn’t ask. I probably should have.”
Reed couldn’t help but agree, but didn’t feel up to admonishing Basel any further. It was clear the young man felt bad enough about the demise of his friend, that his guilt would be gnawing at him for a long time to come.
There was no need to add on to it. He of all people knew what it was like to spend sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, wishing he’d done more.
“Alright, so the girl was scared, but she agreed?” Reed asked.
“Eventually,” Basel said, “and she did what she could, but...”
“But?” Reed asked.
Starting to reply, Basel stopped, looked up to Reed and shrugged slightly.
“What can I say? She just wasn’t that pretty, didn’t really know what she was doing.”
It took a moment for Reed to gather what he was alluding to, his lips parting slightly as it clicked into place.
“So there wasn’t much business for her.”
“Not a lot,” Basel said. “I got what I could.” With his chin he motioned toward his backpack sitting atop Ing’s desk. “The pictures are in there. I was stopping by to drop them off.”
His mind racing in a handful of different directions, Reed moved his attention to the bag, staring at it a moment. Soon he would need to pull the pictures, to identify the girl, to lean on Basel to get in contact with her.
In the meantime though, he still had one more question that needed answering.
“How did Bethanee get access to her in the first place?” Reed asked. “Was she working too?”
“I...” Basel began, his face seeming to relay the same disdain at the notion that Reed had felt in even asking the question. “I don’t know. She was wearing a lot more makeup than usual, but other than that...?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
It took Reed just five minutes to relay his interaction with Basel to Grimes, the captain seated behind his desk with eyes half-closed, tapping his thumbs together and listening intently the entire time. Not once did he interject a clarifying question or offer comment of any kind, waiting until all information was dispelled.
When Reed was finished he sat in silence a moment, replaying everything he’d just rattled off, making sure nothing was omitted.
Content that he had shared all relevant details - save perhaps the part about slamming Basel into the support column - he waited for Grimes to process things, knowing he would work through things in his own time.
“Where is Basel now?” Grimes opened with, his voice a bit deeper than usual, displaying the growing distaste he had for the case.
“Cut him loose,” Reed said, “with explicit instructions to be available if and when I called.”
Grimes eyes widened a bit at the statement but he said nothing, the look enough to get across what he was thinking.
“I know,” Reed said, raising his hands a few inches from his thighs before dropping them back into place. “But his sheet was clean, and he seemed genuinely distraught over finding out Bethanee was dead.”
“And the pictures?” Grimes asked.
Shifting in his seat, Reed lifted a plain manila folder up from the ground beside him. Peeling back the top flap for a moment, he checked to make sure everything Basel had given him was still inside before passing it across to Grimes.
“Handed everything over without question,” Reed said.
Glancing between Reed and the folder a moment, Grimes rocked forward in his seat and accepted the file. The springs on his chair wheezed slightly as he returned to position, balancing the item across his lap and opening it wide.
In total there were more than a dozen pictures, all of them showing the same girl, taken from different angles. Judging by her attire they also spanned several nights.
Reed had gone through them twice in the apartment when Basel first handed them over, another time in the sedan before stepping inside the precinct. Already he had committed each of them to memory, knowing exactly what Grimes was looking at without having to see a thing.
Basel’s comment about the girl not being very pretty was a bit pointed, but it wasn’t wrong, and could perhaps even be argued as an understatement. Many of the shots of her were somewhat grainy, all of them taken under cover of night, but most of them showed her milling around, standing in the background while the other girls plied their wares.
Tall, by young Chinese standards, her youth was apparent, maturation having not yet really begun, leaving her build long and gangly. Self-consciousness and fear seemed to only heighten the effect, the girl standing with her hands shoved into the pockets of a shiny jacket, a mini-skirt and stockings visible beneath it.
How any of the girls had not succumbed to frostbite given the attire they were forced to wear, Reed had no idea.
“Damn,” Grimes whispered, passing each of the photos from left to right, flipping them facedown as he went through them.
“Yeah,” Reed agreed, nodding slightly. “I don’t know if this thing is truly the enterprise Bethanee Ing seemed to think it was, but at the very least there’s evidence of some serious sex crimes going on here.”
“At the very least,” Grimes said, finishing the stack and closing the file, not bothering to go for a second look. Setting the folder on edge he tamped it once against the desk, straightening the contents, before extending it back to Reed. “Where were these taken?”
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