Bad News Travels

Chapter 10

Saint Augustine Beach was an oasis of glittering sand, with a smattering of high-rise condos upsetting the otherwise unmatched beauty. They drove for miles without seeing another vehicle. Lancaster was playing navigator, his cell phone clutched in his hand.

“Our turn is coming up,” he said.

“This is pretty desolate,” Beth said, manning the wheel. “Childress lives on Ridgeway, right?”

“Correct. My phone says the street is up ahead. Do you see a sign?”

“No, but I do see an unmarked road. Maybe that’s it.”

They came to the turn. Lancaster stared out his window at the downed street sign lying in the tall grass on the side of the road. The sign said RIDGEWAY AVENUE and appeared to have been ripped out of the ground with a piece of heavy machinery.

“This is the place,” he said.

Daniels made the turn and drove at a crawl. The street was shaded by a canopy of trees, the branches dripping Spanish moss. They passed a mailbox with the address. Arlen Childress lived in a gray shingle house with a sagging front porch. A narrow dirt driveway snaked around the side of the house to the back of the property.

“I don’t see the Charger,” Beth said.

“It’s probably parked in a garage in back,” he said. “Turn around up ahead, and do another drive-by. Maybe I can spot it.”

“How do you know there’s a garage in back?”

“You can’t live this close to the ocean and leave your car outside,” he explained. “The salt water will destroy the finish.”

“You learn something new every day.”

She turned around and drove past the house again. Lancaster lowered his window and stuck his head out. As they passed, he spotted a converted barn behind the house, with a vehicle parked in front of it. It was the Charger.

“Bingo,” he said.

Beth drove back to the highway, and parked in the shadow of a boarded-up building on the side of the road. She texted Phillips, and got an immediate reply.

“Erce and his team are a few minutes away,” she said. “I’ve got a question for you. Why would someone go pull up a street sign? What’s the purpose?”

“I’ve heard of people stealing street signs, and putting them in their houses,” he said. “But the Ridgeway sign got thrown in the grass. Makes no sense.”

“Another puzzle for the pile.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

They got out and stood in the shade. A minute later, an SUV pulled up, and Phillips jumped out. He was over six foot and didn’t appear to carry an ounce of body fat. He’d brought four agents along for the ride. The trunks were popped, and the agents suited up. Phillips tossed each of them a bulky bulletproof vest.

“We’ve got helmets, if you want them,” Phillips said. “Can’t be too careful.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Beth said.

“So will I,” Lancaster said.

They suited up. The helmets had thick, transparent face shields, and were similar to those Lancaster had worn in the navy. The sun was brutal, and sweat poured down his face and soaked his collar.

“We did a drive-by of the suspect’s house,” Beth said. “The Charger’s parked in back, so we’re assuming he’s somewhere on the property. The street sign was ripped out of the ground, so you’ll need to follow us.”

“Do you think he ripped it out?” Phillips asked.

“Hard to know. Why?”

“His rap sheet made him sound like a druggie. He might be unstable.”

“We’ll soon find out. Ready when you are.”

They drove to the suspect’s house and parked on the street. Both vehicles emptied. Phillips and his team were armed with Mossberg tactical shotguns, which were absolutely lethal at close range. If Arlen Childress resisted, he’d pay for it with his life.

The agents fanned out across the front lawn. Lancaster and Beth went up the creaky front steps and saw the front door open before they had a chance to knock. An elderly man with a snow-white beard and teeth stained from chewing tobacco stared at them. Behind him, an old woman sat in a rocking chair, her face frozen in time.

“Oh my Lord, what has he done now,” the old man muttered.

“FBI,” Beth said. “We’re looking for Arlen Childress. Is he home?”

“Arlen’s out back,” the old man said. “He lives in the garage.”

“Are you his father?”

“Grandfather. My name’s Adin.”

“We need to speak with your grandson. One of these agents is going to come inside your house, to be with you and your wife. It’s for your own safety.”

“My wife has dementia, and doesn’t take kindly to strangers. She might start yelling. Once that happens, I can’t calm her down.”

This wasn’t good. If they didn’t send an agent into the house, Adin might send his grandson a text, and alert him that a pack of FBI agents was looking for him.

“Does your wife yell often?” Lancaster asked.

“A couple of times a day,” the old man said. “Why?”

“So your grandson is used to hearing it.”

“You could say that.”

To Beth he said, “Send the agent inside. It won’t send up any red flags.”

Beth motioned to one of the agents on the lawn, who hustled up the steps and moved past Adin into the house. When the old man started to object, Beth threatened to handcuff him, and toss him in the SUV. The old man shut up fast.

“Last question,” Lancaster said. “Does your grandson own a gun?”

“He owns several,” the old man said.

They walked single file down the driveway to the back, hugging the side of the house in case Arlen showed his face. Inside, the old woman had started shouting.

“She’s got some pair of lungs,” Beth said.

Behind the house was a red shingle barn that had been converted into a garage. It had a hippie feel, and was plastered with peace signs and counterculture bumper stickers. The garage door was up, and reggae music was playing at full blast. They waited to see if the shouting would draw Arlen out. Confronting him in the backyard would have been easier than entering the garage, where he would have an advantage.

They waited a minute, but he did not appear. Lancaster read each of the bumper stickers while they waited. One of them looked familiar, having once adorned his own car. It said FINS UP, and showed a shark’s dorsal fin cutting through the water.

“I smell weed,” Beth said. “He must be in there getting stoned.”

“I think we should sneak up, take him by surprise,” Erce suggested.

“There’s a security camera on the side of the barn,” Lancaster said. “If he’s watching it, we’re going to get shot.”

“You have a better idea?” Erce said.

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“You going to waltz in there, say hi? That’s a real good way to get ambushed.”

“He’s a Parrot Head. So am I. I’m sure we have a lot in common.”

“Like what?”

“We listen to the same music.”

Lancaster removed his helmet and bulletproof vest and laid them on the ground. He carried a Glock pocket rocket in an ankle holster, which he removed and tucked in the back of his pants, cinching his belt an extra notch so it wouldn’t fall out. Phillips was looking at him like he’d lost his mind, as was the rest of his team.

“Jon was a SEAL,” Beth said. “He can handle himself.”

Phillips’s look of disbelief grew. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do,” he said.

Lancaster started toward the garage. He moved slowly, not wanting to alarm Arlen if he was watching on a monitor. Law enforcement often acted like paramilitary organizations when dealing with suspected criminals. In his opinion, this was a bad thing, as too many innocent people were getting shot. Talking still worked, especially when dealing with people who smoked weed and listened to Jimmy Buffett.

After getting out of the navy, he’d camped out in Key West for a while, and tried to get his feet under him. A local barkeep had introduced him to the music of Jimmy Buffett, and he’d been a fan ever since, and even joined the Parrot Head Fan Club, or PHIP as its members called it. Parrot Heads drank rum and wore loud shirts and traded bootleg tapes from concerts. They were the most laid-back group of people he’d ever known, and he hoped Arlen Childress was no different.

If not, then he’d just have to shoot the bastard.

He stuck his head into the open garage. The interior was lit by a half dozen skylights. It consisted of one giant room divided by living room furniture, a dining room table, and a flat screen TV on a wall. Several towering pot plants took up a corner, and there were buds on the dining room table, being cleaned. He’d smoked dope once as a teen, and then slept for twenty hours straight. That had cured him.

“Anybody home?”

“That’s far enough,” a voice said.

The voice came from the right. A tall, sinewy guy with shoulder-length hair and bloodshot eyes stood against the wall, armed with a hunting rifle. He was in his underwear, and had a blanket draped over his shoulders.

“Arlen Childress? My name’s Jon Lancaster. Can we talk?”

“Get the fuck out of here, and take your friends with you.”

“I’m a private investigator. I just need to ask you some questions.”

“Bullshit. If all you wanted to do was talk, why did you bring an army with you? I’m going to count to five, and if you’re not gone, I’m going to shoot you dead.”

“My friends will storm this garage if you do that, and it won’t end well. Come on, there’s no need for bloodshed.”

“Then why did you put a gun in your pants? There’s a security camera on the side of the house — I saw the whole thing. One.”

“What do you think, that we’re here to rob you?”

“Why else would you be here? I’ve got a license to grow pot, and half the scumbags in this town want to rip me off. Two.”

“Is that why you tore down the street sign?”

“Boy, you’re smart. Three.”

“We’re not here to steal your dope. You’re a suspect in a home invasion. Those people outside are FBI agents, and I’m an ex-cop working this case.”

“I don’t believe you. Four.”

“I convinced my friends not to storm the garage because I saw the Jimmy Buffett bumper sticker on the wall outside, and figured you were a Parrot Head — and a good guy. Please don’t prove me wrong about this.”

Arlen scrunched his face, thinking hard. He didn’t want to shoot his visitor any more than Lancaster wanted to shoot him. He pointed the rifle’s barrel at the floor.

“You’re really a Parrot Head?” he asked.

“Until the day I die,” Lancaster said.

“In the song ‘My Lovely Lady,’ what does she like to eat?”

“Her weight in crab meat.”

“What song is this from: ‘Nothing can tear you apart if you keep living straight from the heart’?”

“‘Bring Back the Magic.’ It’s a duet Buffett sang with Rita Coolidge.”

“Finish this line. ‘Classy little white and red...’”

“...‘turns everybody’s head.’”

“You pass. How about some ID?”

Lancaster produced his wallet and showed Arlen his detective’s badge. Then he pulled out a business card and, for good measure, his worn PHIP membership card.

“Put them on the dining room table, and step back,” Arlen said.

He did as told. Arlen picked up his ID and had a look. He still wasn’t sold, and Lancaster didn’t know if it was the pot, or if he was just naturally suspicious.

“Tell one of your friends outside to hold up their badge,” his host said.

“You got it.”

Lancaster walked backward, not taking his eyes off Arlen, or his rifle. Turning his head, he said, “Beth, please take out your badge, and hold it so the monitor on the side of the building will see it.”

“What?” Daniels said in a loud voice.

“Just do it. Please.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine and dandy.”

Beth struggled to remove her badge from beneath the bulletproof vest. Finally she pulled it free and held it up to the building. Arlen moved over to a desk where a laptop computer sat and studied the screen. His expression changed, and he put the rifle into a gun cabinet and then opened a small refrigerator.

“My mistake,” he said. “Tell your friends to come on in. You want something cold to drink?”

Chapter 11

The pot plants were a problem. There were seven of them, and that was over the legal limit for medicinal purposes in Florida. Special Agent Phillips was legally required to arrest Arlen for the plants. If Phillips did that, Arlen would ask for a lawyer and clam up, and they would be no closer to learning why two Russian gangsters had broken into Martin’s house, and used Arlen’s Charger as a getaway car.

They sat at the dining room table, hashing it out. Arlen had served up iced tea and bottled water and was smoking a joint to calm down. He had PTSD from a tour of Iraq he’d done while in the army, and was prone to recurring flashbacks.

“I’m assuming you have a medical card,” Phillips said.

Arlen produced the card and slid it across the table. The joint dangled from his lips, its tip glowing each time he took a puff. He was a damaged soul, with one foot still firmly rooted in the past. Lancaster had known guys like Arlen in the navy. They rarely healed.

“You know the rules about the number of plants you’re legally allowed to have,” Phillips said. “The magic number is six, and you have seven.”

“I know the law,” Arlen said.

“So why deliberately break it?”

“For spillage,” Arlen said. “Guys in town know I legally grow. They’ve robbed me a few times, stolen my plants. So I grow extra for them to take.”

“It’s still illegal,” Phillips said.

“So is robbing me, but the cops haven’t done anything about it.”

“Did you file a report?”

“Bunch of times. Nothing came of it.”

They were getting nowhere. Phillips didn’t want to bust Arlen, but if it became known that he’d given Arlen a pass, he’d lose his job. It was a lose-lose situation for everyone involved. Beth rose from her seat at the table, and went to get another bottled water. Lancaster followed her to the fridge.

“I want you to distract your friends,” he whispered.

“Why should I do that?” she whispered back.

“I’m going to fix this. Stand at the head of the table, and start talking. I need you to draw everyone’s attention away from the side of the room where the plants are.”

“Wait. What are you—”

“Just do it, okay?”

“Be careful here. I don’t know Erce that well.”

“Understood.”

Beth got a fresh water and returned to the table. Instead of sitting, she stood at its head. “I’m confused about the dope. Isn’t there another treatment for PTSD?” she asked. That led to Arlen repeating the treatments he’d undergone, and how his doctors at the VA hospital had decided that taking cannabis was the safest way to keep him from losing his mind.

“It’s funny, but I never smoked until I got out of the army, and that’s the God’s honest truth,” Arlen said, blowing a monster cloud.

Lancaster returned to the table. He gave Beth a wink. She’d seen his subterfuge, while the other FBI agents had not.

“I’m sorry, Arlen, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you, and confiscate your plants,” Phillips said.

“Suit yourself,” their host said.

Phillips read Arlen his rights and handcuffed him. Then, he told his team to take the plants outside. He planned to call for a police van to take the plants to the sheriff’s department, where they’d be stored in a police property locker. Cell service was poor inside the barn, and Phillips went outside to make the call.

“I saw what you did,” Arlen whispered to Lancaster.

“Keep it down,” Lancaster said.

Arlen let out a stoner’s laugh. Phillips returned moments later, holding his cell phone. He motioned for Arlen to come outside. Still laughing, Arlen obeyed, the lit joint dangling from his lips. Lancaster walked beside him, imploring him to keep quiet.

“You’re okay for a cop,” Arlen said.

“Glad you think so.”

They stood by the building’s scant shade and faced the pot plants, which were lined up on the back lawn. The team of FBI agents stood nearby, looking confused. From the house the old woman continued to yell.

“Hey, Erce,” one of the agents said.

Phillips was still on his phone with the sheriff’s department. He said, “Hold on,” and clapped his palm over the mouthpiece. “What’s up?”

“We got a problem,” the agent said.

“What kind of problem?”

“A big problem. Take a look for yourself.”

Phillips ended the call and joined his team. They talked in hushed whispers, and were clearly agitated. Arlen flashed a loopy grin.

“Thank you, brother Parrot Head,” he said.

“That’s not why I did it,” Lancaster said.

“Then why?”

“I was a SEAL, and did several missions in Iraq. Every soldier that did a tour in that hell hole deserves a medal.”

“You can say that again. Thanks, man.”

Phillips stormed over to where they stood. He gave Lancaster an angry look, then stared at Daniels, trying to determine who had betrayed him.

“There’s only six plants,” the special agent bellowed.

“You must have miscounted,” Beth said.

“You saw them yourself. There were seven plants when we entered the barn.”

“I didn’t count them,” Beth said. “This wasn’t intended to be a drug bust. When you said there were seven plants, I took your word for it. You must have miscounted. Mistakes happen, Erce.”

“I don’t make mistakes like that,” Phillips snapped. “Your friend here disposed of one of the plants when we weren’t looking.”

Beth put her hands on her hips and stared him down. “He did no such thing. You made an honest mistake. No harm, no foul. Please remove the handcuffs from our suspect so we can get on with our investigation.”

Phillips pulled out the handcuff keys and angrily tossed them on the ground. He rounded up his team, and they departed without so much as a goodbye.

Arlen laughed under his breath as Lancaster uncuffed him.

“How did you make the plant disappear?” Arlen asked.

They were back at the dining room table inside the barn. Using an app on his phone, Arlen made a Jimmy Buffett classic, “Son of a Son of a Sailor,” play from the speakers hanging on the wall. Lancaster sat at the head of the table. He’d convinced Beth to let him take over. A bond had formed, and Arlen was in his corner.

“I dragged the smallest plant into the bathroom and flushed the leaves down the toilet,” he said. “Then I broke the stem into little pieces, and hid them in the tank.”

“Thanks for picking the smallest,” Arlen said. “Guess I’d better clean the tank out before I flush again.”

“That would be a good idea. Now let’s discuss why we’re here. Your Charger was spotted driving away from a home invasion a few hours ago, and nearly ran us over. The same vehicle was spotted earlier parked outside a church. A pair of nasty-looking Russians were driving it. Do you know these guys?”

“Not very well. Their names are Bogdan and Egor Sokolov.”

“Are they brothers?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Which is which?”

“Bogdan is taller, and does the talking. Egor is the short one, and does the driving. They rent my car when they come to town.”

“So your relationship is a business one. How often do they come into town?”

“Three or four times a month. I met them through a car sharing marketplace called Turo. They fly into town and Uber it over here. They always bring the car back clean, and pay in cash. It’s a good deal for me.”

“Which airport do they fly into?”

“Northeast Regional. It’s just north of Saint Augustine.”

“Did they ever discuss their business with you?”

“No. Whatever they were doing, it was generating a lot of cashola. They always brought an empty duffel bag with them. When they left, it was stuffed.” The joint had turned to ash, and Arlen rolled another on the table and lit up. In Lancaster’s experience, cannabis was like truth serum. The more of it a person smoked, the more they were likely to reveal, the only difference being that people didn’t take truth serum willingly when speaking with agents of the law.

Arlen took a hit and reflexively offered Beth the joint.

“Whoops. I didn’t mean that,” he said.

“I smoked once in college,” she said defensively.

Arlen dropped his chin and tried not to guffaw.

“Let’s get back to the Sokolovs,” Lancaster said. “They’ve been visiting Saint Augustine and using your car to get around. Did you ever see them in town?”

“Just once. They were having drinks with a woman at a dive called the Bar None Saloon. It’s on A1A, not far from here. I took an Uber over there with my buddies one night. I went up to the bar to get a brew, and caught them out of the corner of my eye, but they didn’t see me.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Three weeks back. The jukebox was on, but I caught a few words. They were talking in Russian. The woman kept saying, ‘Nyet, nyet,’ and Bogdan would shoot her down. It wasn’t friendly, so I grabbed a beer and went onto the patio.”

“Have you seen this woman before?”

“You bet. She was at the Tradewinds one Friday night, turning heads. I was going to buy her a drink, but my buddy told me she was bad news, so I left her alone.”

“She was good-looking?”

“A real showstopper. Ever notice how Russian men look like dogs, but the women look like models? I wonder why that is.”

“Why did your buddy say she was bad news?”

“She must have a bad rep. This being a small town, word gets around.”

“Describe her.”

“She’s got jet-black hair and long eyelashes and a kick-ass body. She sits at the bar with an unlit butt in her mouth. That’s her hook. She wants guys to light her cigarette, so she can strike up a conversation.”

“Is she a hooker?”

“Sheriff doesn’t put up with hookers. His deputies have orders to run them out of town. She likes to troll, see what she’ll catch.”

“What’s her name?”

“Katya. My buddy Antonio took her out. Not sure why he broke it off.”

“Do you have Antonio’s number? We might want to talk to him.”

Arlen recited his friend’s number from memory, and Beth wrote it down on her notepad. Beth also asked for the spelling of Katya’s name, which she also wrote down. While this was taking place, Lancaster slipped his cell phone off the table, and pressed a button on the screen. He’d been secretly recording Arlen, and planned to listen to their conversation later, to see what he might have missed.

They were done. Arlen had given them enough information to move the investigation forward. They rose from the table, and he and Arlen shook hands.

“Thanks, brother,” he said.

“Anything for a Parrot Head,” Arlen replied.

Chapter 12

“How much trouble are you in?” Jon asked.

Daniels stared at the ruler-straight highway, her hands gripping the wheel of her rental. There would be blowback from the ruse they had pulled on Phillips and his team, maybe even a formal review. The bureau did not tolerate impropriety among its agents, and her covering for Jon while he made the seventh marijuana plant disappear would be considered a major infraction.

She was in real trouble, no doubt about it.

She didn’t care. Her father’s death was looking more suspicious by the hour, and she was going to get to the bottom of the circumstances behind it, even if it meant pissing off every law enforcement officer on the east coast of Florida.

“Who cares?” she said.

“I do. Phillips will write up what happened, and he’ll assume that I made that pot plant disappear while you were distracting him and his team. That could hurt you.”

“Fifty-fifty Phillips doesn’t file a report.”

“You think your odds are that good?”

“I do. Busting Arlen would have silenced a valuable source. We needed him to talk, and arresting him would have accomplished the opposite. It was a judgment call.”

“But you broke the law.”

“I did no such thing. You broke the law. Look, I’m going to catch heat over this, no question about it. But if we break this open, all will be forgiven. My boss can be very understanding that way.”

“How is J. T. doing, anyway?”

“He’s back at work, cracking the whip. He’s one tough SOB.”

“My kind of guy.”

They had come to the drawbridge that connected the beach to old downtown. It was called the Bridge of Lions, and had two marble lions guarding the entrance that were copies of the famed Medici lions from Italy. Traffic started to crawl, and she hit the brakes a little too hard, throwing them both forward.

“Sorry,” she said.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m not okay,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m a nervous god damn wreck. These things we’re learning about my father are tearing me apart, and I don’t know what the hell to do. This isn’t the man I knew.”

“You’re making assumptions. We don’t know how this is going to turn out.”

“It’s going to turn out badly, Jon. I can feel it in my bones.”

Red lights on the bridge began to flash. A crossing gate came down, and the drawbridge lifted to allow a large sailboat passage. Daniels threw the rental into park and fought back tears. Her father had gotten tangled up in a bad situation, one that involved gangsters and pretty young women with bad reputations. Instead of calling her for help, he’d let it spiral out of control until it was too late.

She got out and joined a group of tourists on the sidewalk, watching them take pictures of the sailboat. Lancaster edged up beside her, and handed her a tissue.

She blew her nose. “Thanks. When did you start carrying tissues?”

“I grabbed a few at the church this morning. Figured they might come in handy.”

“Always thinking ahead.”

“You got a call when we were talking to Arlen. Was it Nicki?”

“How did you know? My phone was muted, and in my purse.”

“It vibrated against something metallic.”

“I did get a call. How did you know it was Nicki?”

“She called me, too, asked me to call her back. She sounded very excited. I think she found something.”

Daniels groaned. Her niece was like a bull in a china shop. She was headstrong and watched too many cop shows. These shows were good at explaining the forensics used to catch criminals, but didn’t accurately portray the psychological toll of dealing with evil people. For Nicki, it was still a game.

“How do I tell her to stay out of this?” she asked.

“You already did that, and she didn’t listen. Why don’t you tell Melanie to take all of Nicki’s devices away from her? Then Nicki won’t be able to do any cybersleuthing.”

“That’s not going to happen, Jon. Nicki needs her devices to do her schoolwork.”

“Then I guess you’re stuck. Personally, I’d like to hear what she found.”

“You’re not helping. You know that, don’t you?”

“You can’t have everything, Beth. Want me to call her back?”

The red lights started to flash, and the drawbridge lowered. They crossed into town, their tires purring on the smooth cobblestone streets. Entering Saint Augustine was like taking a step back in time, the buildings rich with history and culture, and everything moving at a more civilized pace. She drove to a public lot across the street from a Spanish stone fortress called Castillo de San Marcos, and picked an empty spot. The fort was over three hundred years old, and had been built to defend Spain’s interests in Florida. She called Nicki back, and put her cell phone on speaker. As the call connected, she glanced at him and said, “I don’t feel good about this.”

“You want me to do the talking?” he asked.

“She’ll just roll right over you. She always does.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“You think I’m a pushover? Just watch me.”

Nicki answered on the first ring. She was filled with breathless enthusiasm and excitedly said hello. Before she could explain what she’d found, Daniels stopped her.

“Nicki, didn’t Jon and I ask you to stay out of this? These men are dangerous.”

“But I found the link!”

Daniels’s eyes went wide. “You did? Tell us.”

“Am I helping you with the investigation, or not?”

“Nicki, you don’t get to bargain with us. It doesn’t work that way. Where the heck are you, anyway? Are your parents there?”

“Dad pulled over for a pit stop. He and my mom are inside a 7-Eleven getting cold drinks and snacks. Remember what you told me, Aunt Beth? The more eyes on a case, the better chances you have of cracking it open. You told me that yourself.”

“She’s got you over a barrel,” Jon whispered.

Daniels mouthed the words, Shut up. To her niece she said, “Here’s the deal. You’re on the case as of right now. But if I decide that you need to bug out, you must agree to do that. This is for your own safety, Nicki. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, Aunt Beth.”

“Splendid. Now let’s hear it. I’ve got Jon sitting here with me.”

“Okay, so here’s what I found. Saint Augustine has a newspaper called the St. Augustine Record, which has a website with a backlog of articles. Officer Spencer said that mummified hands had been found at five different homes in the past year. It made me think that a story would have been written about it in the newspaper. Guess what? There wasn’t a single mention.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a big enough story,” Daniels said.

“They sure write about everything else. Bake sales, bicycles getting stolen, the local high school firing its basketball coach. But no mention of this. I went on Facebook, and typed the words ‘Mummified hands, Saint Augustine’ into the search engine. A dozen people in Saint Augustine who had posted comments popped up. They sounded scared, and were asking each other when the police were going to do something.”

“Like it was being covered up,” Daniels said.

“That’s what it felt like,” her niece said. “One of the comments was really strange. A woman asked her friend if she thought the mummified hands were linked to the museum. Her friend replied with a half dozen question marks.”

“Did the woman mention the museum’s name?” Daniels asked.

“No, she didn’t. But I found it anyway.”

“How did you do that?”

“I went to Google, and typed in the words ‘Mummified hand, Saint Augustine.’ A link for the Villa Zorayda Museum popped up. It’s an old house that was built to look exactly like a famous palace in Spain. The house is filled with Egyptian artifacts, including the world’s oldest rug. It was taken from a pyramid with a mummified hand wrapped inside, and is woven with cat hair. It’s called the Sacred Cat Rug, and people think it’s cursed. The museum won’t let it be photographed, so there’s a drawing on their site instead.”

“How does this connect to the hands that showed up on people’s doorsteps?” Daniels asked.

“I was just getting to that. It’s believed that if a person sets foot on the rug, they’ll be cursed, and die a horrible death. They claim that it hasn’t happened recently, but get this. During a recent restoration of the rug, a mummified hand was found on the front steps of the museum.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh-huh. Pretty weird, don’t you think?”

“It could just be an urban legend.”

“That’s what I thought. I emailed the museum, and pretended to be a reporter writing an article about the rug. I got a reply right away. A nice woman said the story was true, and that the museum had filed a report with the police.”

Daniels glanced at Jon, and saw him mouth the word, Wow! She felt the same way. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Nicki had hit it right out of the park.

“This is amazing, Nicki. Thank you,” Daniels said.

“Are you going to visit the museum?”

“I think that would be an excellent idea.”

“Right now?”

“I don’t see why not. We’re parked across from the old fort. It can’t be too far.”

“I checked the museum out on Yelp. Several reviewers recommended a guide named Katya. They said she was really knowledgeable about the history of the rug.”

Daniels shot Lancaster a look. His eyebrows went up.

“Katya with a y?” Daniels asked.

“That’s right. How did you know?” her niece replied.

“Lucky guess. Thanks for all your help. Talk soon.”

Chapter 13

The Villa Zorayda Museum did look like a palace, just as Nicki had said.

It was built in the Moorish Spanish Revival style of architecture that was prominent throughout Saint Augustine. Built on a foundation of poured concrete over a century ago, it had survived countless tropical storms and hurricanes.

The walk from the old fort had taken fifteen minutes. Along the way, they’d stopped to buy coffee, which they drank from Styrofoam cups. The city’s sidewalks were teeming with out-of-towners, and they blended right in.

Beth had decided that they should enter the museum pretending to be tourists, and see what they could learn about the Sacred Cat Rug. Saint Augustine had many secrets, and announcing they were law enforcement would not work to their advantage.

An ornate sign on the front lawn said that the museum had been placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1993. The place felt legitimate, and Lancaster guessed that there was some truth to the rug’s dark history.

“Do you want to do the talking, or should I?” he asked.

“This one’s yours,” Beth said.

They dumped their coffee cups into a trash bin and went inside. The main lobby was two stories high and felt like a scene out of 1001 Arabian Nights, the Moorish design on full display. The museum stayed open late during tourist season, and he purchased two tickets. A girl who looked like she was in high school stepped forward. She wore a floor-length dress and had her hair in a ponytail.

“Welcome to the Villa Zorayda,” the girl said. “My name’s Sierra, and I’ll be your tour guide. Before we begin, please be aware that there are several exhibits where photography is prohibited. If you don’t abide by the rules, your cameras will be confiscated.”

“Putting mine away right now.” Beth dropped her cell phone into her purse.

“Me too,” Lancaster said, putting his cell phone away.

“Great! Please follow me,” Sierra said.

They started on the ground floor. The building had a rich history, and Sierra shared stories from when it was a casino, speakeasy, and gourmet restaurant, while describing the original art and valuable antiques from the previous owner’s collection. Sierra was older than she looked, and Lancaster guessed she was in her midtwenties. That made her closer to Katya’s age, and he wondered if they knew each other.

They climbed a staircase to the second floor. The upstairs bedrooms were bigger than most people’s apartments, and were filled with paintings and thick Persian rugs. There was so much stuff crammed into the rooms that it felt like an antique store.

The Sacred Cat Rug was in the last bedroom, and hung on the wall. It looked like a pregnant zebra, the body clumsily drawn, the legs poorly rendered, and might have fetched fifty bucks at a backyard sale. Its history made it important, and the curse that it carried.

“This is the museum’s most famous piece,” Sierra said. “It’s called the Sacred Cat Rug, and is believed to be the oldest rug in the world. It’s woven entirely of hair taken from cats found roaming the river Nile.”

“That’s a lot of cats,” Lancaster said, playing the tourist.

“It most certainly is. The cats weren’t harmed, and were released after their hair was taken. The Egyptians thought cats were sacred, and the penalties for harming one were severe, including being put to death. They revered cats for their ability to control vermin like rats and poisonous snakes, and considered them symbols of good luck.”

Beth reached out as if to touch the rug. Sierra let out a little shriek and grabbed Beth’s arm, stopping her.

“Please don’t do that.” Sierra spent a moment composing herself. She looked shaken and more than a little upset.

“Is this one of the exhibits that can’t be photographed?” Lancaster asked.

“That’s correct. No photographs.”

“May I ask why not?”

“It’s just the rule.”

“But why? The rug isn’t very attractive. The museum can’t be worried about someone creating a knockoff.”

“I don’t make up the rules. Our tour is now completed. I hope you enjoyed yourselves, and will fill out a comment card before you leave. Have a great day.”

Sierra flashed a practiced smile and moved to leave. She seemed eager to part company, and put as much distance between herself and them as possible.

Lancaster said, “Please don’t leave.”

Sierra halted on a dime. Her pleasant demeanor was gone.

“I read online that the rug is cursed,” he said. “Is that why you don’t want people touching or photographing it?”

“That’s just a rumor,” she said.

“There was an article in the newspaper that said a mummified hand mysteriously appeared on the museum’s front steps after the rug was cleaned,” he said.

Fear crept into her eyes, and her body tensed, as if preparing to take off running.

Beth stepped forward, and showed Sierra her badge. The young woman’s mouth dropped open.

“Special Agent Elizabeth Daniels, FBI,” Beth said. “This gentleman is Jon Lancaster, a retired police detective. We’d like a few minutes of your time.”

“What’s this about?” She sounded scared.

“We want to talk to you about a young woman that works here named Katya,” Lancaster said. “Do you know her?”

Sierra hesitated. Then she said, “Katya’s my friend.”

“Have you spoken to her recently?”

She nodded.

“Your friend’s in trouble, isn’t she?”

“Big trouble,” Sierra said under her breath.

“Do you want to help her?” Beth asked. “Because if you do, then you’ll tell us everything you know.”

“Okay,” Sierra said.

Lancaster glanced at Beth and saw her nod. He could feel it in his bones, and so could she. They were about to break this thing wide open, and get to the bottom of what had happened to Beth’s father in the months leading up to his death.

“Where can we talk in private?” Lancaster asked.

“Let’s go to the Cobalt Lounge,” Sierra said. “We can talk in private there.”

Chapter 14

The Cobalt Lounge was located inside the Casa Monica hotel, the bar made of polished mahogany. Sierra picked a chair facing the entrance and kept one eye on the door. She acted nervous, and kept shifting in her chair. In Daniels’s experience, that was good, since people who were on edge often had things to get off their chest. She’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt before leaving work, and brushed out her hair. She smiled timidly as a waitress approached.

“Hey, Sissy,” she said.

“Well hey, Sierra, I didn’t recognize you,” the waitress said, happy to see her. “How you been keeping?”

“I’m doing okay. How about yourself? You still having those bad dreams?”

“Haven’t had one in a while. Don’t worry, they’ll come back. You talk to Katya lately? I tried to call her, but her line doesn’t work anymore. Did she leave town?”

“I don’t know where she’s run off to.”

“If you happen to see her, tell her that a couple of guys were asking for her. They gave me the creeps.” To Daniels and Lancaster she said, “Sorry for the chitchat. What can I get you folks to drink?”

They ordered iced tea, Sierra white wine. The waitress left, and Sierra stared at her image in the polished table. She seemed to be having second thoughts about talking to them, and Daniels decided to soothe any misgivings she might have.

“Are you feeling okay?” Daniels asked.

“Not really.”

“We’re here to help. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes, it’s a promise. Why does your friend have bad dreams?”

Sierra sucked on her vape like it was oxygen. “Sissy works too much, and it’s invaded her head. They’re called waitmares. A lot of restaurant servers have them.”

“I’ve never heard that before. What does she dream of?”

“Crazy stuff. In one of her dreams, she has twenty tables, and her customers are yelling, wanting their meals. In the second, she’s serving tables naked.”

“Maybe she should find another line of work.”

“Not around here. In this town, you wait tables or work in the kitchen. Before we start, can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Is it true that lying to an FBI agent is against the law? I saw that on a TV show once, and wondered if the writers made it up.”

“Knowingly lying to an FBI agent is a felony,” Daniels said.

Sierra drew back in her chair. “Guess I’d better watch what I say.”

“You need to be completely honest with us,” Daniels said. “Don’t hold back, okay?”

“If you find Katya, are you going to arrest her?”

“Why would we do that?”

“I don’t know. I figured Katya was up to no good. She showed up in town a while back, started working at the museum as a tour guide. She was flat broke, barely scraping by. Next thing you know, she’s got a house and she’s wearing fancy clothes and pretty jewelry. I figured she was doing something illegal. Where else would the money have come from?”

“Was she prostituting herself?”

“No, ma’am. Sheriff doesn’t allow hookers. Runs them out.”

“Did you ask her where the money came from?”

“Sure. Said she had a sugar daddy. I said, ‘What guy around here has money like that to burn?’ She just laughed.”

The waitress served them. The glass of wine was on the generous side, and Sierra took a big swallow. It settled her, and she said, “Thanks, Sissy.”

“What are friends for?” the waitress asked.

Sissy departed, and Sierra continued to work on her wine.

“What do you know about the mummified hands that were turning up around town?” Daniels asked.

“Katya was behind that,” Sierra said.

“Where did she get them from?”

“They were stored in the basement of the museum. They originally came from Egypt, and were put on exhibit, but they grossed people out, and were stored away. Katya went into the basement after work one night and stole them.”

“Did she take anything else?”

“She stole a shrunken head. She stuck a cigarette between its lips, and put it out on Halloween as a prank.”

Daniels’s jaw tightened. Katya sounded like a twisted young woman, and she reminded herself that she and Sierra were friends. She glanced at Jon, wanting him to take over, and he jumped in without missing a beat.

“Did Katya put the hands on people’s doorsteps?” Jon asked.

“Not Katya. She’s not that brave. Stealing them was hard enough for her to pull off.”

“Then who did?”

“Her crazy friends. That’s my theory, anyway.”

“What crazy friends?”

“I only met them once. Katya had a party one Saturday night, and a whole bunch of people in town got invited. It was a wild scene. People were doing Ecstasy and having sex in the bedrooms, and there was lots of weed and booze. There were three Mexican girls there I didn’t know. They were rough trade.”

“How so?”

“They were all tatted up, and gave off this weird vibe, like they wanted to rob us. You know the kind of girls I’m talking about?”

“I do,” Jon said. “Do you think they were in a gang?”

“Maybe. Their stuff was in the bedrooms, so I got the sense they were staying. I never saw them around town, working in the restaurants or hotels, so I don’t know how they made money.”

“What led you to think they were responsible for putting the hands on people’s doorsteps?”

“Something happened later in the party that made me realize they weren’t normal. Everybody was flying high and getting down. One of the Mexican girls took her top off, and did this snake dance while holding the mummified hand from the museum. It used to be part of the Sacred Cat Rug exhibit. When the rug was found in Egypt, there was a mummified hand covered in jewels wrapped in it, which usually hangs with the rug. Katya borrowed the hand from the museum for her party. While the Mexican girl’s dancing, she started slapping people in the face with the hand, like she’s putting a curse on them. People didn’t like it, but she wouldn’t stop. It got way out of hand.”

“Where is the jeweled hand now?”

“In a safe. I guess it was too valuable to keep on display.”

“And when mummified hands started showing up in people’s yards, you decided the three Mexican girls were responsible,” Daniels said.

“Had to be. They were living in the house. And they were mean.”

“Why do you think they did that?”

“To scare people. They had a scam going on, and it blew up in their faces. So they got Katya to steal the mummified hands, and dropped them on people’s doorsteps. Everyone knows about the curse, so people naturally freaked out.”

“Can you prove any of this?”

“I have a video of the party on my phone. Want to see it?”

“Please.”

Soon a video of Katya’s wild party was playing on Sierra’s cell phone. Within the swirl of pot smoke and human bodies was a twirling, topless girl. She was young and curvy, and covered in blue-black tattoos. Using both hands, she clutched a shriveled human hand embedded with glittering stones like it was a magician’s wand.

Her partners appeared holding a stoned-out girl. Dancing around them, the topless girl slapped the mummified hand against the stoned-out girl’s face. The stoned-out girl did not approve and voiced her displeasure. Unfazed, the topless girl continued the bizarre ritual.

“Please pause this,” Daniels said.

Sierra paused the video. The topless girl’s back was to the camera. Between her shoulder blades was a tattoo of a five-pointed crown with an inscription that read, WE DON’T DIE, WE MULTIPLY. It was the logo of the Latin Kings, one of the most violent gangs in the country. Outsiders were the enemy, which explained the bad vibe Sierra had felt. The gang didn’t accept non-Latino members, and she wondered how Katya fit in.

“I need a copy of this video,” Daniels said.

Sierra sent the party video to her, via text message.

“You went to a party at Katya’s house,” Daniels said. “I need the address.”

“Only if you promise to leave me out of this,” Sierra said.

“Your name won’t come up.”

Sierra recited the address, and Daniels copied it in her notepad. She was finished, and glanced at Jon to see if he was done. He was breathing hard, the faint whistle impossible to miss.

“I have one more question,” he said. “Who was Katya’s sugar daddy?”

“I have no idea,” Sierra said.

“Come on, you must have wondered. Didn’t you?”

“I thought about it,” Sierra admitted. “I figured it was probably some rich geezer who’d lost his wife, and was looking for a good time. Katya was the kind of girl that would grab a guy, and take him for a ride.”

Daniels thought she just might get sick.

“I’m done,” he said.

Sierra’s cell phone vibrated. She stared at the incoming number on the screen.

“I need to take this,” she said. “My mom’s in the hospital. It might be her doctor.”

“Go ahead,” Daniels said.

Sierra slipped out of the booth and walked into the hotel lobby to take the call.

“I think she’s lying,” Jon said.

“She made up the story about the three Mexican girls?” Daniels asked.

“I think that part is true. She’s lying about her mother being sick in the hospital. If that were true, she would have told us before she sat down.”

“Is she going to bolt?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Should we stop her?”

“On what grounds? She told us everything she knows.”

Sierra glanced nervously at them. Her call ended, and she dropped her cell phone into her purse, then bolted for the exit. Daniels realized that she hadn’t gotten Sierra’s address in case she needed to follow up.

“Wait a minute,” Daniels said.

She was too late. By the time she made it outside, Sierra was gone.

Chapter 15

Beth’s rental was still parked at the fort, which was a good ten-minute hike. She asked the hotel valet how long it would take to summon a cab.

“Hard to say. They’re not very reliable,” the valet said.

They decided to hoof it. The cobblestone streets were choking with tourists, their milky skin and garish clothes making them easy to peg. By the time they reached the car it was nearly dark, and Beth was winded, and had to catch her breath. Lancaster could tell that she was emotionally spent, her body running on fumes. Each time they turned over a rock, another creep slithered out. Her father had been involved with some reprehensible people, yet they still didn’t know why.

Lancaster typed Katya’s address into a traffic app on his cell phone called Waze. Katya lived in an area called College Park. Waze said traffic was heavy, and the drive would take between ten and fifteen minutes.

“Think we should pay her a visit?” he asked.

“Only if we want to solve this,” Beth said.

Soon they were stuck in traffic. Beth threw the vehicle into park, and turned in her seat to face him. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

“Who said I was thinking anything?” he asked.

“I did. You’re onto something. Spit it out.”

Beth had gotten good at reading his thoughts. Once this investigation was over, he planned to ask her how she did it. “There was a great deal of money missing from your father’s bank account. My gut tells me Katya was the recipient.”

“You think my father was her sugar daddy.”

“I think he was in a relationship with her, and she started to blackmail him.”

“Blackmail for what? Sleeping with a girl fifty years younger than him? If my father told me that, I probably would have applauded, and so would Melanie. We wanted him to date women, and enjoy himself. You can’t be a hermit forever.”

The revelation surprised him. Was Beth just saying that, or did she mean it?

“You wouldn’t have been upset if he dated a woman younger than you?” he asked.

“I might have, but it’s really none of my business,” Beth said. “My father was a free spirit. If a pretty-young-thing tickled his fancy, so be it.”

“I still think it was blackmail,” he said. “Your father was living in a beautiful house with plenty of space. Katya could have moved in, and had a whole floor to herself. Instead, she blackmailed him into giving her loads of cash.”

“I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but blackmail for what? What leverage would this woman have had over my father?”

“Your father told Nicki he was sorry. Your father did something regrettable, and he knew it would upset Nicki, and you and Melanie as well.”

Beth rested her head on the wheel, and shut her eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

Traffic started to move, and they crossed the bridge. Soon, her headlights caught a sign that said COLLEGE PARK, and Beth turned down a street into a heavily forested area with houses far back off the road. After a long search, they found the address on a rusted mailbox, the house invisible from the street. Heavy metal music blared from behind the trees.

“Sounds like they’re having a party,” he said.

Beth blocked the driveway with her rental, and they got out. He removed a handgun from his pants pocket, slipped it behind his belt, and covered it with his shirt, which he wore untucked. They headed up the gravel driveway.

“Did you hear that?” he said under his breath.

“Hear what?” she whispered.

“Sounded like a woman crying.”

“Your ears are better than mine.”

There were certain sounds that if you heard once, you never forgot. He drew his handgun and held it loosely at his side, like a gunslinger. Beth removed her gun from her purse and clasped it with both hands, the way she’d been taught at the academy.

As they passed a hedge, the house came into view. It had two stories and stained shingles, and a wraparound front porch with a pair of identical rockers. It wasn’t new, but it was well maintained, and it looked expensive. Katya had done well for herself.

The music was loud enough to wake the dead, and was pouring out of a curtained side window, which was cracked open. He had never understood the attraction to heavy metal, which was as soothing as listening to a jet take off.

He climbed the stairs to the front porch, making no sound. He was in warrior mode, his military training taking over. Beside the front door was another curtained window. He approached it cautiously, and brought his face up to the glass. Through a part in the curtain he peered into a living room filled with nice furniture and wall art.

“Shit,” he said under his breath.

“She in there?” Beth whispered back.

“I think so. And so are the two Russkies.”

The Sokolovs stood in the living room, stripped down to their waists. They were freakishly muscular and covered in hideous body art. Bogdan, the older and taller, wielded a large hammer, while Egor held a power drill. They were taking turns threatening a young woman, who sat in a stiff-backed wood chair in the room’s center. A piece of duct tape hung off the side of her cheek, and he guessed one of them had ripped it away while trying to get a point across. Those were the cries that he’d heard from the driveway.

“It’s Katya,” he whispered.

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh. I think they’re going to kill her.”

He stepped aside, and let Beth have a look for herself. There was a difference between simply threatening, and threatening to kill. Katya wasn’t playing along, and it didn’t appear that she was going to budge. The Sokolovs’ anger would turn to rage, and they would end her life.

“I’m going in. Which one do you want?” he asked.

“Bogdan, the big one,” Beth said.

“He’s yours. Aim at him through the window. I’ll kick down the door and go in. If they don’t obey my orders, start shooting.”

Katya let out a scream. Lancaster took another look through the window. Egor had put the electric drill into her ear, and given it a little juice.

“Hurry,” Beth said.

He went to the front door, and lifted his leg. Beth went into a crouch and aimed through the window. He kicked, and the door splintered at the frame and fell into the room. He rushed in.

“Drop your weapons and step away from the girl,” he said.

Bogdan tossed his hammer to the floor and raised his arms into the air. Egor snarled and threw the power drill at Lancaster’s head, forcing him to duck. It was a clever ploy. Lancaster wasn’t going to shoot an unarmed man, and it gave Bogdan enough time to grab a shotgun off the fireplace mantel and get off a round. The blast did not miss by much, and Lancaster dove to the floor and returned their fire.

Beth also began shooting. The window blew apart, with shards of glass flying around him. It was distracting, but he kept shooting anyway. The Sokolovs weren’t going to win any medals for bravery, and they retreated into the back of the house. Egor’s torso was soaked with his own blood, and he wasn’t moving very fast.

Lancaster got to his feet and dusted himself off. Chasing them was an option, except he was nearly out of bullets. From the backyard, he heard a motorbike’s engine kick in.

He went to a window, and looked into the darkened backyard. The house backed up onto a wooded area, and he listened as the brothers escaped down a dirt path on a very loud motorcycle.

“All clear,” he called out.

Beth came inside, and edged up beside him.

“You up for chasing them?” she asked.

“No thanks. That was an AA-12 assault shotgun. We’re outgunned.”

“Then why did they run?”

“I shot the little one in the stomach. If he doesn’t get help, he’ll bleed out.”

They checked out Katya, who hadn’t uttered a word. Her ear had a little blood, but otherwise she appeared unharmed. The look on her face said she was surprised to be alive, and she stood up and stretched her legs.

Beth flashed her badge. “I’m Special Agent Daniels with the FBI, and this is private investigator Jon Lancaster. What is your name?”

“Katya Pavlov,” she said, her accent barely noticeable.

“Would you like us to take you to a hospital?”

She touched her ear. “I am not badly hurt. No hospital.”

“We’d like to ask you some questions. Please sit down.”

Katya obediently returned to her chair. Lancaster and Beth sat directly across from her on the couch.

“Who were those two men?” Beth asked.

“I’ve never seen them before.”

“Please don’t lie to us. It will only lead to trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Jail.”

Katya’s eyes grew wide. She’d just had a power drill stuck in her ear, yet seemed more concerned about being thrown in the slammer.

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Same question. Who were they?”

“Their names are Bogdan and Egor Sokolov. They are my friends.”

“Really. Why were they torturing you?”

She smiled thinly. “They were not happy with me.”

“That much was obvious. What made them do this?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world.”

A mournful cry interrupted their conversation. A skinny black cat crawled out from beneath the couch they were sitting on, and began to wail. Katya scooped the kitty up, and began to pet it.

“I will explain everything, but first may I have something to drink?” she asked. “My throat is very dry.”

Beth glanced at him. The key to an interrogation was to keep the person being interviewed happy, within reason. Lancaster said, “What can I get you?”

“A bottled water from the refrigerator in the kitchen. And a glass.”

“Coming right up.”

Lancaster left the room.

Daniels felt her radar go up. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was. Katya continued to console the cat. She was strikingly beautiful, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine her father having a fling with her.

“Start from the beginning,” Daniels said.

They could hear Jon rattling around in the kitchen, looking for a glass. Katya’s expression changed, and her eyes turned cold.

“You are Martin’s daughter,” she said.

Daniels rocked back on the couch. Melanie looked like their mother, while she took after their father, and people were always commenting on the resemblance.

“That’s right,” Daniels said. “How did you know my father?”

“You could say we were lovers.”

The words sounded evil coming out of her mouth. Daniels felt herself shudder.

“Martin said you might show up one day, and cause trouble,” Katya said.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. He said that you were a real bitch.”

Daniels’s cheeks burned, and she raised her arm to slap Katya’s face. It was exactly the response that Katya had been hoping for. She tossed the cat into Daniels’s chest, startling her. Katya came out of her chair and leaped over the splintered front door lying on the floor, then bolted from the house.

“Jon! She’s escaping!”

The frightened cat had sunk its claws into her blouse. She ran out of the house and into the street with the animal still attached to her, but it was too late. Katya had vanished in the wind.

“God damn snake!” Daniels swore.

Chapter 16

There was no greater frustration than having a suspect slip through your fingers. Back inside, they searched for clues that might tell them where Katya had run off to. Lancaster pretended not to hear the obscenities pouring out of Beth’s mouth.

“The little shit told me that she was my father’s lover,” Beth said.

“She really said that?”

“Uh-huh. Then she told me that my father thought I was a bitch. I couldn’t help myself, and went to slap her. That’s when she threw the cat and ran.”

“So it was a ploy.”

“You think she made it up to rattle me? She’s quite a looker. I could see my father having a relationship with her. Didn’t you find her attractive?”

They were in the kitchen doing their search. He’d pulled the garbage pail out from beneath the sink and was sifting through its contents to see what might turn up. The trash was mostly empty diet soda cans and greasy fast food wrappers.

“There’s a difference between attraction and romance,” he said. “Based upon what you told me about your father, I’d say no, I can’t see him in a relationship with her.”

“Why not?”

Beth had stopped what she was doing and glared at him. There was a real edge in her voice. Katya had bested her, and now he was challenging her.

“Your father was highly educated, and he was practical,” he said, treading carefully. “If he was seriously considering having a relationship with Katya, he’d think, ‘She’d be fun in the sack, but what are we going to talk about afterwards? The important things in my life occurred before she was born.’ It would be a travesty.”

“But my father was lonely. He told me and my sister so.”

“He would have found someone.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I spotted several attractive older women in the church this morning. I have to assume they were widows. Your father would have eventually met the right one, and it would have clicked. It’s how things work.”

“So he wasn’t having a relationship.”

“Not with Katya.”

“Did she say those things to throw me off?”

“That’s my bet.” He paused. “And it worked.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and spilled down her cheeks. Her emotions were being turned inside out, and she was hurting. Only one thing made a grieving person feel better, and he gave her a hug. She stiffened in his arms.

“Oh my God. We’re being watched.”

He spun around. It had been a day filled with unpleasant surprises. His eyes found the surveillance camera perched over the dish cabinet.

“That’s strange,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“The camera isn’t pointed at the back door.”

Surveillance cameras were meant to record intruders. That was their purpose, unless the person who installed them had something else in mind. The camera in the kitchen was pointed at the island in the center of the room, which was rectangular and had a marble top. It was large enough for several people to prepare a meal upon, and not get in each other’s way.

“Why would you videotape someone preparing a meal?” Beth asked.

“Beats me.”

Using a chair, he climbed up on the counter beneath the dish cabinet for a closer look. The camera was made by a company called Lorex, and he memorized the call letters before climbing down. Then he did a search on his cell phone, and discovered that the camera was considered high end, and ran $600. It could record in Ultra HD, the images it captured crystal clear.

“They could be watching us right now,” Beth said.

“Should we wave?”

“This isn’t funny, Jon. We don’t know who these people are.”

“Should I get ‘Wild West’ with them?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He drew his gun from behind his belt, and blew the camera off the cabinet. He did it so quickly that Beth was too stunned to react, let alone speak. He blew the smoke off the barrel and returned the weapon to its hiding place.

“You’re crazy,” she said.

“Admit it. You feel better.”

“A little.”

“Let’s see how many more of these we can find,” he said.

There were surveillance cameras in every room in the house.

Eleven total.

Two in the living room, two in the dining room, one in each of the three upstairs bedrooms, a camera in the study, and fish-eye cameras hidden in the ceilings of the two bathrooms. They were perched atop bookcases and dressers, and not easily seen, their lenses aimed at the center of each room. To keep Beth happy, he disabled each one by hand, as opposed to shooting them out.

“She let them watch her in the bathroom?” Beth said incredulously.

“Who?” he said, not understanding.

“Katya. This is her house, remember? She let someone install those cameras, and willingly let them watch her while she was in the bathroom. How would you feel if someone watched you take a shower, or do your business in the morning?”

“It would make my skin crawl.”

“Me too. What kind of woman would allow something like that?”

He had to think about that. He’d seen some pretty grotesque behavior as a cop, the boundaries that people were willing to stretch often boggling the imagination. But he’d never seen or heard about a person doing what Beth had just described.

“Maybe she didn’t have a choice,” he said.

Beth wanted to go to the rental and use her laptop computer to run a check on Katya to see if she had a criminal history. Katya was no innocent, and had probably brushed up against the law before. If so, there would be a rap sheet to show for it.

Together, they repositioned the front door back in its place.

“We didn’t check the basement,” he said.

“You go. I’ll be in the car,” she said.

He’d spied the door to the basement earlier. It was located inside the kitchen pantry, and was padlocked, which he’d found strange. Was Katya keeping something hidden that she didn’t want a nosy visitor to see? There was only one way to find out.

He examined the lock. It was the cheap, hardware store variety. This make of lock was easily opened. A hammer would do the trick, or the end of a screwdriver.

He rifled the kitchen drawers but came up short. But he did find a wrench, which would also work. Standing next to the door, he grasped the lock and applied pressure on one end. With the wrench, he gave a few hard taps on the other end, searching for the sweet spot where the locking mechanism was located.

He found it, and the lock popped open.

He stepped away from the door before opening it. Just in case there was a booby trap waiting for him. There wasn’t, and he stuck his head into the darkened space, seeing nothing but blackness below. He flipped the light switch, and a light came on halfway down the stairwell. The stairs were made of wood, and looked sturdy.

He went down. Reaching bottom, he found himself standing in a finished basement, with a painted concrete floor and paneled walls. It was decorated like a studio apartment, with a kitchen in one corner, a small dining table, and a couch and a pair of matching chairs facing a flat screen TV on the wall. Except for the TV, there wasn’t anything of value. So why the padlock?

He was missing something.

The space didn’t feel right. After a few moments, he realized what it was. The basement was smaller than the first floor of the house. In most houses, the basement was the same footprint as the ground floor. Not here. The basement was smaller. Or was it? He ran his palms across the paneled wall, and applied a gentle but firm pressure.

Halfway down the wall, he felt it give. He pressed harder, and a hidden door popped open, revealing a secret room. He stepped in, and was immediately hit by the smell. It was moldy, the air foul.

Martin Daniels had built a panic room in his house. Those were common these days. This wasn’t a panic room, not if the decorations were any indication. It looked like a room in a bordello, the walls painted hot pink, the lighting subdued, the pink carpet thick and furry. A heart-shaped bed sat in the room’s center.

He’d once been engaged to a woman who’d wanted to honeymoon in the Catskill Mountains because it was where her parents had gone. She’d shown him a glossy full-page ad for the hotel in a bridal magazine that featured photos of a room with pink walls, a bathtub shaped like a champagne glass, and a heart-shaped honeymoon bed. It was so cheesy that he’d broken off the engagement on the spot.

This room reminded him of that ad. Since the rest of the house was wired with surveillance cameras, he assumed this room was as well. A minute later, his suspicions were confirmed when he found a surveillance camera hidden behind a painting of a naked woman hanging on the wall.

There was also dust. It covered the picture frame and the bedspread. The room hadn’t been used in a while. On the night table was a small picture frame that was also covered in dust. He cleaned it off, and stared at the two smiling people in the photo. One was Katya. It took a moment for him to place her partner. An older man with a thick head of hair and a gap-toothed smile. It was Martin Daniels.

He studied the photo. He’d told Beth that her father wasn’t having a relationship with Katya because it just didn’t seem possible. Martin was smarter than that. But here was the evidence, staring him right in the face.

He put the photograph back on the night table. The room hadn’t been used in a while. Had the relationship soured, and Katya turned on him? It was a possibility, only it didn’t explain why the Sokolovs had ransacked Martin’s study, or the missing money from Martin’s bank accounts, or why there were mummified hands being put on people’s doorsteps. The truth be known, it didn’t explain a damn thing.

Taking out his cell phone, he snapped a photo of the picture of Martin and Katya, then took multiple shots of the room, including the hidden camera behind the painting. Then he left.

Leaving the house, he walked down the driveway to the road. Beth was in the passenger seat with her laptop, typing away, her eyes filled with murderous intensity. The laptop’s screen was visible, and he spied Katya’s rap sheet and mug shot.

He climbed behind the wheel. Beth stopped what she was doing.

“I found her rap sheet,” she said.

“Great. Want me to drive?”

“Please. I need to make a few calls. Katya got busted in Fort Lauderdale on a pot charge last year. She’s here on a work permit, and normally a drug arrest would have sent her home. For some reason, she got to stay. I want to find out why.”

He backed out. He didn’t know how to tell Beth what he’d found in the basement. She was grieving, and the news would only make things worse. He needed to figure out a way to tell her that wouldn’t crush her.

“What did you find in the basement?” she asked.

“Dust,” he said.

Chapter 17

It didn’t take Daniels long to find out why Katya had been allowed to stay in the country after her arrest. She called the Broward County District Attorney’s office and spoke to the prosecutor on the case, who was happy to fill her in. As she ended the call, Jon pulled into the driveway of her father’s house, and killed the engine.

“Learn anything?” he asked.

“Katya’s lawyer got the charge pleaded down to a simple misdemeanor,” Daniels said. “She was supposed to perform a hundred hours of community service as punishment, but never showed up.”

“She must have had a good attorney. Which one did she use?”

“Some hotshot named Timothy Morrell.”

“You’re kidding. Morrell charges five hundred bucks an hour. His clients have to put up a ten-thousand-dollar retainer before he’ll talk with them.”

“Where would she have come up with that kind of money?”

“Someone else must have paid him.”

They fell silent. The only truism in police work was that it was impossible to learn the truth; all an investigator could do was piece together the facts, and compose a reasonable scenario. Katya’s story continued to confound them, the pieces not adding up.

“What else did you learn?” Jon asked.

“Katya came here on a work permit, and was working at a bed-and-breakfast in Fort Lauderdale when she was arrested. Maybe the B&B owners paid Morrell.”

“That’s a stretch. Ten grand is a lot of money.”

“Maybe they’re nice people, and wanted to help her out.”

“I have friends in the hotel business, and they don’t tolerate employees that smoke pot. If the owners of the B&B paid Morrell, they probably had another motive. Did you get the B&B’s name?”

“Casa Del Mar. Katya was the night manager.”

“A job like that pays minimum wage. They would have let her go.”

She unlocked the front door, and they went inside the empty house. Her father was fond of playing music on the loud side, and the silence that greeted them was haunting. While Jon ground coffee beans and fixed a pot, she sat at the kitchen table on her laptop, and did a search of the Casa Del Mar on the Broward Property Appraiser’s website.

Jon served her a steaming mug and parked himself in a chair.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“According to the Broward Property Appraiser’s website, the Casa Del Mar is owned by a couple named Boris and Svetlana Vasilek,” Daniels said. “They purchased the business over a year ago, and paid a million two for it.”

“Speak of the devil.”

“You know these two?”

“Our paths crossed when I was a detective. Boris Vasilek has run a variety of businesses, including a car wash, a dry cleaner, and a body shop, all of which went belly-up. We assumed he was laundering money for Russian gangsters, but could never prove it. His wife, Svetlana, acts as his bodyguard. She was an Olympic weightlifter.”

“If you couldn’t prove it, then why assume it?”

Daniels had been trained to follow the facts, and not make assumptions. It irritated the hell out of her when Jon jumped to conclusions without having proof to back up his claims. He stirred sugar into his coffee before replying.

“I grew up with a Russian family living next door to me,” he said. “They escaped the communists in the 1950s, and came here with a couple of suitcases and the clothes on their backs. They were salt of the earth, and worked their assess off. They also loved this country.

“The Russians that come to the United States today are different. The majority of them have known only one leader, and that’s Putin, who’s a gangster and a cold-blooded murderer. Eighty percent of them think Putin’s doing a fine job, which is why he keeps getting reelected. They don’t love this country, or appreciate our democracy. Their loyalties lie elsewhere.”

“If they don’t love our country, then why do they move here?”

“To make money.”

“And you think Katya is working with the Vasileks.”

“She must be. They sponsored her over here, and paid her legal fees when she got in hot water. She moved to Saint Augustine and did something they didn’t like, so they sent Bogdan and Egor to clean up the mess. They’re all in this together.”

“It’s a nice theory. Now, how do we prove it?”

“Easy. We run the Vasileks down, and make them talk.”

“How? They’ll just lawyer up.”

“We’ll do it the old-fashioned way, and show them the error of their ways.”

Daniels shook her head. She loved Jon, except when he went rogue. That Jon was a different beast, and played outside the lines. He’d gotten away with it for a long time, but like any misbehavior, she knew that eventually it would catch up with him.

“I don’t like your approach,” she said.

“I wasn’t going to include you,” he said.

“Going to leave me out in the car?”

“Something like that. That way, if the Vasileks don’t play ball, and someone ends up getting hurt, you won’t feel any blowback.”

“I appreciate you looking out for me. Do you plan to interrogate the Vasileks yourself? Or are your friends going to be involved?”

He said nothing, which was answer enough. There was a large group of ex-SEALS living in Florida who came to each other’s assistance when the need arose. Jon kept in contact with many of these men, but only spoke about them in vague terms, leading her to believe that, like Jon, they made their living dealing on the fringes of the law.

“What if I forbid you from doing this? I can do that, you know,” she said.

His face turned to stone. “I asked you earlier if you wanted me working this investigation. You said yes. Did you change your mind?”

“Of course not. We’re a team.”

“Then take my lead for once. It won’t kill you.”

“For God’s sake—”

“We’re talking about your father. So what if I step on a few toes?”

Her cell phone, which lay on the table between them, began to vibrate, and she stared at the familiar number and 904 area code. Someone at the FBI’s Jacksonville office was calling her, and she suspected it was Erce, wanting to chew her out.

“That’s work,” she said.

“We need to come to a decision about this, Beth,” he said.

“We will. Let me take this.”

He rose from his chair and went outside into the darkened backyard.

“Special Agent Daniels,” she answered.

“This is Erce,” Special Agent Phillips said. “Can you talk?”

“I can talk. You’re working late tonight. What’s up?”

“We have a situation. A dead Russian gangster named Egor Sokolov was found in the bathroom of a rest stop off Interstate 95 with two bullets in his gut. The police were able to ID him through his fingerprints. I got a call from my boss because Sokolov is on the FBI’s watch list. My boss wants to know if I have any idea why this guy was here, and who might have shot him. Do you know anything about this?”

“I do. We engaged Egor and his brother earlier this evening.”

“Who shot him?”

“Lancaster did. We were rescuing a woman they were holding hostage.”

“That explains things. Before I reply, I think it would be best if we talk. I’m free tomorrow morning, if that works for you.”

Daniels ran her fingers through her hair. This was not good. If Erce leveled with his boss, and told him what she and Jon had done, she would get in hot water, and might get demoted or fired. But if Erce made up a story, and his boss found out later, it would be Erce who paid the price. It was a no-win situation for both of them.

“Tomorrow morning it is. Where would you like to meet?” she asked.

Phillips named a restaurant halfway between his office and Saint Augustine. She said goodbye and looked out the window at Jon’s shadowy silhouette. He held a cell phone to his face and appeared to be on a call. She went to the window and tapped the glass. He ended the call and joined her in the kitchen.

“I need to go talk to Erce in the morning,” she said. “The police found Egor Sokolov’s body in a rest stop off the interstate. His brother must have dumped him there.”

“My condolences.”

“Egor is on the FBI’s watch list. Erce’s boss is sniffing around, and wants to know if he knows anything about this.”

“Will Erce cover for you?”

“Maybe.”

“I thought you were friends.”

“We used to go running together at the academy. I’m not sure that counts as a friendship.”

“Would you cover for him, if the situation was reversed?”

She thought about it. “Yes, I would.”

“Hopefully he’ll feel the same way, and won’t throw you under the bus.”

“I sure hope so. Who were you talking to?”

“Your niece. She’s found another link. I told her I’d call her back.”

It was the last thing Daniels wanted to hear, and she slapped her hand on the table in frustration. Jon acted amused, and he sipped his coffee and tried not to smile.

“This isn’t funny,” she said. “Stop encouraging her.”

“I’m not encouraging her. She’s just mimicking her aunt. That’s what kids do — they find role models, and they imitate them.” He rose from the table and washed out his mug in the sink. “It’s getting late. I’d better call her back.”

Daniels hated when issues were left unresolved. They hadn’t decided how they were going to deal with the Vasileks; nor had she convinced Jon that breaking the law, even if it accomplished a good thing, was still a very bad idea.

Before she could speak her mind, Lancaster went back outside and shut the door behind him.

Chapter 18

Standing in the backyard beneath a full moon, Lancaster called Nicki back. Beth was angry at Nicki’s snooping, and he suspected she was angry that her niece had contacted him, instead of calling her aunt. That had to hurt.

“Hi, Jon!” Nicki answered. “You’re really going to like this.”

“Are you home, or still on the road?”

“We’re at home. My dad made great time driving back.”

The news relieved him. Bogdan Sokolov was also on the road, and although the chances of Nicki’s family and Bogdan crossing paths were infinitesimally slim, he still took comfort knowing that Nicki and her folks were back home, safe and sound.

“So what have you got for me?” he asked.

“The people in Saint Augustine that had mummified hands put on their doorsteps all knew Grandpa,” she said. “It wasn’t a random thing.”

“You sure about this?”

“Uh-huh. I searched each of their names during the drive home, and then cross-referenced each of them against Grandpa. They all knew each other.”

Lancaster thought back to his conversation with Officer Spencer in the driveway of Martin Daniels’s home. “Before Officer Spencer gave us those names, your aunt told you to go inside. You didn’t hide behind the front door and eavesdrop, did you?”

“Uh-huh,” the teenager said.

“That’s unacceptable, Nicki. You disobeyed your aunt.”

“I wrote the names down too.”

“You realize that was wrong, don’t you?”

“Yes. But I didn’t think Aunt Beth told me to go inside because she didn’t want me to hear what the policeman was saying. I assumed that she wanted me out of the way because the policeman would be uncomfortable with me present.”

He laughed to himself. The best investigators were always a step ahead of their suspects. Nicki had anticipated his unhappiness, and had prepared an elegant answer.

“You assumed correctly. But it still wasn’t the right thing to do.”

“But it got the job done,” she argued. “Remember when you came to my CSI class at school, and told the story about the time you dressed up like a homeless person and hung out in a park where heroin was being sold? You said your superior was against the idea, so you went and did it on your off-hours. And it worked. You busted the biggest smack dealer in South Florida, and sent him away. How is this different?”

He could think of plenty of reasons, the main one being Nicki was a teenager, and he’d been a seasoned cop. But that argument would fall on deaf ears, so he tried another tack.

“If your aunt finds out, she’ll be upset. And she’ll have her feelings hurt.”

“I never thought of that. Are you going to tell her?”

“Eventually. I don’t keep secrets from her.”

“I won’t do it again.” She paused. “Do you want to hear what I found?”

He smiled into the phone. “Fire away.”

“Officer Spencer gave you the names of five people who had mummified hands put on their doorsteps,” she said. “There were four men, and one woman. The men’s names were Clarke Tuthill, Landon Padgett, John Parsons, and Peter Matoff. I did individual searches of their names, and then did group searches, and included Grandpa. I found a link where all of them were mentioned. They were fishing buddies.”

“Were they good buddies, or just casual friends?”

“They were tight. They’re all members of the Saint Augustine Boating Club. It’s the oldest club in Saint Augustine, and has a clubhouse built from parts of an old hardware store. According to the website, annual dues used to be twenty-five cents. It’s the kind of club that Grandpa would have liked. The club holds five fishing tournaments a year to raise money for charity. Grandpa and his buddies were a team. They dressed up in identical T-shirts and fishing hats, and called themselves the Ponce de Leon Pirates. There are photos of them on the club’s site. I remember seeing them at Grandpa’s funeral. They sat together in the same pew.”

“This is fantastic, Nicki. Will you send me the link?”

“Of course. You know what’s funny? Grandpa was a real party animal. In every photo he’s either holding a beer or a cocktail.”

Lancaster wasn’t surprised. Based upon what he’d learned, there were several sides of Martin Daniels’s personality that his family hadn’t been aware of.

“Tell me about the woman,” he said.

“Her name is Dr. Angela Sircy, and she’s a heart specialist. She sits on the board of directors at Flagler Hospital, which Grandpa also sat on. I did a search of their names together, and found several photos of them. I think they were friends. I thought back, but don’t remember seeing her at Grandpa’s funeral.”

“You could have missed her. The church was packed.”

“I don’t think I would have missed her. She’s very tall and has flaming red hair. I stood with my mom and Aunt Beth by the front doors of the church, and thanked everyone for coming. Dr. Sircy wasn’t there.”

Nicki left the remark hanging. She wasn’t giving him the full story, and he said, “Maybe she was in surgery.”

“That’s the exact thing I thought.”

“Did you call Flagler Hospital to check?” he said.

“Yeah. I got bounced around, and eventually talked to a head nurse. I told her I was Dr. Sircy’s niece, and was trying to get a hold of her. The nurse said that Dr. Sircy was on sabbatical. I thought that was weird, so I found her address and phone number in the white pages, and called her pretending I was conducting a survey.”

“Did she answer?”

“She did. I addressed her by name, and she responded. When I told her I was taking a survey, she said no thanks, and hung up. I checked out her address on Google Maps. She lives right in town, and could have walked to the church. For some reason she didn’t come to Grandpa’s funeral. Strange, huh?”

“Very strange. We’ll have to talk to her, see what’s going on. This is excellent work, Nicki. Good job.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

It was hard to stay angry at someone who wanted to help, especially when they were as talented as Nicki was at running down clues. “I’ve gotten over it. Your Aunt Beth will be another story. You know how she is when it comes to following the rules.”

“Rules are meant to be broken. Isn’t that an old saying?”

“Goodbye, Nicki. Don’t forget to send me that link.”

The kitchen was empty, and he heard Beth’s footsteps from the second floor as she prepared for bed. There was enough coffee left to fill his cup. He heated it up in the microwave, and returned to his chair at the kitchen table.

As if on cue, his phone beeped. He opened Nicki’s text and tapped the link to the Saint Augustine Boat Club. Group photos of Martin and his fishing buddies filled the screen. The photos dated back several years, and were filled with good humor. It was obvious that these guys knew how to have a good time.

He sipped his coffee and studied the photos. There was a reason that Martin’s fishing buddies had been targeted by Katya’s friends to have mummified hands put on their doorsteps, and he was hoping the photos might lend a clue as to what it was.

Several things caught his attention. Martin and his buddies were in the same age bracket, early to midseventies. Dressed in shorts and T-shirts, he could see that they were all physically fit, with good muscle tone in their arms and legs. They also wore expensive watches and designer sunglasses, an indication that they had money.

Old rich guys who took care of themselves. Nothing unusual there. He sensed that there was something missing in the photos, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it might be. The site contained photos of other groups who’d entered the club’s fishing tournaments, and he studied those, hoping to fill in the blanks.

It didn’t take long for him to find the missing element. The other group photos all included females entered in the tournaments, who appeared to be matched up with the men. Based upon the women’s ages, he guessed they were either daughters or wives.

But there were no females in Martin’s group. They looked like a stag party.

He went back to the photos of the Ponce de Leon Pirates, and studied them again. This time, he looked at their hands. Martin didn’t wear a wedding ring, and neither did any of his friends.

He exited the site and stared into space. The Pirates were a group of single older men, dedicated to having a good time. There was no doubt in his mind that, like Martin, these guys had gotten caught up in a situation, and it had gotten out of control. That was a reasonable scenario, and he would go with it until a better one came along.

His mug empty, he rose from the table. He had enough information to move things forward. Martin’s buddies needed to be talked to, and with enough persuasion, he felt certain one of them would tell him what was going on. The investigation was building momentum, except now he had an anchor attached to his leg. He knew unpleasant things about Martin’s past that he needed to tell Beth without hurting her.

But what if that wasn’t possible? What if the only way to tell Beth was by being brutally honest with her? That was the easiest path, but was it the best?

He was at a loss as to what to do, and he felt awful. All he could hope was that an answer would come to him soon.

Chapter 19

Cracker Barrel Old Country Stores were actually restaurants, and enormously popular in the Sunshine State, with over fifty locations. Most were located near a major highway, their parking lots filled with RVs and well-traveled cars with out-of-state plates.

The Saint Augustine location was packed, and Daniels and Special Agent Phillips had to wait for a table. A big-haired waitress seated them and went over the breakfast specials. Erce ordered the sausage biscuit breakfast sandwich, while Daniels got the apple and cinnamon oatmeal. The waitress left, and Erce put his elbows on the table and leaned in. It was loud enough for them to have a conversation and not be overheard.

“Someone in the bureau told me that your department conducts special training seminars for Cracker Barrel employees,” he said. “Is that really true?”

She nodded. “We train the waitstaff to spot human traffickers.”

“How did you get the funding for that?”

“I convinced my boss that it was a wise investment. So far, it’s paid off.”

“Are they the only restaurants you work with?”

“We’ve worked with other chains, but we’ve gotten the best results with Cracker Barrel’s staff, so we’ve focused our energy with them,” she said.

“What makes them better?”

“Their restaurants are located near interstates. If a trafficker is moving a victim from Miami to Atlanta, chances are, he’ll stop to get a meal for himself and his victim. If he does, Cracker Barrel is often the spot. We train the employees to look for odd pairings. A girl with an older man. Or a quiet child with an overbearing adult. Is the child sad? Quiet? Staring at the table and not speaking? Those are signs that things aren’t right. We also ask them to look for electronic devices.”

“Why?”

“Traffickers don’t let their victims have cell phones or iPads. The absence of a device can be a sign of foul play.”

“Isn’t all of this hard to do while waiting tables?”

“It is hard. But Cracker Barrel has a loyal staff, and they’re mostly women with families of their own. These women have good instincts when it comes to spotting trouble, and they won’t hesitate to report it.”

Their food came. While Daniels ate her oatmeal, she gazed at the booths lining the wall of the restaurant. In one booth was a young girl accompanied by an older man. The girl wore a troubled look, and didn’t have an electronic device, unlike every other kid in the restaurant. Daniels flagged their waitress and discreetly showed her badge.

“I’m with the FBI. What’s the deal with the man and the girl in the booth?”

“I spoke to them earlier,” the waitress said. “The girl got in trouble at school yesterday, so her daddy took her cell phone away from her as punishment. She’s not happy about it.”

“You believed them?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’ve been in before.”

“Did you speak with the girl?”

“I did. She confirmed what her father said. It’s all good.”

“Thank you for being so diligent. You can never be too careful.”

“Isn’t that the truth. How’s your food?”

“It’s delicious,” Erce said.

The waitress went to take care of another table. Erce had made short work of his meal, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“You’ve got an army of spies,” he said. “No wonder J. T. likes you.”

Daniels realized she was being complimented. She didn’t know if Erce was being nice, or softening the blow for what he was about to tell her.

“Have you spoken to him?” she asked.

“He called last night,” he said. “You would think having a heart attack would slow him down, but no such luck. He’s as ornery as ever. I let his call go to voice mail, and then listened to his message.”

“Am I in hot water?”

“Why else would he be calling?” Erce retrieved a voice message on his cell phone and handed it to her. “Hit the seven on the keypad to listen.”

She did as instructed and placed the cell phone to her ear. J. T. Hacker was her boss and mentor, and had a voice as soothing as a just-awakened grizzly bear.

“This is Director Hacker, and I need to speak with you,” the recorded voice said. “I’m told that Special Agent Daniels is in Saint Augustine, interrogating the local police over her father’s death. Special Agent Daniels is perfectly within her rights if she wishes to conduct her own investigation. My concern is whether she is being accompanied by a man named Jon Lancaster. The reason I ask is, a dead Russian gangster was found in Saint Augustine with two bullets in his gut. The entry point of the bullets was within a few millimeters. That’s Lancaster’s trademark, and I’m guessing he was the shooter.

“Special Agent Daniels and I have had conversations about Lancaster before. I’ve told her in no uncertain terms that Lancaster is a liability, one that could cost Beth her job with the bureau. So far, my warnings have fallen on deaf ears. Call me to discuss.”

The message ended, and Daniels shook her head. Jon had helped her bust a trafficking ring in Tampa not long ago, and he’d broken so many laws that she’d had to whitewash her final report. J. T. had privately scolded her, knowing a lie when he read one. But he’d still signed off on the report, and she’d assumed that his issues with Jon had been forgotten. She handed the cell phone back to Erce.

“What are you going to tell him?” she asked.

“That’s why I wanted to meet. We need to come up with a story.”

His words caught her by surprise. “You’re going to lie?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Have you thought of the consequences?”

“That was the first thing I thought of,” he said. “I like my job, and I don’t want to jeopardize my career. But I’m still going to do it.”

It was not the response she’d expected. “May I ask why?”

“Because this is your family,” he said. “You have every right to get to the truth. If that means using Jon Lancaster to help you, that’s okay by me.”

“What about the other agents in your office? Are they going to lie as well?”

“They’ll do what I tell them. Now, what are we going to say?”

It took ten minutes to construct a reasonable story. They decided that Erce would tell their boss that Daniels was conducting an investigation in Saint Augustine without Lancaster’s help. Whatever Lancaster was up to, he was doing it by himself.

“Do you think J. T. will buy this?” Erce said.

“It doesn’t matter if he buys it or not,” she said. “The story covers our asses. I’m not responsible for Jon’s behavior, and neither are you. If we disavow that he’s working with me, we’ll both be in the clear.”

“I’ll buy that. Did he shoot the Russian?”

“Yes, he did. It was self-defense. I would have shot the bastard myself if I’d had the chance. Now, let me ask you a question. If Egor Sokolov is on the bureau’s watch list, then his brother Bogdan is as well. Have you run across these characters?”

“They’ve been on our radar for over a year,” he said. “They kept slipping into town through the private airport. Had a group of young women with them. Never saw them breaking any laws, so we couldn’t haul them in.”

“But you wanted to.”

“You bet. They’ve been linked to money launderers down in Fort Lauderdale named Vasilek. We figured they’re running some kind of scam up here.”

“How were you aware they were coming through the private airport?”

“Local drug dealers use the private airport to move product, so we monitor it with hidden surveillance cameras.”

“Did you capture the Sokolovs on video when they came in?”

“Sure. My laptop’s in the car. Give me a second, and I’ll go get it.”

Erce placed his laptop on the table so she could see the screen, and retrieved the surveillance videos of the Russians. They had been shot during the day, and showed the brothers exiting a twin-engine plane accompanied by three women wearing tight-fitting clothes. Their skin was dark, and they appeared to be either Mexican or Latin American.

Daniels still had the video of the wild party that Sierra had shared with her on her cell phone. The three women in that video had also been Latinas. She pulled the video up, and compared the three women to the trio on the surveillance videos.

It was a match.

She showed Sierra’s video to Erce.

“Wow,” he said. “Do you have any idea who they are?”

“They’re friends of a Russian girl named Katya, who’s involved with the Sokolovs,” she said. “Their tattoos identify them as members of the Latin Kings.”

“I’ve dealt with the Latin Kings. They don’t mix very well.”

“I know. We’re not sure what the deal is. Do you have any other videos of these girls that were taken that day?”

“I think there’s another. Let me look.”

Erce searched the library of videos stored on his laptop. He said, “Here we go,” and a new video filled the screen that showed the Latinas sharing a plastic bench. The Sokolovs stood beside them, waving their hands and talking furiously. The video had no audio, but from what Daniels could surmise, the Latinas were being lectured.

“This was taken inside the airport’s terminal,” Erce said.

“Same day as the other video?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She studied the three Latinas. They sat close to one another, their shoulders touching. In Sierra’s video, they’d acted like wild women, while in this video, they looked cornered, and a little afraid of what the Sokolovs might do to them.

“Did you watch all the surveillance videos of the Sokolovs that were taken at the airport?” Daniels asked.

“I did,” Erce said.

“How many times are these women in them?”

“Nearly all of them.”

“How often did they stay?”

“Usually two or three days.”

She resumed studying the video. The Sokolovs were taking turns berating the Latinas, who shrank beneath their verbal onslaught. The Russians were being abusive, and she was surprised the three women didn’t stand up and leave.

The video was reaching its end, and she watched as the Sokolovs ushered the Latinas out an exit door of the terminal. They were treating them like cattle, and not fellow human beings. The door closed, and the screen went dark.

She heard the air catch in her throat. Something was wrong with this picture, and it dawned on her what it was. The Latinas had no luggage or personal belongings, not even a purse. Nor did she see the rectangular bulge of a cell phone in their pants pockets.

They had no earthly possessions.

She had seen this before, and knew exactly what it meant.

They were slaves.

Chapter 20

Lancaster had no trouble finding Dr. Angela Sircy. She was old school, her address and land line phone number in the white pages, and he had the Uber driver drop him off in the street in front of her two-story clapboard house. Like many dwellings in Saint Augustine, the residence reeked of southern charm, with rocking chairs on the front porch and a hand-painted sign that said BE NICE hanging on the front door.

He lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. His reflection in the front window made him frown. His shirt was rumpled, and his hair was askew. He’d cleaned himself up before leaving, but it hadn’t lasted long. His mother had once likened him to Pig-Pen from the Peanuts comic strips, who had attracted a permanent cloud of dust wherever he went. Try as he might, he’d never been able to keep himself looking neat.

He heard shuffling feet inside the house. A teenage girl in braces answered the front door. With one hand, she held back a snarling Doberman, who looked ready to tear his head off. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any. Go away,” she said.

He flipped open his wallet and flashed his detective’s badge. “My name is Jon Lancaster, and I’m a former detective, now a private investigator. I’m working a case in town, and was hoping to speak with Dr. Angela Sircy. Is she available?”

“Can I see that?”

He handed her his wallet. In the act of taking it, she let the pooch go, and the animal jumped on his chest with his front paws and began to lick his face.

“What’s his name?”

“It’s a she. Her name’s Sheena, and she’s a pussycat.” The teen returned his wallet and reined in her dog. “Is my mom in some kind of trouble?”

“Not at all. I want to talk to her about a man she worked with at the hospital.”

She made a face. “Let me guess. This is about Martin Daniels.”

“It is. How did you know?”

“Because my mom said that one day, there would be an investigation into all the crazy stuff Martin was doing before he died. She said it was just a matter of time.”

She had called him Martin, not Dr. Daniels, suggesting a friendship.

“How well did you know him?” he asked.

“I thought I knew Martin really well,” she said. “He used to take us out on his boat, and he had us over for dinner a few times. He was an amazing cook, especially on the grill. Then it all turned to shit.” She clicked her fingers. “Just like that.”

“Did he and your mother date?”

“Yep. They were hot and heavy for a while. He even proposed to her.”

Neither Beth nor Melanie had ever mentioned that there was a woman in their father’s life, and he imagined it was yet another secret he’d been keeping from them.

“Did your mom say yes?”

Tears blurred her eyes, and she nodded. An awkward silence followed. The Dobie lay down at her owner’s feet and fell fast sleep.

“Some watchdog, huh?” The teen wiped away her tears, but her sadness didn’t go away. “My mom’s behind the house, working on her chopper. She can fill you in.”

And with that, she shut the door in his face.

There was a detached garage behind the house where a redhead wearing a long-sleeve denim shirt was working on a motorcycle with a power tool. Parts of the bike were strewn on a workbench and also on a blanket at her feet. Several of his buddies liked to work on their bikes, and they did so with a beer in one hand, and a butt in the other. Sircy took a more conservative approach, and she wore a pair of work gloves and protective goggles, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Seeing him approach, she killed the power tool and yanked off her goggles. She was in her late fifties, attractive, with a perfectly even tan that came from riding her bike on one of Florida’s endless highways.

“I’m sick of you god damn Jehovah’s Witnesses coming onto my property,” she said. “Get out of here before I sic my dog on you.”

He’d been mistaken for many things in his life, but never a religious zealot, and he promised himself that he’d ditch the clothes as soon as he could. He took out his wallet and showed his badge. “My name’s Jon Lancaster, and I’m a private investigator. Your daughter was kind enough to send me back here. I’d like to talk to you about Martin Daniels.”

“My daughter must have thought you were okay. She’s very protective.”

“She let your dog lick my face.”

“It’s a high honor. Who are you working for?”

“Martin’s daughter.”

“Which one? The nurse or the FBI agent?”

“The FBI agent. We’re trying to find out why Martin took his life, and I was hoping you might be able to fill in some blanks.”

She took a beer out of a cooler and swigged it. She was trying to play tough, but it was an act, and he watched a stream of beer escape down the side of her mouth. Martin’s death had affected her, even if she hadn’t attended his funeral.

“I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version, Jon,” she said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “I met Martin at the hospital where we worked. We dated, and I fell for him. He was erudite, charming, and handsome to boot. It couldn’t have been more perfect. Then, out of the blue, he dumped me. I never saw it coming.” Her eyes shifted to a work bench where her tools resided. On it was a framed photo of her and a smiling man sitting on a bike. It was Martin. She choked up and threw her beer at the photo, missing badly and striking the wall.

“Fuck,” she swore. “Why can’t I get over him?”

There was not enough ground to stare at. Hurting people was bad, but it was something else entirely to hurt those who loved you. Martin had done that, in spades.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, you’re not,” she snapped. “You don’t even know me. Look, this is painful. Would you mind getting the hell out of here?”

“I have a couple of questions, then I’ll go.”

“I told you everything. Please leave.”

“Why did someone put a mummified hand on your doorstep?”

Her legs turned to Jell-O. She stuck her other hand out, needing support, and he grabbed a stool from the workbench and had her sit on it. She was like a wounded animal, and filled with fear. He gave her a fresh beer from the cooler.

“I don’t want any more beer,” she said.

“Drink some anyway. It will make you feel better.”

“The voice of experience.” She took a swallow. “You were right. Thank you. To answer your question, they put a disgusting old hand on my doorstep to keep me from talking.”

“About what?”

“Martin’s problem.”

Everyone had problems, but Sircy had used the singular. He helped himself to a cold one and sat down beside her. He clinked his can against hers.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

“I really shouldn’t be talking about this,” she said.

“But you’re going to.”

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

“I’ll give you several. Two masked men broke into Martin’s house yesterday while his daughter Melanie and her family were inside. They managed to escape into a panic room. The burglars ransacked the place. They had guns.”

“My Lord. Please tell me Melanie’s family wasn’t hurt.”

“They’re fine. Now, let’s talk about Martin.”

“Do you know who these men were?”

“A pair of Russian gangsters named Bogdan and Egor Sokolov.”

She shook her head, the names unfamiliar. He pointed at the can and mimed her lifting it to her face. She gave him a wry smile.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Jon?”

“I prefer the term buzzed,” he said. “In my experience, people who are buzzed have an easier time talking about difficult subjects. Drink your beer.”

She did as told. It seemed to relax her, and she winged the empty can across the room into a garbage can without touching the rim. “You remind me of Martin. You both have an unusual sense of humor. Did you know him?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“A pity. Very well. Martin had an addiction for which he did not get help. I have to believe that it was a contributing factor to his suicide.”

“To drugs?”

She shook her head. He was going to have to pry it out of her. He hadn’t seen a lot of alcohol around Martin’s house, but maybe he was hiding it.

“He was a drunk,” he said.

“Hardly touched the stuff. There was no evidence in the house, I suppose.”

“Of what?”

“Martin was addicted to pornography. Some people find that amusing, but trust me, it’s not. Do you know what the definition of an addiction is?” He shook his head, and she said, “It’s when a choice becomes a compulsion. We can enjoy these beers, and then we’ll stop, while an alcoholic will drink until he passes out. That’s a compulsion.

“Martin’s compulsion was hardcore porn. The poor man couldn’t get enough of it. He would look at images of naked women wherever he went. He did it in restaurants, at the beach, even working at the hospital. It cost him his seat on the board.”

“You saw him doing this?”

“I did. At first, I just thought he had an unhealthy relationship with his cell phone, and made little of it. But then one day, I came up behind him, and... well, it was startling, to say the least. He couldn’t have been more embarrassed, and put his phone away.”

“He was looking at pictures?”

“It was a video of a naked couple in bed having wild sex. We were still dating, so I asked him what in God’s name had gotten into him. That’s when he confessed, and told me about his problem. I begged him to get help. He promised me that he would.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t think so. He dumped me a week after that.”

He thought back to the hidden safe in Martin’s study. There had been a laptop computer in it, and he’d been wondering what dark secrets its hard drive might contain. Now, he thought he knew. The laptop contained Martin’s library of porn.

The thought depressed him. Martin Daniels was a dirty old man, and he could only imagine the hurt this was going to cause his daughters. Losing a parent was rough, but over time, the loss was healed by memories. This situation was different. Finding out your dad was a pervert was a hurt you couldn’t wash away.

“What happened at the hospital?” he asked.

“Martin got caught, and tried to lie his way out of it,” Sircy said. “The whole thing blew up in his face, and he lost his seat on the board. It was painful.”

“How did it blow up in his face?”

“I wasn’t the only person that caught Martin looking at dirty pictures. Many of his colleagues had also caught him, but were too embarrassed to confront him. We all knew, but didn’t say anything.”

“The proverbial elephant in the room.”

“Exactly. Unfortunately for Martin, there was an intern named Demetria who was not so accommodating. Demetria was a gofer, who did odd jobs for the doctors. She was given an order of coffee for the board meeting, and she delivered it during the meeting. Martin was sitting with his back to the door with his cell phone in his lap, and didn’t hear Demetria enter the room. She got a bird’s-eye view of a video playing on Martin’s cell phone, and she let out a shriek. She went straight to the head of human resources, and filed a complaint. That’s when the shit hit the fan.”

“What did Martin do?”

“He denied it. I’ve heard it said that if you’re going to tell a lie, tell a big lie, so Martin claimed that Demetria was mistaken, and that he hadn’t been looking at his cell phone when she came in.”

“Turning it into a ‘he said, she said.’”

“Correct.”

“What tripped him up?”

“The board meetings are videotaped for there to be transparency. Martin must have forgotten the camera was rolling, because you can plainly see him take his cell phone from his lap, and flip it facedown on the table. The head of HR saw the video, and smelled a rat. She individually interviewed each board member, and the others confessed that they knew about Martin’s obsession with porn.”

“Did you?”

Sircy shook her head. “I couldn’t stick the knife in his back. I was still carrying a torch. Still am, I suppose.”

The conversation had drained both of them. He thanked Sircy for her time, and got up to leave. She pointed at his drink.

“Are you done?” she asked.

“I am,” he said.

“May I have the can?”

He handed it to her, and she performed another flip over her back that landed in the trash can on the other side of the room without so much as kissing the rim.

“That’s impressive,” he said.

“It’s an acquired skill,” she said.

Chapter 21

Catch 27 was an elevated restaurant in the heart of Saint Augustine’s historic district that served locally sourced seafood. Daniels had suggested they meet here for lunch, believing the pricy menu would keep the local cops away, and allow them to talk freely.

She sipped a glass of wine and stared into the parking lot while waiting for Jon to show up. She’d seen none of this coming. She was trained to follow her instincts, yet her instincts had failed her. Her father was a predictable man with little drama in his life, save for the holidays when he got tipsy at parties and would tell a funny story that dragged on too long, or break out in song. Those were the extent of his transgressions. Nothing in his past had prepared her for the juncture she was at now. It was almost as if she were dealing with two different people.

A car pulled into the lot. Jon got out, and the car drove away. He came inside, took a seat, and ordered a beer. After he was served, she took out a quarter, and spun it on the table.

“Call it,” she said.

“Heads,” he said.

It was heads.

“You go first,” he said.

“I met with Erce,” she said. “Our boss is hounding him, wanting to know if you’re helping my investigation. J. T. isn’t very fond of you.”

“What’s his problem? That I wear shorts most of the time?”

“Your methods bother him. The bureau constantly gets sued. If a criminal defense attorney finds out you’re helping us, it could cause problems.”

“It’s a free country. He can’t tell me what to do.”

“J. T. is convinced that you shot Egor Sokolov. The bullets that entered his body were millimeters apart. J. T. referred to that as your trademark.”

“And I thought it was my Jimmy Buffett T-shirts.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Your boss is paranoid. I’m just a retired cop.”

“With a huge following on YouTube.”

Back when he was a cop, Jon had engaged in a high-speed chase on I-95 in South Florida, forced a fleeing pickup off the road, then shot to death two armed kidnappers who were prepared to kill an innocent girl. Captured on video by a TV news chopper and posted on YouTube, the shootout had gone viral and garnered millions of views. There was a movie in the works with a well-known actor slated to play the lead. Whether he liked it or not, Jon was famous, and viewed by the public as a real-life Dirty Harry.

“What do you plan to do?” he asked.

“Erce is going to tell J. T. that you’re running your own investigation, separate from mine,” Daniels said. “I plan to tell J. T. the same thing when I speak with him. We need to keep our distance until this thing is over.”

“You’re making me feel like a leper.”

She put her hand atop his, and left it there. “I didn’t say that I wanted you to leave. Just a little separation for appearances’ sake. There’s too much at stake here.”

“I’ll do whatever you think is best.”

She removed her hand. “Thank you. I also got a bead on the Sokolov brothers. They’re human traffickers. The three women we saw in Sierra’s video were victims.”

“Are the Sokolovs pimping them?”

“Could be. Although that would fly in the face of what everyone says about the sheriff not tolerating prostitution.”

“Maybe the sheriff doesn’t know about it. What’s Katya’s role in this? Is she a victim, or also a trafficker?”

“I don’t know. She’s definitely under the Sokolovs’ thumb, which would make her a victim. So that was my morning. How did yours go?”

Jon took a long pull of beer. He was no longer making eye contact, and she sensed that he’d found something unpleasant, and was struggling with how to tell her. She gave him some time.

“Your niece tracked down the names of the victims who’d gotten hands put on their doorsteps,” he said. “Four of them were fishing buddies of your father’s. The fifth was a doctor named Angela Sircy who sat on the board of directors at the local hospital with your father. I decided to talk with her first.”

“That name’s familiar. Did she and my father date?”

“Yes, they did. She told me things about your father that caught me by surprise.”

Jon had his poker face on, and was showing no emotion. Something big and ugly was about to fall out of the sky, and Daniels suddenly wished she hadn’t touched her wine.

“Go ahead,” she said quietly.

“Sircy said that your father was addicted to pornography, and that she’d caught him looking at smut on his cell phone. She claimed others had as well. An intern at the hospital caught him and told HR. It led to him being thrown off the board.”

“Pornography? My father?”

“I said the same thing to myself.”

“Did you believe her?”

He took a swig of beer. “Not completely.”

“Why not?”

“Parts of her story didn’t ring true. Your father was single, and had all the time in the world to look at porn when no one was around. Her claim that he was doing it in public bothered me. He would know the consequences, and try to hide it.”

“Like any other addict.”

“That’s right.”

“What part of her story did you believe?”

“I think your father had images on his phone that he didn’t want people to see. That’s why his phone’s memory was erased when the police found it.”

“Images of what?”

“Our friend Katya.”

“You think they were having a relationship?”

“I do. Dr. Sircy and your father appeared to be in love. Then your father jilted her. I’m guessing that’s when Katya came into the picture. When I searched the basement of Katya’s house, I found a photograph of your father and Katya together. They looked very happy.”

“You told me you didn’t find anything in the basement.”

“I lied. I found the photograph in a hidden room. It bothered me, so I didn’t tell you right away. I’m sorry.”

Daniels bit her lower lip. This was hurting her, and she suppressed the urge to take her anger out on him. But that wouldn’t have been fair. Jon was trying to help her and protect her at the same time, and that was never easy.

“If this is true, then Katya seduced my father, and got him into a compromising situation. Then she blackmailed him, which would explain the missing money,” she said.

“Yes, it would,” he said.

“So how do we prove all of this?”

“We open the wall safe in your father’s study, and look at what’s on the hard drive of the laptop stored inside. I’m guessing there are photos of him and Katya that your father didn’t want anyone to see.”

“You already opened the safe?”

He nodded and killed his beer.

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” she asked angrily.

“Because as an FBI agent, you would have been obligated to share whatever you found on the laptop with Detective Sykes, since the investigation into your father’s death is ongoing. I didn’t want you to do that, so I kept my mouth shut.”

She slapped the table. Jon had played her like a fiddle. Like his perfect aim, it was another trademark. He’d done this before, and each time she’d nearly ended the relationship. She wondered what it said about her character that they were still together.

“Please don’t do that again,” she said.

He threw down money and rose from the table.

“Let’s go look at your father’s laptop,” he said.

Chapter 22

“Looks like we had a visitor,” Lancaster said.

He removed the business card stuck in the front door of Martin’s house. It was from the captain of the Saint Augustine Police Department’s CSI team. He flipped the card over and read the note printed on the back.

“Crap,” Beth said, reading over his shoulder. “I forgot that the police were sending a CSI team to check Dad’s study for clues. Think we should call them?”

“The Sokolovs ransacked your father’s study,” he said, tearing the card up. “What else is there to know?”

Beth unlocked the front door, and they headed upstairs. The study looked like a tornado had gone through it, with hundreds of books strewn across the floor. There was a musty odor left by the mummified hand, and he opened the double doors leading to the balcony to air the place out.

“We still don’t know the Sokolovs’ motivation for doing this,” Beth said.

“It’s the same as ours,” he said. “They wanted to look at your father’s laptop. When they realized it was locked up, they got mad, and went on a rampage.”

From his pocket he took the slip of paper with the combination.

“15, 25, 45,” he said.

Beth opened the safe and removed the laptop.

“Let’s do this downstairs,” she said. “The smell is bothering me.”

The dining room table had been in Beth’s family for three generations. They sat at the head, and Beth powered up the laptop. It was an older model Dell Latitude and made a soft purring sound as it slowly came to life.

“You didn’t explain how Nicki figured out the names of the people who got a hand dropped on their doorstep,” she said. “Don’t tell me she was hiding behind the door when Officer Spencer shared that information, and she wrote the names down.”

“Afraid so,” he said. “She ran the names through a search engine and eventually figured out how they were related to your father. She’s turned into a real cybersleuth.”

“Did my sister or her husband know?”

“I don’t think so. Nicki must have told them she was doing homework during the car ride home, when she was running down these names.”

“I really want her to stop. Any suggestions?”

“I’m not a parent. How do you stop a kid from doing something?”

“I’m going to talk to my sister. Nicki needs to be reined in.”

“Can it wait until we’re finished? She’s been a real help.”

Beth gave him a hard look. “These are dangerous people, and if they find out she’s onto them, who knows what might happen? This has to stop now.”

“Roger that.”

The laptop had booted up. On the slip of paper with the combination was a password. Maximilian$*@. Beth typed it in, and unlocked the screen.

“Max was my father’s favorite dog,” she explained. “Big old German shepherd he rescued out of a parking lot. Dog never left his side.”

The screensaver was a sunrise taken from the balcony outside Martin’s study, the glistening ocean visible just above the treetops. Beth clicked on the icon on the lower left, and a list of programs appeared. She ran the mouse over them, trying to decide which folder to open first. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m not okay,” she said.

When he was six years old, he’d walked into his parents’ bedroom and found them lying naked on the bed, having sex. Thirty-six years later, the memory hadn’t faded. If Beth found lurid videos of her father on the laptop, she’d never forget it either.

“Let me do this,” he said.

He took the laptop and slid it toward himself, positioning it so she was no longer looking at the screen. She looked ready to fall to pieces.

“I’ll let you know if I find anything of interest,” he said.

“Are you suggesting that I leave the room?”

“Isn’t that what you want to do? You don’t want to do this.”

She exhaled deeply. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, Beth, it’s that obvious. Why don’t you call Melanie, and see how she’s doing? She’s had a pretty rough time. I’m sure she’d like to hear from you.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good.”

She rose and put her hand on his shoulder. Gave him a look that said thank you. Only after she’d left the room did he start his search.

There was nothing there.

There were no incriminating images of Martin having sex with Katya, or for that matter, any other woman. What he found instead were videos of lectures by well-known academics given at the college where Martin taught. He watched snippets of each, and found them as stimulating as staring at a fly crawling up a wall.

In the folder called “Pictures” he found photographs of Martin on his boat with his fishing buddies, photos of Martin riding his motorcycle with Dr. Sircy, and a collection of photos with Martin and his daughters and granddaughter taken during the holidays. What he didn’t find was a single photo that could have been used to hurt Martin.

Not one.

He grew frustrated. If Martin was being blackmailed — and all the evidence they’d uncovered pointed to that being the case — then there were images that Martin didn’t want the world to see. That was how the extortion game worked.

So where were they? Not here. Or, had he missed something?

He decided to start over. There was a reason why Martin had locked the laptop in the wall safe, and there was a reason why the Sokolovs had torn apart the study. The laptop had things on it that Martin didn’t want anyone to see. If he looked hard enough, he would certainly find them.

“How’s it going?” Beth said, standing in the doorway.

“Nothing yet,” he said.

“No porn library, or videos of my dad having wild sex with Katya?”

Two hours had passed, and he still hadn’t found the smoking gun that would explain Martin’s erratic behavior. But he had found something odd, and he pointed at the screen. “Take a look at these, and tell me what you think.”

Beth came into the room to have a look. With the mouse, he scrolled through a dozen photos of what appeared to be a fancy bed-and-breakfast. The photos were divided between the landscaped exterior, and the establishment’s interior, including several of a lavish bedroom with a four-poster bed and a fireplace.

“What is this?” she asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me. On the bedroom wall there’s a map of Saint Augustine. I think this place is local,” he said.

“They’re just photographs. Why did they pique your interest?”

“Because there aren’t any other photos like this stored on his hard drive. Every single shot is either of him and his boating buddies, or family shots of you and Melanie and her family. These look out of place.”

“I don’t know — maybe he was thinking of buying a bed-and-breakfast. He talked about running a small business, to keep himself busy. Is that all you’ve found?”

“Yup. If your father was hiding a raunchy sex tape, it’s not here.” He shut the laptop, and Beth handed him a cold beer. She took a seat beside him at the table.

“I spoke to Melanie,” she said. “She’s going to have a long talk with Nicki. She thinks she knows how to get her to stop running her own investigation.”

“How?”

“If Nicki doesn’t quit, Melanie will pull her out of her CSI class at school as punishment. That will do the trick.”

“I like it.”

“Melanie found something strange. During the drive home, she went through my father’s mail to see if there were any bills that needed to be paid. There was a notice from the cable company confirming that my father had canceled his service.”

“Maybe he decided to cut the cord.”

“That was what Melanie first thought. But then she found a notice from the local newspaper confirming he’d canceled his subscription delivery, and another from Visa saying that he’d canceled his credit card.”

“People who plan suicides often tie up loose ends.”

“I thought the same thing. Only the police report says my father’s suicide was spur of the moment. The police came to that conclusion because Dad didn’t leave a note, and two people he spoke to that day said he was in a good mood, and not despondent.”

“I guess the police got it wrong.”

“So what do we do now? We’re back to square one.”

“We still have leads to chase down. I’d like to start with something Dr. Sircy said about a video from a hospital board meeting that shows your father watching porn, and an intern catching him in the act. We need to take a look at that video, and see what’s on it.”

“That’s a long shot. There’s no guarantee that the surveillance video captured what my father was watching.”

“I know it’s a long shot, but we still have to check it out. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and see who’s in it.”

“You think the video is of him and Katya?”

“Who else would it be?”

She gave him a tired look. It had been a long, frustrating day, and it was only half over. She took a deep breath, and he saw the resolve return to her face.

“I’m in,” she said.