Bad News Travels

Chapter 31

Lancaster walked out of the restaurant and retrieved his laptop from the trunk of Beth’s rental. When he returned to the patio, a fresh beer awaited him.

“You shouldn’t have,” he said.

“You deserve it. Now show me how we’re going to do this,” Beth said.

Her laptop sat on the table, the photo of the bedroom in the B&B with the four-poster bed and floral wallpaper they’d found on Martin’s computer on its screen.

He placed his laptop beside Beth’s, and powered it up. Taking a seat, he saluted her with his bottle and took a healthy swallow.

“I think I know what your plan is,” she said.

He worked on his beer and waited for her to finish.

“You’re going to visit the websites of the different B&Bs in Saint Augustine, and compare the photographs you find on the sites to those stored on my dad’s computer,” she said. “If you make a match, you’ll know which B&B was used to trap Sykes.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“I think your plan is flawed.”

He continued to drink and said nothing.

“Based on my own experience, most B&Bs are mom-and-pop operations, and can’t afford to build or maintain websites,” she said. “You could strike out.”

Beth didn’t know Florida the way he did. The state was the single largest tourist destination in the world, and every motel, hotel, and B&B had a presence on the internet, be it a website, Facebook page, or online booking engine.

“Bet you dinner we make the match,” he said.

“You’re on,” she said.

Using Expedia, he pulled up the names of every bed-and-breakfast in Saint Augustine. The site showed twenty-one properties that advertised themselves as B&Bs, and offered rooms and breakfast. The first listing was called the Castle Garden Bed and Breakfast, and had a design reminiscent of the structures found on miniature golf courses. Expedia did not offer a link to the Castle’s website, but Google did, and he soon was reading about its unique history. Originally a carriage house, the building dated back to the late 1800s. The last line caught his eye.

“‘Every guest is sent as a gift from God.’ What do you think that means?”

“The owners must be religious,” she said, reading along with him.

He took the virtual tour, which allowed him to zoom in and out while the video played. As the guest rooms were shown, they studied the decor.

“I didn’t see a four-poster bed or lily wallpaper,” she said.

“One down, twenty to go,” he said.

They worked their way through the other listings. There was the Victorian House, the Bayfront Marin House, Casa de Solana, the Cedar House Inn, the Historic Sevilla House, the Penny Farthing Inn, and fourteen more, all of which started to look very much the same, and none of which had a bedroom with a four-poster bed or lily wallpaper.

“You lose,” she said. “Where are you taking me to dinner?”

“We missed one.” He pointed at the screen. “The Gables Inn B&B in Palatka is not far from here. It’s listed under Saint Augustine because it’s so close.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Palatka is home to a state prison, and a jail.”

“I thought I’d heard of it. Give it a shot.”

He did a search on Google and turned up nothing. The Gables Inn didn’t have a website.

“You lose. I’m in the mood for a steak,” she said.

“Not so fast. Let’s check Yelp,” he said.

She leaned back and crossed her arms. “How could a prison town support a B&B? Who would stay there?”

He typed on his keyboard. “Family members of inmates who come to visit. When I was a cop, I visited Palatka to interview inmates who had information pertinent to cases I was working on. The local motels did a good business.”

Yelp was a home run. The Gables Inn had a listing, and he scrolled through the reviews. Most were lukewarm, with customers complaining about cold-water showers or finding cockroaches in their closets. Several posted photos of their stay. It was an old three-story Victorian house, the guest rooms decorated with dated furniture, most of which was chipped. The last photo was familiar, and he stopped.

“Bingo,” he said.

Beth leaned in. The room on the top floor boasted a scenic view of the Saint John’s River, and contained an antique four-poster bed and faded lily wallpaper. He compared the photo to the one from Martin’s computer.

They matched.

“Would you look at that,” she said.

“Want to pay them a visit?”

“After I buy you dinner?”

The inn’s number was included in the listing. A woman named Carrie answered. She had a smoky voice and sounded a little tipsy. He spun a yarn about having stayed in the room on the top floor years ago, and was it available tonight?

Carrie checked. “This is your lucky day. The honeymoon suite is presently available. Would you like me to hold it for you?”

“Please,” he said.

“How many nights?”

“Just tonight.”

She quoted him a rate of $175 for the night, which was twenty dollars higher than the rate quoted on Yelp. He gave her a credit card to hold the room and hung up.

“I just got swindled,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll expense the room,” Beth said.

He rose from his chair, and walked over to the railing to stare out at the beach. The pieces were starting to fall together, the puzzle nearly complete. There was no greater feeling during an investigation, and he realized they were nearing the end.

Beth joined him at the railing.

“This makes sense,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Sykes was too smart to hook up with a woman in Saint Augustine because he knew someone might recognize him. Palatka is a different story. It’s off the beaten path, and he could rendezvous with a woman there without fear of being caught.”

“So you think the video of Sykes that was on my father’s cell phone was secretly shot at the Gables Inn,” Beth said.

“I do.”

“The room would have been outfitted with surveillance cameras. That’s not something that can be done without the owners knowing.”

“They would have known,” he agreed.

“So they’re probably involved.”

“That’s a fair assumption.”

“But why would the owners do something like that? What would their motivation be? Sykes would have arrested them if he knew he was being filmed.”

Beth had found a glaring discrepancy. Why would the owners of the Gables Inn risk going to jail in order to film a police officer having sex with a woman on the sly? Even if the Sokolov brothers had paid them a few thousand dollars, the risk still far outweighed the reward. After a long moment, the answer came to him.

“Because they’ve done it before,” he said.

“You think the owners are filming their guests?” she asked.

“What other explanation is there?”

“But why? What’s the benefit?”

“Money.”

“Something tells me you’ve encountered this before.”

“I have. A sleazy motel owner in Fort Lauderdale secretly filmed his guests. It was a big money maker for him. I’ll explain it to you during the drive. What’s for dinner?”

“It will have to be fast food. Does something good and greasy strike your fancy?”

“Now you’re talking,” he said.

Chapter 32

Zaxby’s Chicken Fingers and Buffalo Wings was a fast food chain that had only just started making it out of the southeast. That was strange, because the food was decent, and the owners had a thing for John Wayne, with one of the late actor’s famous quotes hanging on the wall when you walked in. LIFE IS HARD, LIFE IS HARDER WHEN YOU’RE STUPID.

They shared a chicken finger plate and an order of boneless wings and things. Wiping her fingers with a towelette, Daniels started the engine and backed out. According to her phone’s GPS, Palatka was a twenty-five-minute drive.

“Tell me about this motel owner who was secretly filming his guests,” she said. “He must have been a real sleazeball.”

“He was,” Jon said, sucking down his iced tea. “His name was Grady Cox, and he owned a fleabag motel called the Sand Dollar. Grady was on a first-name basis with every hooker in town, and rented his rooms by the hour to them. The city finally wised up, and made it illegal to book a room for less than twenty-four hours.”

“He got a law changed. What a pioneer.”

“Grady fell on hard times. He needed a new source of income, or he would go out of business. One of his big money makers came from guests renting porno movies, which generated several thousand dollars a week. Problem was, he had to split the money with Hustler and Playboy, which produced the movies.”

“What was the split?”

“Eighty/twenty, with Grady getting twenty.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“Grady felt the same way, so he decided to film his guests on the sly, and later rent the videos to his customers.”

“How did he know they’d be having sex? They might just get drunk, and fall asleep.”

“He only turned the cameras on for couples on their honeymoon.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“I agree. The videos were a huge hit. The problem with porn is that the actors are faking their emotions, and the action feels forced. Grady’s videos were the real thing; his customers couldn’t get enough of them. They would often rent the entire collection during their stay.”

“What tripped him up?”

“A couple named Nate and Nancy Lovejoy.”

“Is that their real name?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Go on.”

“The Lovejoys got married as teenagers, and took a cruise out of Fort Lauderdale for their honeymoon. The night before they departed, they stayed at the Sand Dollar. Five years later, they took another cruise, and stayed at the Sand Dollar again. They rented a video from the front desk called Hot Teens in Love. Guess who the stars were.”

“Nate and Nancy Lovejoy.”

“They went straight to the police. I was working the graveyard shift that night. They came into the station house in their pajamas.”

“Were they traumatized?”

“Absolutely. They were virgins when they got married. That video was the first time they’d ever had sex, and it was pretty wild.”

“You saw it?”

“Everyone in the station house saw it.”

“Poor kids.”

“We busted Grady the next day. He had quite an operation going. Every room in the Sand Dollar had a camera hidden in the ceiling, or behind a two-way mirror. We confiscated two hundred videos he’d made without his customers’ consent.”

“What a bastard.”

“Now here’s the interesting part, and why I brought this up in the first place,” he said. “After Grady’s arrest, his lawyer tried to cut a deal with the district attorney. If the state went light on Grady, the lawyer said that Grady would give us the name of the guy who outfitted his motel with the cameras.”

“What value was there in that?”

“The lawyer said that the guy had approached Grady with the idea. He claimed this guy had outfitted motels and B&Bs all over the state of Florida, and that the practice of secretly filming guests having sex was widespread.”

“Did you believe the lawyer?”

“We did. Grady was as dumb as a rock. He didn’t have the brains to conceive a scam on his own. The guy lived in Miami. We busted him a week later at his office. Someone told him we were coming, and he set his records on fire so we couldn’t get the names of the places he’d outfitted. He pleaded guilty and did eighteen months.”

“And you walked away knowing that there were motels and B&Bs in Florida that were in the porn business. Do you think the Gables Inn was one of them?”

“I do.”

“Based upon what? And don’t tell me your gut, because I’ll make you pay for dinner.”

“The Gables Inn fits the profile that I drew up. The guy was outfitting a motel in Miami called the Pink Flamingo when we arrested him. The Pink Flamingo was similar to the Sand Dollar in several ways. It was privately owned and barely making ends meet. The owners had also rented to hookers before the cops made them stop.”

“So your profile is a privately owned motel that’s struggling to get by with owners who will break the law to stay afloat.”

“That’s it.”

“If all of this is true, how do the Sokolovs fit into the picture?”

“This scam is well known in Florida. I’m guessing the Sokolovs heard about it, and looked around Saint Augustine for a B&B that had been outfitted. They found the Gables Inn, and struck a deal with the owners to secretly record Sykes.”

Jon’s logic was spotless. But that didn’t mean the owners of the Gables Inn would play ball with them. A sign announced that Palatka was five miles ahead.

“We need to find the hidden camera in the honeymoon suite, and pressure the owners into talking,” he said. “It shouldn’t be too hard.”

“But what if the honeymoon suite’s been stripped clean, and the camera’s gone?” she asked, hearing the doubt creep into her voice. “What then?”

“The camera’s still there,” he said confidently. “They’re not going to stop doing something that’s making money. Even if it is illegal.”

Chapter 33

A pair of copper statues of World War I soldiers greeted them as they crossed a bridge and entered Palatka’s downtown. It was growing dark, and the town had shut down for the night, the sidewalks deserted, with only a handful of cars.

The Gables Inn was on a side street that ran parallel to the river. A drive-by revealed a three-story house with faded paint and sagging gutters. It had once been pleasing to look at, but time and the elements had robbed it of its charm.

Beth parked on the next block and let the engine idle.

“So what’s our story going to be?” she said.

“Want to pretend we’re on our honeymoon?” he said.

She gave him a tiny smile. “Haven’t you heard? Marriages between law enforcement officers never last. Let’s just say we’re vacationing together.”

On their first date, they’d discussed why neither of them were married, even though they’d both been in long-term relationships with partners they’d liked. They’d come to the conclusion that they both put their work first, which made a permanent commitment difficult, if not impossible.

“Works for me,” he said. “Since I spoke to the manager, let me do the talking.”

“How do we explain our lack of luggage?”

He gave it some thought. People in the hospitality industry were wise to cops, and the absence of luggage would raise a red flag.

“I’ll tell the manager that the airline lost our luggage,” he said.

“That should work.”

They returned to the B&B. A sign on the lawn said PARK IN BACK OR GET TOWED. A narrow driveway led to a cleared area where Daniels parked.

“Not very hospitable, are they?” she said.

They walked around to the front and climbed the steps. The house had a wraparound porch where a half dozen cats were hanging out. Lancaster tried the front door, found it locked, and pressed the buzzer. Through the glass he spied a middle-aged woman with big hair manning the front desk. Her eyes were focused on something behind the counter that he guessed was either a small TV or a surveillance monitor. When she didn’t respond, he pressed the buzzer again and kept his finger down.

“That’s rude,” Beth said.

“Would you prefer I kick the door open?”

The big-haired woman snapped awake, as if from a deep slumber. She unlocked the front door with a practiced smile on her face. “You must be Jon. I’m Carrie, like the horror movie.” She laughed at her own joke. “Welcome to the Gables Inn.”

Carrie checked them in. Lancaster made sure to hide the detective’s badge attached to his wallet as he pulled out his credit card. Everything was going splendidly until Carrie asked what brought them to Palatka.

“We’re here on vacation, thought we’d see the sights,” he said.

Carrie eyed him. Most of her guests were either visiting an inmate at the prison, or did business with the prison, and weren’t tourists. He’d said the wrong thing.

“No luggage?” Carrie asked.

“The airline lost our bags,” he explained.

She bit her lower lip, clearly uneasy. He needed to calm her down.

“I should have listened to the guy checking in before me,” he said.

“Come again?”

“He had three pieces of luggage. He told the ticket agent that he wanted the blue suitcase to go to Houston, the black suitcase to go to Chicago, and the green suitcase to go to Los Angeles. The ticket agent said, ‘We can’t do that, sir.’ And the guy said, ‘You did it the last time I flew this crummy airline.’”

Carrie slapped the counter. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Would you by chance have a couple of toothbrushes and some toothpaste we can borrow?”

“I’m sure I can rustle them up.”

“Thank you. You’ve very kind.”

Carrie opened a drawer filled with room keys. While she searched for the key to their suite, he glanced at the reflection in the window behind her. Beneath the counter was a video monitor hidden from the customers’ view. The monitor was a matrix, and had four black-and-white screens. Based upon a quick glance, the screens appeared to rotate between cameras outside the property, and some inside as well. She fished out the right key and shut the drawer. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she called out, “Hey, Dalton, I’m going upstairs to show these folks their room. I need you to cover for me.”

There was no response. Carrie whipped out a cell phone and made a call. “It would take hell and high water to tear that boy away from his video games,” she said. Into the phone, she said, “It’s me. I need you to man the desk.” She made a face. “I don’t care how many points you’re about to score. Get the hell out here.”

She disconnected and shook her head. “I don’t know what’s worse. His pot smoking or those damn video games.”

“Your son?” he asked.

“The one and only.”

Dalton appeared. Lancaster was expecting a skinny teenager with bad skin, not a hulking thirtysomething in a sleeveless T-shirt. Dalton’s eyes, which were mud brown, scanned his guests as if they were standing in a police lineup.

“Where’s their luggage?” he asked suspiciously.

“The airline lost it,” his mother said. “I’ll be right back.”

The stairs leading to the third floor were carpeted and groaned beneath their weight. On the second floor landing they stopped to let Carrie catch her breath.

“Damn job’s going to kill me,” she lamented.

The journey to the third floor was also a struggle, and again she had to stop.

“I should never have stopped running,” she said.

“Why did you?” Beth asked.

“Because the ice cubes kept flying out of my drink.”

She shrieked with laughter. It was an old joke, but Lancaster laughed along anyway. She went to the door at the hallway’s end and jammed the key into the lock.

A quick tour of the honeymoon suite followed. The room looked the same as it had on Martin’s laptop, right down to the bedspread. Carrie avoided mentioning the water stains in the ceiling, or the musty smell. Finished, she presented him with the key.

“I’m sure you folks would enjoy a little privacy,” she said. “Come downstairs later, and I’ll rustle up toothpaste and brushes for you.”

“Much appreciated,” he said.

She left, and he chained the door and found the remote. Powering up the TV, he found a twenty-four-hour news network, and jacked the volume up. Then he parked himself on the edge of the bed. The mattress sagged as Beth sat beside him.

“I spotted a video monitor beneath the counter when she was checking us in,” he said in a low voice.

“You think they’re spying on us?” Beth asked.

“I don’t know, but I think we need to assume that they are. I think we should stay here for a few minutes, and act like lovebirds. Then I’ll go downstairs and distract them while you search the room for hidden cameras. Sound like a plan?”

“I’m in. I don’t like the looks of her son. He’s a mean one.”

“I’ll take care of him if he acts up.”

“You enjoy dealing with guys like that, don’t you?”

He smiled and nodded. He’d been picked on as a kid, and had a chip on his shoulder when it came to dealing with brutes and bullies.

“Thank you for being here for me,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me until we’re done. Then we’ll party.”

She placed her hand against his chin, and kissed him on the lips. It caught him by surprise, and he raised his eyebrows in question.

“Just acting like lovebirds,” she said.

Chapter 34

They smooched like a couple of high school kids on a hot date. Jon wasn’t much to look at, but he was a great kisser, and it let Daniels forget things for a little while. When they came up for air, he said, “I’d like to rip your clothes off.”

“What’s stopping you?” she asked.

“I’d hate to later see it on video after these people get arrested.”

“Fair enough. How about a rain check?”

“Now you’re talking. I’m going downstairs to engage Carrie and her son,” Jon said. “Don’t start looking for the hidden camera until I text you.”

She heard the whistle, and knew something was worrying him.

“Dalton bothers you, doesn’t he?” she said.

“He was suspicious of us from the start. I think he knows we’re the law.”

“But how? We’re not dressed like cops.”

“Do you know how many guys in Florida have done time? Over a million. Some get reformed, but most don’t. One of the things they learn in the joint is how to avoid getting caught the next time they break the law. That includes how to spot a cop.”

“Then maybe we should leave. I’ll call the Jacksonville office for backup, and we can come back tomorrow, and bust them.”

“If we leave now, Dalton will know for sure that we’re the law. That will give him time to destroy any incriminating evidence on his hard drive. I vote we stay.”

Jon was never one to run from a fight. He wanted to get to the bottom of what was going on as much as she did, and she gave him another soulful kiss. It caught him by surprise, and he blushed.

“Just in case they’re watching,” she explained.

As Lancaster came downstairs, he spied an older couple checking in. He knew they were from up north because they were dressed in jeans and long-sleeve shirts, and looked uncomfortably warm. By tomorrow they’d be wearing Bermuda shorts and T-shirts, and showing a lot of milky-white skin.

He stepped aside as they dragged their suitcases up the stairs.

“Nice place?” the husband asked.

“So far,” he said.

He approached the front desk. Carrie was typing the couple’s credit card information into a computer and paid him no attention; there was no sign of Dalton.

“I’ll be right with you,” she said.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. By staring in the reflection in the window behind her, he was able to see the video monitor hidden below. The matrix of surveillance cameras followed the couple as they entered a room on the second floor.

“All done. So you must be looking for those toothbrushes.” She removed a pair of cheap toothbrushes and a tiny tube of Crest from a drawer, and handed them to him. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“Actually, I could use a little help,” he said. “I got lost looking for the Ravine Gardens State Park earlier today. I kept following the Saint John’s River, but ended up lost. We’d like to go there tomorrow, and check it out. Can you help?”

“That’s because the Saint John’s flows north,” she said. “It’s one of a handful of rivers in the country that does that. Bet you didn’t know that.”

The truth be told, he did know that. He also knew that tourists regularly got lost following the river, since they assumed it flowed south like most rivers did.

“That’s amazing,” he said.

“Palatka used to be a major port city, and had the most beautiful hotels in the country until a fire burned them all down. Bet you didn’t know that either.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Let me close out my computer, and I’ll show you the right way.”

As she shut her computer down, Lancaster removed his cell phone from his pocket. Holding it below the counter, he texted Beth the all clear.

They went outside and stood on the front porch. The night air was cool and crisp, and Carrie gave a little shudder. She lifted her hand and pointed.

“The park is a little over a mile away. There are three ways to get there. You can take River Street, or you can take Kirby Street, or you can take Crill Avenue, which is about a half mile longer, and will take you past the elementary school.”

“Which route is the most scenic?”

“River Street. It takes you right past the Saint John’s River. If you leave early enough, you can catch the rowing club out for their morning exercises.”

“Can we walk it?”

“Sorry. There’s no sidewalk.”

One of Florida’s great mysteries was the absence of sidewalks or walking paths on its roads. Environmentalists claimed the auto industry had engineered this in an effort to force people to drive cars, but he suspected it was due to the state’s sheer enormity.

“How early does the rowing club come out?” he asked.

“They start at seven and quit right around nine, before it gets too hot.”

“I think we’ll take River Street.”

She gave him directions. Left, right, left, right.

“Do you know what time the gardens open for visitors?” he asked.

“It’s open from nine to five, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”

Enough time had passed for Beth to have cased the suite and found the hidden camera. He thanked Carrie for her help, and they went back inside to the lobby.

Dalton was kneeling behind the front desk, his eyes glued to the video monitor beneath the counter. He wore black leather and looked like a character out of Mad Max. The expression on his face was best described as murderous.

“I thought you were going out for a spin on your motorcycle,” Carrie said.

“Change of plans.” Dalton lifted his gaze and stared at Lancaster. “The room not to your liking?”

“It’s fine,” Lancaster said. “I was just asking Carrie for directions to the Ravine Gardens State Park. My girlfriend and I want to visit it tomorrow.”

“Sure you were.”

Dalton stood up and drew a handgun from his jacket pocket. His draw was lightning fast, and caught Lancaster by surprise as the weapon was aimed at him.

“You came downstairs to distract my mother so your partner could search the suite,” Dalton said. “I’m watching her on the monitor right now. I knew you were cops the moment I laid eyes on you. Put your hands in the air.”

Lancaster obeyed. Carrie frisked him and dropped three small handguns onto the counter. Dalton’s eyes grew wide.

“Who the fuck carries three guns?” he asked.

Dalton made him sit in the swivel chair behind the counter. Carrie pulled a large handgun out of a safe, and pointed it at him.

“Shoot him if he does anything stupid,” Dalton said.

“You bet I will,” his mother said.

“I’m going upstairs to deal with his lady friend.” Dalton headed for the stairs. As he started to go up, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Lancaster.

“Three guns? Why do you need three guns?”

“You can never be too careful,” Lancaster said.

“I’ll remember that,” he said, and vanished up the stairs.

Chapter 35

After Jon left, Beth turned off the overhead lights, kicked off her shoes, and lay on the bed with her head propped up on the pillows. If she was being spied upon, then she needed to play the part of a tourist, and not arouse any suspicion.

She found the remote and began to surf. She spent little time watching TV, her spare hours devoted to exercise and working cold cases. The shows that flicked by were foreign to her, the fresh-faced actors all strangers.

There were several hundred channels, and as she got up into the higher numbers, she found dozens devoted to porn. They featured every conceivable sexual partnering, and had movie-inspired names like Forrest Hump, The RawShank Rehumption, and Driving Miss Daisy (into a headboard). The sheer volume made her suspicious.

The last was Shaving Private Ryan. The promo copy boasted of a young soldier with his hot bride, the sex as wild as anything you’ve ever seen. Now sitting on the edge of the bed, she hit the “Pay” button.

The video began to play. A skinny kid in an army uniform, his bride in a frilly dress. Neither looked older than twenty. They ripped off their clothes and went at it.

The sex was frantic and didn’t feel staged. They were really in love, and it came through with every pant and pelvic thrust.

She studied the room they were making love in. It was nicely appointed, with an ornate headboard and lots of antique furniture. Not a hotel room, more likely a private residence, or a B&B.

She sampled several other videos in the collection. She watched an interracial couple perform oral sex in a bedroom with a beautiful view of the ocean, an older couple make love missionary style in a room with a chandelier and wall sconces, and two athletic men get it on in a room with French doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking a courtyard with a bubbling fountain. As part of her job, she watched a fair amount of porn, and she knew when someone was going through the motions and faking an orgasm. These folks weren’t faking.

She killed the picture. Was that the scam? Were different B&Bs secretly filming their customers, and sharing the videos? People who liked porn consumed a lot of it, often in one sitting. A library this big would generate huge revenue.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. If different B&Bs were sharing porn, there might very well be a video of her father having sex with Katya that was out there. She tried to block it out of her thoughts, and found that she couldn’t.

“God damn it, Daddy,” she said under her breath. She wanted this to be over, but knew that it would never truly be over. The truth — whatever it turned out to be — would be painful, and would stay with her forever. The great memories of her father from childhood would be replaced by images he’d so indiscreetly left behind.

And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

Her cell phone vibrated. It was Jon.

All clear, his text read.

She hopped off the bed and started her search. There were two places to hide a camera — in a ceiling light fixture, or behind a two-way mirror. Ceiling cameras could be bought online and were easy to install, and therefore more common to find.

The honeymoon suite had a desk with a sturdy wood chair. She slid the chair beneath the light fixture in the room’s center, and stood on it. The fixture screamed Pottery Barn and had a hundred glass petals. She examined each one, looking for a hidden fisheye camera. After a few minutes she decided the fixture was clean, and jumped down.

The room had two mirrors. One over the desk, the second over the vanity. She started with the mirror over the desk, and she lifted it off the wall and placed it on the bed. There was a large water stain on the wallpaper, but no camera. She replaced it.

Next was the mirror over the vanity with a carved wood frame. When she tried to take it down, she encountered resistance. The mirror was stuck to the wall with adhesive, which was odd. Why hang the mirror over the desk, and attach the mirror over the vanity?

From her purse she removed a Swiss Army knife. It had seventeen different functions, including a locking screwdriver, a wire stripper, and a two-point-five-inch double-cut wood saw. She’d gotten it after graduating from the academy. It had been a present from her dad.

She opened the wood saw and locked it into place. She dug the saw’s tip into the adhesive at the mirror’s corner, and began to saw away. It was slow going, and after a minute she was forced to stop to shake away the cramping in her fingers.

But she didn’t quit. There was no doubt in her mind that behind the vanity was a hidden camera. Once she found it, she would bust Carrie and her brutish son, and turn their lives into a living hell.

It took another minute to cut away a small section of adhesive. She was growing impatient, and she gently pulled the mirror back a few inches. Placing her cheek against the wall, she stared behind it with one eye.

“Yes,” she said.

There was a hollowed-out section with a camera pressed against the mirror, just as she’d suspected. A red light was flashing, indicating the camera was filming. She shuddered, and backed away.

She’d been caught in the act.

She grabbed her purse off the bed and removed her cell phone. She needed to send Jon a text, and alert him to the danger.

She felt a breeze, and looked up. Dalton had silently entered the honeymoon suite with a house key, and was pointing a gun at her.

A long moment passed.

“You’re a cop,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Daniels said.

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Ordinary people scream when you point guns at them. Cops don’t. They play it cool, and try to talk their way out of it. You’re a stinking cop.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you came here to arrest us, and I’m not going to let you do that. Open your purse and empty it on the bed. Nice and slow.”

She did as told.

“Now kneel, and put your hands behind your head.”

Again she obeyed.

Dalton jammed his gun behind his belt, and sifted through her things. He ignored the pepper spray in the small, stainless steel container, possibly thinking it was perfume. He pulled her ID from her wallet, and whistled through his teeth.

“FBI. Wow.”

“You want to talk this over?” she asked.

“Talk what over? You don’t have any chips in the game.”

“You planning to kill me?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“The bureau doesn’t take it well when one of their agents is murdered. They’ll come after you, and they’ll do it hard. I’ll cut you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“A detective from Saint Augustine named Sykes was secretly filmed in this suite having sex. If you tell me who was behind that, we’ll go light on you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll talk to the prosecutor, and ask that you get probation for helping me. You won’t spend a day in prison. Come on, Dalton, work with me.”

“You can’t guarantee that, and you know it.”

“I’ll fight for you.”

He laughed silently at her, his eyes dark and soulless.

“I’m going to make you suffer, just like your partner,” he said.

Something inside her snapped.

“What did you do to Jon?” she said.

Carrie leaned against the counter to wait. She used both hands to hold her weapon.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said.

“Does that thing have a safety?” he asked.

“Hell, no. A safety on a gun will only slow you down. I learned that in my first concealed weapons permit class. Safeties are for wimps.”

“I guess that makes me a wimp, then.”

“Do your guns have safeties?”

“You bet. I don’t want one accidentally going off, and shooting someone when I’m out in public. Whoever told you that about safeties was an idiot.”

“You’re just afraid I’m going to shoot you.”

“You have no reason to shoot me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’re looking to cause trouble. That’s enough reason for me.” She reached beneath the counter and touched a control on the monitor. The picture changed, and they both watched Dalton enter the honeymoon suite and draw his weapon. Beth emptied her purse on the bed, then sank to the floor with her hands on her head.

“Looks like he’s going to shoot her,” Carrie said.

Lancaster swallowed hard. “Why?”

“He did time in prison, swore to me he’d never go back.”

“He’d kill a person for that?”

“Damn straight.”

He jumped up, turning sideways as he did. She pumped a bullet into the chair’s upholstery, missing him by inches. He grabbed her wrists and twisted them so the gun’s barrel was pointed at the floor. She got off another round, which sounded like a cannon going off. They wrestled, and he pulled her down and brought his knee up into her face. It produced the desired effect, and the gun fell from her hands and her eyes rolled back into her head. He couldn’t tell if she was out cold, or faking it, and he put her down on the floor and placed his foot on the back of her head and kept it there.

He looked at the monitor, fearing the worst. Beth was standing, and holding what looked like a lipstick in her hand. She used it to spray Dalton in the face with a foreign substance that he guessed was pepper spray, causing Dalton to hold his face in agony.

Make the bastard pay, he thought.

Carrie let out a pitiful groan. “I can’t breathe.”

He pulled her off the floor. Blood soiled her face and ran down her chin. He pulled a tissue from a box and gave it to her. She tore it in half and plugged her nostrils. It made her look grotesque.

“You broke my nose,” she said.

“Be thankful I didn’t break your neck,” he said.

A loud noise interrupted their conversation. The couple who’d just checked in came barreling down the stairs with their luggage, and hustled past them.

“You folks have a nice night,” he said.

The front door slammed shut. Carrie had started to sob. He handed her another tissue and saw that her face was starting to swell. Carrie pointed at the monitor.

“What is she doing?” she asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look.”

He shot a glance at the monitor. Dalton was on his knees, his head rocking from Beth’s ferocious blows. He wondered what Dalton had said to provoke her.

“Make her stop,” she pleaded.

“How do you expect me to do that?”

“Call her! She’s going to hurt him.”

He called Beth on his cell phone. On the monitor she paused, and started to answer the call. Seeing his chance, Dalton struggled to his feet. Beth grabbed a brass lamp off the nightstand, and smashed it into his skull, then used the lamp to beat him some more. Dalton went into a fetal curl and didn’t move. The punishment was over the top, and bordered on sadistic. It wasn’t the Beth he knew at all.

“She’s killing him,” Carrie wailed.

“Sure looks that way,” he said.

Chapter 36

It wasn’t long before the inn’s remaining guests departed, the sound of Dalton getting the daylights beat out of him too much to bear. One couple stopped at the front desk to make an inquiry. They were Asian and appeared to have just rolled out of bed.

“Can you recommend a place not so noisy?” the husband asked.

“Try the Microtel off I-95 south of here,” Lancaster suggested.

The couple left. On the monitor, Dalton lay unconscious on the floor. Beth stood over him holding a glass of water, which she poured onto his face. Dalton blinked awake. Seeing Beth hovering over him, he lifted his arms in surrender.

“See, he’s not dead,” Lancaster said encouragingly.

“But he’s hurt. Look at him,” Carrie moaned.

“He’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.”

Dalton struggled to get up, and appeared to be in distress. Unfazed, Beth pointed at the door, then kicked him in the ass for good measure. They walked out of the picture. Moments later, Lancaster heard them coming down the stairs. He was going to have to get Beth alone, and confront her. She had stepped way over the line.

They came into the lobby, single file. Seeing him, Beth halted, and brought her hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“He told me he’d shot you,” she said.

Then, she kicked Dalton in the ass again.

Carrie rose from her chair, and attempted to comfort her son. Dalton’s mouth was a bloody mess, and one of his front teeth was chipped. She shot Beth the evil eye.

“Look at me like that again, and I’ll cuff you,” Beth said.

Carrie led her son to the swivel chair, and helped him sit down. She balled up several tissues, and pressed them gently against his busted lip. Dalton stared sullenly at the floor, and seemed to be weighing his options. If he cooperated with them, he might avoid serious prison time. If not, he’d spend a long stretch behind bars.

“Are you going to play ball with us?” Lancaster asked.

“Yeah, I’ll play ball,” Dalton said.

“How long have you been filming your guests without their knowledge?”

“About ten years. Another B&B owner approached us with the idea. Said it was a real money-maker.”

“What’s his name?”

“Lynch. That’s what everybody calls him. I don’t know his first name.”

“Was Lynch secretly filming his guests?”

“Yeah. Lynch was part of a network. He couldn’t rent the films taken in his place to his guests because they might recognize the furniture, so he shared them with the network. In return, he borrowed films from the network, and rented them to his guests.”

“Are you part of the network?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How much money does this generate for you?”

Dalton looked to his mother for help.

“It’s a third of our revenue,” Carrie said.

“There are close to forty pornographic videos for rent on the cable TV in our room,” Beth said. “Did they all come from the network?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dalton said.

He was being respectful, which was usually a good sign. Lancaster pulled a can of soda from the minifridge behind the desk, and gave it to him.

“Put that on your lip. It will bring down the swelling.”

“Right.”

“How many B&Bs are part of the network?” Beth asked.

“I don’t know,” Dalton said.

“How can you not know? You’re in business with them.”

“I’m in business with Lynch. I don’t know the others.”

“Explain how the deal works.”

“Lynch has a password-protected site with a video library. For every video a member contributes, they can borrow one for free. I never checked how many other B&Bs were involved.”

Dalton’s answer didn’t ring true. He was a criminal, and had to know that it wasn’t smart to enter into a criminal enterprise without knowing your partners.

“I think you’re lying to us,” Beth said.

“May God strike me dead if I am,” he said piously.

The conversation had stopped being productive. Lancaster decided to try a different tack, and said, “Explain the deal with Sykes to us.”

“Sure,” Dalton said. “About a year ago, two Russian brothers rented a room. The next morning over breakfast, they pulled me aside, and said they knew that we were secretly videotaping guests. They told me that they wanted to videotape a guy with a girl, and blackmail him. They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so I agreed.”

“Was their name Sokolov?” Lancaster asked.

Dalton thought about it. “I think so.”

“How did they know your inn had hidden cameras? Who told them that?”

Dalton’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He had tripped himself up, and was scrambling to come up with an answer that wouldn’t get him in any more trouble.

“They must have discovered the cameras on their own,” he said weakly.

“Wait a second. The vanity mirror in my room was glued to the wall,” Beth said. “I had to use a saw knife to pry it loose. Are you telling us that the Sokolovs cut a mirror in their room away from the wall, and found the camera?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you know! You would have found the mirror when you had the room cleaned later that day. You’re lying to us.”

“I’m not sure how they knew.”

“Did Lynch tell them?”

“He could have. Come to think of it, that’s probably how they knew.”

Dalton gave them a sheepish look, as if that would put an end to the questions. Beth slapped her hand on the counter, and he jumped out of his chair.

“Is Lynch working with the Sokolovs?” she asked. “Are they using the B&Bs in the network, and blackmailing people?”

“Beats me.”

“What are you afraid of, Dalton? That Lynch will find out that you gave him up? Let me tell you something, my friend. That is the least of your worries right now.”

Beth wasn’t seeing the big picture. Dalton’s problem wasn’t with Lynch; it was with the other B&B owners who were part of the network. If they found out that Dalton had squealed, they might seek revenge. Dalton was going to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, and it scared him.

“I want a lawyer,” he mumbled.

“That’s not going to help you,” Beth said.

The can of soda slipped out of Dalton’s fingers, and fell between his feet.

“Shit,” he swore.

He bent over to retrieve it. As his left hand picked up the can, his right went under the chair. His mother stood with her back pressed to the window, giving her son a clear shot at their visitors in the event he decided to make a last stand.

Guys like Dalton watched too many cop shows, and too many action movies. Through endless exposure, they’d been brainwashed into believing that when things got rough, they could blast their way out. It was bad advice, but they believed it anyway.

Dalton tore away the gun attached to the bottom of his chair. Then he sat up straight. His eyes stared at the barrel of the gun in his face.

Before Dalton could get off a round, Lancaster shot him dead.

Chapter 37

Daniels went to the second floor and knocked on doors.

“Anyone home?” she called out.

No answer. She visited the third floor and repeated the ritual. The inn’s guests had cleared out. Which was exactly what she had hoped for.

She spent a moment composing herself before heading downstairs. She had thought Dalton had shot Jon, and that her boyfriend was dead. Finding Jon alive had been like being hit by a cattle prod. It had jolted her in a way she’d never been jolted before.

She went to the first floor. Jon and Carrie were behind the counter, standing next to Dalton, who was sprawled dead in the swivel chair. His mouth was catching flies, his eyes open in disbelief. Jon was forcing Carrie to look at him, and accept the reality of the situation. It was an old cop trick, designed to bring a suspect to their knees.

Beth locked the front door, and lowered the shade. If they were going to get Carrie to talk, they needed privacy, without intrusions. She went into the living room.

“Ready when you are,” she said.

Jon led Carrie into the living room, and had her sit in a wingback chair. Carrie was sobbing, and holding her head with her hands.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” Jon asked.

“I didn’t know there was a gun under the chair,” she blubbered.

“Of course you did.”

“I swear I didn’t.”

“You’re lying.” Jon knelt down, and spoke in her ear. “Do you think I wanted to shoot your son? Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I didn’t, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

The first time they’d dated, Jon had confided to her the number of people he’d shot to death in his life. As a Navy SEAL, as a police officer, and now as a private citizen, he’d been forced to use deadly force many times, and the body count was high. Each time had been justified, but that hadn’t made the task any easier.

“Look at me,” he said.

Carrie gazed at him. The tissue was gone from her nose, her nostrils caked red.

“The gun was taped beneath your chair, ” he said.

“I didn’t know it was there,” she said emphatically.

“Are you saying that Dalton put it there without you knowing?”

“He must have.”

“You led your son to that chair, and had him sit down. Then, you stood with your back against the window so he’d have a clean shot. You knew the gun was there, and you knew what your son was going to do. That makes you an accomplice to attempted murder. You’re going down hard, Carrie.”

“No!”

“Do you like air conditioning? Well, you can kiss it goodbye, because the state prisons in Florida don’t have any. You’re going to spend the rest of your life roasting to death. Sorry, my friend. But that’s the way it is.”

There was an art to putting the screws to a suspect, and Jon had the routine down pat. Carrie shrank in her chair and balled her hands into fists. She was about to cave, and help them.

“My son was running the show,” Carrie said.

“How so?” Jon said.

“My son was evil. He slapped me around when he got liquored up, so I did whatever he wanted.”

“He was abusing you.”

“Yes. He was a monster.”

Dalton hadn’t been dead ten minutes, yet Carrie was already throwing her beloved boy under the bus. Jon had done his job; now Daniels needed to close the deal. She pulled up a chair and sat beside their suspect.

“Let me help you, Carrie, ” she said.

Carrie looked into Daniels’s face and waited.

“You shouldn’t be punished for your son’s transgressions,” Daniels said. “But right now, things don’t look good. You need to play ball with us. Will you do that?”

“What do you mean, play ball?”

Daniels leaned in. Their legs were nearly touching, and she could smell Carrie’s fear pouring off her skin. It had a stinky odor, like rotting garbage.

“Your son filmed a police detective having sex with a woman,” Daniels said. “His name was Sykes, and this film was used to blackmail him. Were you aware of this?”

Carrie said that she was.

“Two Russian brothers named Sokolov talked your son into doing this,” she said. “We want you to tell us what the arrangement was.”

“You mean the payment?” Carrie asked.

“That would be a good place to start.”

“They gave my son five thousand dollars up front, and five thousand dollars when he emailed the film to them,” Carrie said. “That was the deal.”

“Do you have their email address?”

Carrie’s mouth clamped shut. She shook her head.

“What about their phone number?” Daniels asked.

Carrie again shook her head.

“Would it be on your son’s cell phone? Or his laptop?”

“I don’t know where my son kept things.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Carrie folded her hands in her lap. She was holding back, which Daniels found strange. If Carrie wound up going to prison, she would most likely end up dying there. A jail cell was no place for an older person to live out their final days.

A crash behind the desk made them jump. Daniels went to have a look. Dalton had slipped out of the swivel chair, and hit the floor. A pool of blood had started to form and would soon engulf the entire area behind the desk. They needed to get a CSI team here to deal with the mess. But first, they needed to get Carrie to open up.

Daniels returned to her chair in the living room.

“He’s still alive, isn’t he?” Carrie sobbed.

“I’m sorry, but your son is dead.”

“What did I just hear?”

“His body is growing stiff, and he fell out of his chair.”

Carrie looked at the ceiling, and said a silent prayer.

“Are you going to help us, or not?” Daniels asked.

“I’m not going to say anything else,” Carrie said.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I will if I listen to you. They’ll kill me.”

“The Russians?”

“Damn straight.”

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” Daniels said. “One of the Russians is already dead, and we’re going to arrest his brother soon. They won’t cause you any harm.”

Carrie hissed at her. “You don’t know nothing.”

Jon stepped in. “Why don’t you educate us? What don’t we know?”

“You think there are just two Russians behind all of this? You don’t know nothing, and I’m sure as hell not going to educate you.”

“How many more are there?”

“Plenty.”

“Give me a number.”

“At least a dozen. That’s what Dalton told me. And one of them will slit my throat if I start talking to the likes of you. So screw your god damn deal. I’ll take my chances in court.”

Chapter 38

There was a loud banging on the inn’s front door. Lancaster said, “Let me get it,” and passed Beth his gun. He found four uniformed cops standing outside with their sidearms drawn. He opened the door and said, “Good evening, Officers.”

“We got a report of gunshots,” the officer in charge said. “We need to come inside.”

The officer in charge looked older than his years. The job was eating him up, the way it did most guys. Lancaster had been down that road, and felt bad for him.

“My name is Jon Lancaster, and I’m a private investigator. My partner is Special Agent Beth Daniels with the FBI. We had an altercation with one of the owners of the inn, a man named Dalton, which resulted in him being shot to death.”

“Who did the shooting?” the officer in charge asked.

“I did. It was self-defense.”

Another cop muttered, “Good riddance,” under his breath.

“Enough of that,” said the officer in charge. “Where’s your gun?”

“Special Agent Daniels has it. She’s in the living room with Dalton’s mother.”

“Was anyone else injured in this altercation?”

“No, sir.”

“Before we have a chat with Carrie and get her side of things, I want you to explain what Dalton was doing that led you to put that sorry son of a bitch out of his misery.”

Lancaster hid a smile. Everything was going to be all right.

“We had reason to believe that Dalton was secretly filming guests engaged in sexual activity, so we registered as guests, and my partner searched our room,” he said. “As expected, there was a camera hidden behind a mirror. We tried to interview Dalton, but he refused to talk. When Special Agent Daniels went to arrest him, Dalton drew a gun that was hidden under the chair he was sitting in. That’s when I shot him.”

“That sounds like something that dumbass would pull,” the officer in charge said.

“I take it Dalton was a problem.”

“Some guys are born failures; Dalton aspired to it. He’s been arrested for every stupid thing you can imagine. Never met a bad idea that he didn’t like.”

“What about the mother?”

“Carrie’s also got a record, mostly petty stuff.”

“She told us that Dalton was the mastermind.”

“That sounds about right. I need to speak with your partner.”

Lancaster led the officers into the living room. Carrie hadn’t moved from her chair, and was now wearing plastic handcuffs. The miserable expression on her face suggested that she was having second thoughts about not playing ball with them. Beth was typing a message on her cell phone. She hit “Send” and put the phone away. She’d pinned her badge to her shirt to let everyone know who was in charge.

“I’m Special Agent Daniels,” she said. “Your timing is impeccable.”

“Why is that, ma’am?” the officer in charge asked.

“Because my partner and I are about to rip this place apart, and we can’t do that while Carrie is present,” she said. “Please take her to a cruiser, and hold her until we’re done.”

The officer in charge spent a moment processing this.

“You’re throwing us out?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. This is an FBI investigation until I turn the reins over to you. Am I making myself clear?”

“Loud and clear. Would it be okay if we had a look at Dalton?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Lancaster led the officers behind the desk. Dalton’s blood now covered a large swath of the floor, and one of the cops accidentally stepped in it. His partners laughed under their breath while he cleaned his shoe with a tissue. Cops in rural areas didn’t see much in the way of real crime, and as a result, had little experience in dealing with the serious stuff. Beth was wise to send them outside.

The officers took Carrie off their hands. Lancaster stood at the front door, prepared to lock it once they were outside. The officer in charge lingered behind.

“You did this town a favor shooting that dumb bastard,” he said.

“Glad to be of service,” Lancaster said.

“Why was Dalton filming guests? Was he in the porn business?”

Lancaster hesitated. For all he knew, the Sokolovs were paying the local cops to look the other way, and the question was designed to see how much he knew.

“I have no idea,” he said.

Back in the living room, he found Beth studying her phone.

“The director of the FBI’s Jacksonville office is sending a forensics team to help us out,” Beth said. “Let’s see if we can find Dalton’s computer or his cell phone. The Sokolovs’ contact info should be stored on one of his devices.”

“He’s probably carrying his cell phone,” he said.

“Then we’ll start there,” Beth said.

They got behind the counter. Lancaster hopped over the pool of blood, and stood behind the dead man. Sticking his hands beneath Dalton’s armpits, he lifted him off the floor while Beth searched his pockets. A cracked leather wallet landed on the counter.

“That’s all he’s carrying,” she said.

She dumped out the wallet’s contents. It contained several thousand dollars in crisp hundreds and a driver’s license, but no credit cards.

“Dalton did all his business in cash,” she said.

“He’s probably also using burner phones,” Lancaster said.

“We still need to find his cell phone. We’ll start on the ground floor, and work our way through the rooms. It has to be here somewhere.”

“I’ve got a better idea. I’ll be right back.”

Lancaster went outside to find the four officers on the lawn, shooting the breeze. Carrie sat in the back of the cruiser with the windows shut and the engine running, enjoying the nice cool air conditioning courtesy of taxpayer dollars. Yanking open the back door, he told her to get out. When she refused, he dragged her out.

“You’re hurting me,” she said.

“No, I’m not. Stand still.”

Her eyes were filled with venom. “I’m going to make you pay for killing my boy. Just you wait.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You can take it to the bank, mister. I’m going to rip your heart out.”

Her dress pockets produced nothing of value. He made her climb back into the cruiser. She was not done with him.

“You think I’m kidding? I can hurt you and that FBI lady in ways you never dreamed of,” she said.

He slammed the door in her face. The officers were watching with curious looks.

“Where’s her purse?” he asked.

“It’s on the front seat,” one of them said.

He retrieved Carrie’s purse off the front passenger seat. Her cell phone lay inside, the battery dying. It wasn’t password protected, and as he walked up the path, he scrolled through her contacts, and pulled up her son’s cell phone number.

Beth awaited him in the living room. He showed her Carrie’s phone and placed a call to Dalton’s cell phone.

“You’re brilliant,” she said.

“I’m just smarter than I look. The call is going through. Listen.”

The sound of a man belting out a country and western song came from the rear of the inn. They followed the music to a small, windowless office with a schoolhouse desk, and a cheap folding chair. Dalton’s cell phone sat on the desk, the ringtone Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places.”

“Nice work,” she said.

Dalton’s laptop also sat on the desk, and Beth attempted to access the hard drive. In the right-hand corner of the screen appeared a blue padlock icon.

“It’s encrypted,” she said dejectedly.

She went into Dalton’s emails and discovered that his history had been scrubbed, and that his contacts file was empty.

“There’s nothing here. Any luck with the phone?”

The cell phone had little in the way of stored information. It was a bare-bones device used for calls and texts only.

“It’s a burner. There’s nothing of value on it,” he said.

They searched the office. Underneath the table was a shoebox filled with cheap phones. They powered them up, hoping that Dalton had gotten careless, and left a scrap of information that might prove helpful in their investigation.

No luck. Each device had been scrubbed clean.

“Another dead end,” Beth said.

She tossed the burner in her hand back into the box. Criminal investigations were solved by tireless resolve, but along the way you needed to catch a break. The gods of fortune were not smiling down on them.

“Someone told me that the FBI employs hackers who can break into encrypted devices,” he said. “Is that true?”

“Yes, we do. But it’s off the record.”

“Why?”

“Many criminals use an algorithm called AES to hide information on their devices. Our government also uses AES to protect sensitive information. If an FBI hacker broke into a criminal’s device that had AES, and the information was used in court, we’d have to explain how the hacking was done, and that would jeopardize national security. To avoid that, our guys work in secret, and the bad guys never know they’ve been hacked.”

“Let me guess. You sneak the laptop out of the evidence room, and your guys hack its hard drive. Then you put it back, and hope no one notices.”

“That’s exactly what we do.”

“No one’s ever caught you?”

“Nope. We do it over the weekend. Works like a charm.”

“Can you hack Dalton’s computer this way?”

“I can try. I’d have to put in an official request, and explain why it’s necessary. I’d have to prove that I’ve exhausted all other options.”

“How long would that take?”

“About a week.”

“That long?”

“That’s fast for the bureau, Jon.”

He didn’t like it. Too many things could happen in a week. A smart defense attorney could get the case thrown out by a judge over a technicality, or the laptop could get damaged while being handled by the cops.

But he didn’t say anything. Using FBI hackers was their last resort, and they needed to run with it. Beth got a text, telling her the Jacksonville team had arrived.

“I better go meet them,” she said. “Would you mind cleaning up?”

“Not at all.”

As he put the burners back into the cardboard box, he wondered if they’d missed anything. Perhaps a scrap of paper in Dalton’s wallet held a clue, or there was a notebook in his bedroom. It was a big house, and they needed to turn it upside down.

The burner Beth had tossed in frustration lay in pieces inside the box. The back of the burner had popped off, and exposed the electronics. A tiny object behind the wires caught his eye. It was coin-shaped, and painted black to avoid detection.

“Whoa,” he said to himself.

He removed the broken burner for a closer look. The coin-shaped object looked like a transmitting device, which made no sense. Dalton was using burners so his activities couldn’t be traced, and would have never willingly had a transmitting device installed into one of them.

Maybe Dalton hadn’t known about it. Maybe the Sokolovs had given him the burner with the transmitting device so they could keep tabs on him.

The object was soldered to the burner, and he used his fingernail to pry it free. It was the size of a quarter, and twice as thick. He scratched away the paint. The manufacturer’s insignia — a calligraphic capital C — stared back at him.

Now he was really confused. The company was called Callyo; it made some of the most advanced mobile tracking technology in the world, and worked exclusively with law enforcement agencies. The Sokolovs weren’t the ones monitoring Dalton. They couldn’t have gotten their hands on these devices, or gained access to the technology needed to make them work.

It was the cops who were monitoring Dalton.

Chapter 39

Daniels found Jon hunched over the desk upon returning. Instead of cleaning up, he had taken apart the burners, and neatly laid the pieces across the desk.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said without looking up.

“Try me,” she said.

“Each one of these burners is equipped with a Callyo transmitting device,” he said. “How well do you know Director Rojas?”

“I just met her today.”

“Do you trust her?”

“I do. Why do you ask?”

“Someone was monitoring Dalton, and my bet says it was the Jacksonville office of the FBI. They somehow got these burners into Dalton’s hands and were tracking him.”

She examined one of the burners and found the transmitter hidden behind the wiring. There were a variety of mobile tracking devices used by law enforcement to monitor criminal behavior. Callyo was unique in that it had been created to monitor human traffickers, the information it gathered invaluable in sending traffickers to prison.

“Let me ask her,” she said.

Daniels returned to the living room. Rojas was overseeing an agent taking photographs of Dalton’s corpse, and did not see her approach. Daniels pulled her to the side, and handed her one of Dalton’s burners. Rojas immediately spotted the transmitter.

“Are you running an operation here?” Daniels asked.

Rojas shook her head. “Not mine.”

“Then whose operation is it? The transmitter is made by a company called Callyo, and is only sold to law enforcement agencies. You familiar with these guys?”

“I’ve heard of them. Their technology helps catch traffickers.”

“That’s right. This looks like a cheap burner, but it’s actually a sophisticated digital phone. Every call or electronic communication that’s made off this phone is sent to the cloud, and is logged into a database with a date and time attached to it. It also records the caller’s latitude and longitude and attaches it to the log. You can’t do any of these things with a burner, which is why traffickers use them.”

“That must be great in court.”

“The data is overwhelming. Whenever I’ve used it, I’ve gotten a conviction.”

“If it’s only available to law enforcement agencies, then the Florida Department of Law Enforcement must be running the operation.”

“Wouldn’t they have let you know?”

“That’s the rule. I guess it got broken here.”

“This operation has been going on for a while.”

“Really? What led you to that conclusion?”

“My partner found ten burners in a cardboard box beneath Dalton’s desk. Most traffickers use a burner for a month, then buy a new one.”

Rojas made a face. Human trafficking cases fell under the FBI’s jurisdiction, and the FDLE could not legally conduct an investigation without informing the bureau, and keeping them regularly apprised of their progress.

“Would you call your contact at the FDLE? I need to see the data they have on Dalton,” Daniels said.

Rojas pulled out her cell phone, and made the call. She was steaming, and looked angry enough to bite the head off a live chicken.

“My pleasure,” she said.

The call was a short one.

“The director of the FDLE’s Jacksonville office swears to me on a stack of Bibles that they aren’t running surveillance on Dalton,” Rojas said, putting her phone away. “He was surprised when I told him how long the operation has been going on.”

“Could another FDLE office be running the sting?”

“Those guys are very careful about not treading on each other’s turf,” Rojas said. “I would say that the answer is no. He did mention the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and wondered if it might be their operation through Team Adam.”

“I didn’t know that Team Adam ran covert operations,” Daniels said. “I’ve worked with them in the past, and they’ve always been transparent.”

“That’s been my experience as well,” Rojas said. “My guy at FDLE said there’s an ex-cop out of Fort Lauderdale who’s a member of Team Adam who has a reputation for not playing by the rules some of the time. He thinks this guy might be responsible.”

Daniels realized that Rojas was referring to Jon. She had hit another dead end.

“Thanks for the assist,” she said.

“Happy to help,” Rojas said. “I’ll need to get a statement from you and your partner before the night is over.”

“Will do.”

Angel’s Dining Car in Palatka bore a strong resemblance to a grounded submarine. A hot-dog shaped building with a foundation of concrete blocks, it sat in the middle of a parking lot, and claimed to be the oldest diner in the Sunshine State.

Daniels studied the extensive menu. The big sellers appeared to be the fried okra, fried green beans, and frog legs. They also served breakfast all day long.

“You go first,” she said.

Jon ordered the Black Bottom, which was a mixture of scrambled eggs, bacon, and ground beef, all served on a toasted potato bun.

“What strikes your fancy?” the waitress asked.

“I’ll have the same, and a cup of coffee,” Daniels said.

They fell quiet after the waitress departed and enjoyed the down-home smells coming out of the kitchen. It was a friendly place and felt genuine.

“You hungry?” Daniels asked.

“Starving,” Jon said. “I know I’m not supposed to feel that way, but I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shooting people is supposed to make you feel awful, and rob you of your appetite. I heard a psychologist say that at a murder trial.”

“How did shooting Dalton make you feel?”

“Bad at first, but I got over it. Sort of like accidentally running over a squirrel. It goes back to something that happened to me in the navy.”

Part of Jon’s training as a SEAL was an oath he’d taken that prohibited him from talking about his missions. When he did, it was usually in vague terms.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked.

He absently played with his napkin. “We were on a rescue mission in Central America, and a guy with a machete jumped out of the bush, and tried to cut my head off. I had no choice, and put him down. I got so upset that I didn’t eat for days.

“My commanding officer took me aside. He told me that if the guy had killed me, he didn’t think he’d be having any issues putting down food. My CO said, ‘Don’t waste your emotions on the enemy. Save them for the victims.’ That stayed with me.”

Their food came. Her mother had told her never to eat anything bigger than her head. Daniels decided to ignore her mom’s advice, and dug in.

“We need to find out which law enforcement agency was running the surveillance operation on Dalton, and get our hands on those records,” she said between bites. “I’m going to put in a request to subpoena Callyo’s records first thing tomorrow.”

“I’m sure Callyo will fight you in court,” Jon said.

“On what grounds?”

“They sign confidentiality agreements with all their customers. Callyo’s lawyers will argue that if they release Dalton’s records, it will be opening Pandora’s box, and they’ll have to turn over records to every sleazy criminal defense attorney that requests them. It’s a strong argument.”

“You think I could lose?”

“Yes. Even if you win, Callyo’s lawyers will file an appeal. The case could drag on for months.”

The food no longer tasted very good. Daniels wiped her mouth, and tossed her balled-up napkin on her plate. Jon wasn’t having any issues, and kept eating.

“I have another idea,” he said.

“Does it involve breaking the law? If so, then just do it, and don’t tell me.”

“It doesn’t involve breaking the law. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m all ears. What is it?”

“When the Callyo technology was first being rolled out, the company’s owner gave a presentation to Team Adam in Washington. I introduced myself afterward, and he gave me his contact info. Why don’t I call him?”

“He’s not going to turn that data over, based upon a phone call.”

“No, but he might tell me who his client is. Then you can contact them, and request Dalton’s information. Since you’re with the FBI, they’ll have to comply.”

Jon wasn’t telling her the whole story, and she wondered if he’d taken Callyo’s owner for a few beers. That was his style, and it had made him a lot of friends.

“It’s worth a shot. Call him,” she said.

Callyo’s owner was a laid-back guy named Chris Bennett. Back in the rental, Jon gave him a call, and left a message on voice mail. New companies with crime-fighting technology were popping up every day, and competition was fierce. It was all about customer service, and Beth wasn’t surprised when Bennett called back a minute later.

Jon put his cell phone on speaker and placed it into the cupholder. “Hello, Chris. This is Jon Lancaster. We met last year after your presentation to Team Adam.”

“Good evening, Jon. You’re based out of Fort Lauderdale, correct?”

“Good memory. I’m sitting in a car with Special Agent Daniels of the FBI, and I have you on speaker phone.”

“Good evening, Special Agent Daniels,” Bennett said.

“Hello, Chris. Nice to meet you,” Daniels said.

“Same here. What can I do for you folks tonight?”

“We’re conducting an investigation in Palatka, and happened across a box of burner phones with your tracking technology,” Jon said. “The suspect who had these phones is named Dalton, and is connected to a human trafficking ring. We assumed the Jacksonville office of the FBI was running the operation, but that isn’t the case.”

“Is it an FDLE operation?” Bennett asked.

“The FDLE has no knowledge of the operation. We’ve hit a dead end, and were hoping you could tell us whose show this is.”

“I sign confidentiality agreements with all my clients,” Bennett said. “If it is one of our jobs, I can’t share the data with you.”

“We don’t expect you to break an agreement with a client,” Daniels said. “We just need to know who the client is. We’ll take it from there.”

“Got it. Okay, let me see if this is one of our jobs.”

“How could it not be?” Jon asked. “Your tracking equipment is in the burners.”

“It could be a Chinese rip-off,” Bennett explained. “China doesn’t recognize our trademarks or patents, and we get ripped off by companies we compete with. It’s the price of success these days. Give me a couple of minutes. Back at you.”

The phone went silent. They leaned back in their seats to wait. She heard the faint whistle, and knew that Jon was upset.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Who said something was wrong?” he replied.

“You’re clearly upset about something.”

“I didn’t know I was so obvious to read.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at it. Tell me.”

“Carrie threatened me. She said I could take it to the bank.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been threatened before.” She reached across the seat and slapped his leg. “Dalton is dead, and his dear mama is going to jail. You’re safe.”

“This was real. She’s going to enact some kind of revenge for my shooting her son. She said she was going to rip our hearts out.”

“Was I included in her threat?”

“Yes. It was directed at both of us.”

“Do you think she might have family in Palatka?”

“Her family doesn’t worry me. But the Russians do.”

Bennett’s voice came out of the cell phone. “Sorry this is taking so long. We have six active jobs in Florida. Each has a different account manager, and I need to speak to each of them to find out who’s running this operation. I shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Take all the time you need,” Daniels said.

The phone went silent.

“Tell me why the Russians worry you,” she said.

“Carrie refused to cut a deal because she’s afraid the Russians will kill her while she’s in jail,” Jon said. “That means she knows things about the Russians’ operation that are worth having her killed over. Make sense?”

“I’m with you so far.”

“Carrie has leverage over the Russians. When she’s in jail, she’ll have her lawyer send them a message. In return for her silence, she’ll ask them to carry out her threat.”

“Do you really think she’s capable of that?”

“I killed her son. She’s capable of anything.”

“How is she going to rip our hearts out?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

Daniels considered what Jon was saying. Carrie looked like a doting old woman, but she was just as guilty as Dalton, and probably just as ruthless. To underestimate her would have been a mistake.

Bennett came back on the line.

“Hey, there,” the founder of Callyo said. “I just got off the line with one of my account managers. The Palatka operation is his. Sorry I didn’t recognize it, but we’ve got over a hundred jobs around the country we’re running right now.”

They had hit so many dead ends. Now, finally, they were going to break the investigation open, and get to the truth. If there was a greater feeling, she didn’t know what it was. She glanced at Jon. He was thinking the same thing, his eyes dancing.

“Did your account manager tell you who the client is?” Daniels asked.

“Yes, he did,” Bennett said. “Our client is the Saint Augustine Police Department.”

Daniels sat up straight in her chair.

“Bastards,” Jon swore under his breath.

“Are you sure?” she said into the cell phone.

“Positive,” Bennett said. “My account manager emailed me the contract, which I’m looking at right now. Twelve months ago, the Saint Augustine Police Department hired us to supply tracking devices hidden in burner phones for an investigation that is still ongoing. Is that a problem?”

“We met with the Saint Augustine police a few days ago, and the operation was never mentioned,” she said. “Who in the department are you working with?”

“Let me look. The name should be on the contract.”

The line went mute. Daniels shook her head angrily. She would have bet her paycheck on who it was, but still needed Bennett to confirm.

“It has to be him,” she whispered.

“Must be,” Jon whispered back.

“Found it,” Bennett said. “The point person for this job is Detective Gaylord Sykes. Do you know him?”

It was all Daniels could do not to scream.

“We sure do,” she said.