He decided not to go down without a fight.
“But I’m about to crack this thing wide open,” he protested.
Beth’s sharp intake of breath sounded like a gun going off. He knew her hot buttons. Nothing would have made her happier than breaking this case wide open.
“The victims are still alive,” he added.
“Who told you that?” she asked.
“A dancer named Echo. I spoke with her in a VIP room at the club. She’s Dexter’s girlfriend. Dexter showed her a video of the victims. They’re still alive.”
“Does she know where they’re being kept?”
“No. Echo told me that Dexter has a new partner, and is about to abduct a woman in Saint Petersburg. I thought we might bust them together.”
The connection went silent. He was sitting in his car in the parking lot of Ashton Oaks Apartments in New Port Richey, waiting for Echo to come home. Echo and her baby were not safe here, and he needed to move them tonight.
“I can’t talk to you anymore,” she said. “For all I know, my cell phone may be bugged. The bureau’s done that before.”
“To you?”
“Not to me, but it’s happened to other agents they put under the microscope. If an agent gets in hot water, the bureau will monitor their cell phone calls, and also read their emails and text messages. My boss gave me permission to talk to you a final time. If I do it again, and he finds out, I’m history.”
He punched the wheel in anger. This was not right, and they both knew it. A Prius with a damaged bumper drove into the complex and parked by the entrance to one of the apartments, a building three stories tall with window AC units. Echo jumped out and glanced furtively over her shoulder before hurrying inside. She was dressed in torn jeans and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and looked scared.
“My services are needed. I have to run,” he said.
“Where are you?” Daniels asked.
“At an apartment complex in New Port Richey. The dancer I was telling you about just came home. I promised to move her and her baby to a safe location.”
“Is she in danger?”
“I think so. A bouncer at the club caught us talking. He’s a friend of Dexter’s, and a member of the Outlaws.”
“I wish I was there to help you.”
But she wasn’t here, and that bothered him. The rules and regulations that FBI agents were sworn to uphold often proved to be the chains that held them down, and sometimes prevented them from bringing bad people to justice.
“Do you remember what I said about the Outlaws calling themselves one percenters?” he asked.
“I remember.”
“Well, you and I are part of a different one percent. We belong to the one percent that has sworn to fight evil. We’re the last line of defense against the monsters that make our lives miserable. It’s why you joined the FBI, and why I’m sitting in this parking lot instead of in a bar, drinking a beer and taking in a basketball game.”
She exhaled into the phone. “I know that, Jon. It’s why I’m attracted to you.”
“And it’s why I’m attracted to you. So get over here.”
“I can’t. Let me rephrase that. I can, but my boss will find out, and I’ll get fired. What good am I if I lose my job?”
She had a point. His window was open, and in the distance he heard cars drag racing on US 19, which seemed a common occurrence in these parts. He opened his door and put one foot out.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “I’ll figure out a way to feed you information without jeopardizing your job.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll figure out something.”
He grabbed a ball cap off the passenger seat and slipped it on. Then he got out, popped the trunk, removed a SIG SAUER P365 from the plastic bin where he kept his guns, and tucked it behind his belt buckle. Closing the trunk, he began to walk toward the apartment’s front entrance.
“Are you still there?” Beth asked, sounding worried.
“I’m here,” he replied.
“Be safe.”
“I’ll try.”
The elevator was on the blink. As he trotted up the stairs, he called Echo on his cell phone. She answered without saying a word. A baby cried in the background.
“This is Jon,” he said. “I’m coming up the stairs. What’s your apartment number?”
“You’re here?” she said, sounding surprised.
“Damn straight, I’m here. You need to leave soon. What’s the number?”
“Apartment 303. When you come out of the stairs, go left. I’ll be waiting for you.”
He took the stairs two at a time. At the third-floor landing he went left, and saw a shaft of light streaming out of a partially open door at the end of the hallway, which he ran toward. The floor was concrete, and his footsteps sounded like cannons going off. As he neared the door, it opened fully, and Echo greeted him with her baby in her arms. He was tiny, maybe six months old, with a head of black curls and dark, unblinking eyes. Seeing a stranger approach, he buried his head into his mother’s bosom.
Lancaster followed Echo into the apartment. Another woman sat on the floor in front of the TV, looking strung out, and he guessed she took care of the baby while Echo stripped at the club. The woman was a train wreck, with rotted teeth and sallow eyes, but he supposed it was better than leaving the kid alone.
Echo grabbed his wrist with her free hand, and pulled him toward the bedroom.
“We need to get out of here,” he said.
“Don’t you want to see the video of the girls?” she asked.
“You have it?”
“It’s on a private channel on YouTube. I’ll show you.”
The bedroom had a futon and a desk with a computer. A pile of dirty men’s clothes — Dexter’s, he assumed — lay heaped in a corner. Echo handed him her baby and got on the computer’s keyboard, which she handled like a pro. The computer had a separate hard drive that made a whirring sound as the screen came to life. YouTube allowed users to create private channels where unlisted videos could be shared with people who knew the link. The private channel that Echo pulled up had a large library. Based upon the titles, it appeared to be the property of the Outlaws motorcycle gang.
The kid gave him a mean stare, which he ignored. Bike Week had just finished in Daytona Beach, and the recent videos were of gang members attending the event. Echo scrolled down to an untitled video posted eight days earlier and clicked on it. The video started to play. Clutching the baby to his chest, he leaned in and peered at the screen.
It was in black and white, and was taken from a camera perched high above its subjects, possibly a ceiling mount. It showed the interior of a spacious kitchen with an island in its center. The kitchen had two sinks, two ovens, and an assortment of pots and pans dangling from metal hooks.
A small army of women were busy fixing a meal. Several diced vegetables on cutting boards, while others cut meat into bite-size chunks. Still others added the meat and vegetables into pots simmering on the stove. There was also a cleanup crew, which washed and dried dishes and mopped the floor.
There were eleven women in all. They wore identical aprons and facial expressions that reminded him of prison inmates, all hope extinguished from their faces.
He searched the group, looking for Skye Tanner, whose face he had memorized from the photograph that Team Adam had sent him. She didn’t appear to be in the group. Then it clicked. The video had been taken before Skye’s abduction. But that didn’t make sense — Skye was the eleventh victim, and there were eleven women in the video. So who was the extra woman? The baby started to cry, and he passed him back to his mother.