shipment and a new cop on the inside of Dutton’s sheriff’s office.
At least Chili had come through. Finally. The scanner was abuzz with calls for every available firehouse to converge on Granville’s house. Mansfield’s should be next. Who knew what incriminating evidence those two had kept in their homes?
The business would be protected. And tonight there was money to be made.
Bobby looked over the five young women standing in a row. Two were brand new pretties from the river place and they were clean again, dressed and presentable. The other three were old hands. Every one had her eyes downcast. Every one trembled, two of them shaking so hard their dangling earrings swayed. Good. Fear was good .
The outcome of tonight’s business venture was a foregone conclusion in Bobby’s mind. Haynes liked blondes with that healthy, tanned, all-American look. That look was Bobby’s niche in an ever-expanding market of foreign imports. They offered their clients a chance to buy American. “Haynes will choose the blonde. Ashley, right?”
“No.” The blonde shrank away while the other four slumped in relief. “Please.”
Bobby smiled pleasantly. “Rocky, what is Ashley’s home address?”
“Her family lives at 721 Snowbird Drive, Panama City, Florida,” Rocky replied instantly. “Her mother died two years ago and her father works the night shift. Now that she’s ‘run away,’ her father’s hired a sitter to stay with her brother while he’s at work. Her brother sometimes sneaks out at night to hang at the—”
“That’s good enough,” Bobby said when the blonde began to cry. “I know everything about your family, Ashley. One misstep, one dissatisfied client, and someone in your house will die. Painfully. You’re the one who wanted adventure and now you have it. So stop crying. My clients want smiles. Rocky, get them out of here. I have work to do.”
Bobby reopened the personnel files and was deep into review of a very promising medical candidate when the throwaway cell phone trilled. This was the number given to contacts and informers, those who could be convinced to become Bobby’s personnel because they’d done some very naughty things they didn’t want made public.
Information was power. Bobby liked power. The incoming number had an Atlanta area code. “Yes?”
“You said to call if anything happened at the hospital. I have information.”
It took Bobby a few moments to place the voice. Oh, yes. Jennifer Ohman, the ICU nurse with the drug problem. Informants usually had a drug problem. Or a gambling problem. Or a sex problem. Whatever the secret addiction, the result was the same.
“Well, go ahead. I don’t have all day.”
“Two patients were airlifted from Dutton. Special Agent Daniel Vartanian was one.”
Bobby abruptly straightened. That Vartanian had been shot had been on the police scanner, along with the deaths of Loomis, Mansfield, Granville, and Mack O’Brien, plus the guard they hadn’t identified. Chatter regarding any other dead bodies the police might have found in the bunker was noticeably absent. “Who was the second?”
“She’s a Jane Doe, sixteen or seventeen. She was critical but survived surgery.”
Bobby slowly stood, the swirling, bubbling fury within becoming flat dread. “And?”
“She’s stable. They’re keeping her secret, with a guard posted at her door, 24/7.”
Bobby drew a very deep breath. Rocky had been very clear that all the girls left behind were dead. So either this girl was a modern-day Lazarus, or Rocky had lied. Either way, Rocky had made a serious miscalculation. “I see.”
“There’s more. Two others came in by ambulance, a man and a woman. Bailey Crighton was one. She’s the woman who’s been missing for a week.”
“I know who she is.” Granville, you asshole. Rocky, you idiot. “And the man?”
“Some army chaplain. Beasley. No, Beardsley. That’s it. They’re both in stable condition. That’s all I know.” The
At least Chili had come through. Finally. The scanner was abuzz with calls for every available firehouse to converge on Granville’s house. Mansfield’s should be next. Who knew what incriminating evidence those two had kept in their homes?
The business would be protected. And tonight there was money to be made.
Bobby looked over the five young women standing in a row. Two were brand new pretties from the river place and they were clean again, dressed and presentable. The other three were old hands. Every one had her eyes downcast. Every one trembled, two of them shaking so hard their dangling earrings swayed. Good. Fear was good .
The outcome of tonight’s business venture was a foregone conclusion in Bobby’s mind. Haynes liked blondes with that healthy, tanned, all-American look. That look was Bobby’s niche in an ever-expanding market of foreign imports. They offered their clients a chance to buy American. “Haynes will choose the blonde. Ashley, right?”
“No.” The blonde shrank away while the other four slumped in relief. “Please.”
Bobby smiled pleasantly. “Rocky, what is Ashley’s home address?”
“Her family lives at 721 Snowbird Drive, Panama City, Florida,” Rocky replied instantly. “Her mother died two years ago and her father works the night shift. Now that she’s ‘run away,’ her father’s hired a sitter to stay with her brother while he’s at work. Her brother sometimes sneaks out at night to hang at the—”
“That’s good enough,” Bobby said when the blonde began to cry. “I know everything about your family, Ashley. One misstep, one dissatisfied client, and someone in your house will die. Painfully. You’re the one who wanted adventure and now you have it. So stop crying. My clients want smiles. Rocky, get them out of here. I have work to do.”
Bobby reopened the personnel files and was deep into review of a very promising medical candidate when the throwaway cell phone trilled. This was the number given to contacts and informers, those who could be convinced to become Bobby’s personnel because they’d done some very naughty things they didn’t want made public.
Information was power. Bobby liked power. The incoming number had an Atlanta area code. “Yes?”
“You said to call if anything happened at the hospital. I have information.”
It took Bobby a few moments to place the voice. Oh, yes. Jennifer Ohman, the ICU nurse with the drug problem. Informants usually had a drug problem. Or a gambling problem. Or a sex problem. Whatever the secret addiction, the result was the same.
“Well, go ahead. I don’t have all day.”
“Two patients were airlifted from Dutton. Special Agent Daniel Vartanian was one.”
Bobby abruptly straightened. That Vartanian had been shot had been on the police scanner, along with the deaths of Loomis, Mansfield, Granville, and Mack O’Brien, plus the guard they hadn’t identified. Chatter regarding any other dead bodies the police might have found in the bunker was noticeably absent. “Who was the second?”
“She’s a Jane Doe, sixteen or seventeen. She was critical but survived surgery.”
Bobby slowly stood, the swirling, bubbling fury within becoming flat dread. “And?”
“She’s stable. They’re keeping her secret, with a guard posted at her door, 24/7.”
Bobby drew a very deep breath. Rocky had been very clear that all the girls left behind were dead. So either this girl was a modern-day Lazarus, or Rocky had lied. Either way, Rocky had made a serious miscalculation. “I see.”
“There’s more. Two others came in by ambulance, a man and a woman. Bailey Crighton was one. She’s the woman who’s been missing for a week.”
“I know who she is.” Granville, you asshole. Rocky, you idiot. “And the man?”
“Some army chaplain. Beasley. No, Beardsley. That’s it. They’re both in stable condition. That’s all I know.” The
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