Deeper Than the Grave (21 page)

Chapter Forty-four

I awoke the next morning to the pounding of footfalls—rhythmic, steady, muted by the mechanical hum of the treadmill. Trey, back to his routine. He ran with the precise cadence of the long distance runner—head up, spine straight, arms loose. He ran without music plugged in his ears or heart monitors strapped to his wrist, ran with only the rhythms of his breath and body as accompaniment.

I rolled over, dragging the ridiculously plump comforter tighter around me. I'd been so exhausted the night before that I'd crawled into bed in my underwear, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind me. Now I squinted into winter-crisp light, even whiter than the walls or the curtains, and I knew that thirty-five stories below me, the whole of Atlanta lay in snow-swaddled brilliance.

I burrowed back under the goose down and tried to go back to sleep. My phone had other ideas. I almost ignored it, but one peek at the display, and I changed my mind.

I grappled it off the nightstand and pulled it under the covers with me. “Hey there, Garrity.”

“Why the hell is there a guy named Fishbone throwing your name around like it was some get-out-of-jail-free card?”

I sat up quickly. “Fishbone? Seriously?”

“Perez pulled him in. He says you told him to ask for me if that happened.”

“Yeah. I kinda did.”

Garrity muttered a string of detailed expletives, weaving them into a blinding tapestry of vulgarity. Trey stopped the treadmill and stood, hands on hips, breathing hard.

“I am not your one-stop law enforcement shop, Tai Randolph, I can't…” He paused to collect himself again. “Do you know how much sleep I'm going to get tonight? None. This city is going to turn into crazy town about ten minutes past sunset, when the freaking polar vortex swoops in.”

“The what?”

“Check the weather. Things have changed. Now I've got this knucklehead yammering—”

“What's he saying?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“Then why'd you call me?”

Garrity started explaining as Trey hopped off the treadmill. He walked over beside the bed, wiping his forehead and chest with a towel, and I caught the smell of the herbal liniment that Gabriella made for him, menthol and rosemary. He waved a hand at the phone, one eyebrow raised. I mouthed
Garrity
at him.

Garrity kept talking. “—and I'd really like Trey's take on it, so as soon as you see him, send him in.”

“His take on what?”

An exasperated sigh. “The laundry detergent thefts. From four years ago. Are you even listening?”

“Did you say—”

“Trey will remember. Went nowhere then, but I'm seeing something very interesting this morning, and I'd like to run over the old Sinaloa cartel report with him. When he's up to it.”

“He's standing right here. Why don't you ask him yourself?”

“He is?”

“He just got off the treadmill.”

“You're at his place?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Because it's the ninth. Remember?”

And then I did. The anniversary. The day that Trey made a fortress of his life, surrounded himself with silence and solitude. And yet there he was, breathing hard and a little puzzled. And there I was, half-dressed and sticky-eyed from sleep. Just another Sunday morning.

I shoved the phone in Trey's direction. “Garrity wants to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Your old Sinaloa case.”

Trey put the phone to his ear. He listened. Eventually I saw him pause, cock his head in perplexed curiosity, then go to his desk to get paper and pencil, the treadmill abandoned.

I stayed under the sheets. Laundry detergent—the same item Cat had been arrested for shoplifting, the ridiculous “five finger” dare she'd taken at Lucius' request. And then it hit me, like it had hit me in the skate shop even if I hadn't been able to identify it then, that fake lemony smell that had permeated the place.

Laundry detergent.

I heard Trey talking in the living room, the slide of folders, the tapping of keystrokes. I stretched out under the sheets. I had to get up and get dressed eventually, something warm and layered for heading outside into a white morning as sharp as a scimitar.

No rest for the wicked, they said. Not even on a snow day with a polar vortex bearing down.

***

Ten minutes later, Trey brought my phone back to me. I moved my legs to make room for him. “Laundry detergent theft, huh?”

Trey sat on the edge of the bed. “Hundreds of bottles at a time, premium brands. Coordinated crews timed for shift changes. They hit across the spectrum target-wise. Small family shops, corner grocery stores, big box retailers, some outlets reporting ten to twenty thousand dollars in losses per month. We found a stockpile of it at the Sinaloa bust I was telling you about.”

“Just to be clear, we're talking about the stuff you pour in washing machines?”

“Correct. Which is why it made no sense. Until now, apparently.”

“Until Fishbone.”

Trey shook his head. “Garrity didn't say—”

“He didn't need to. I smelled it myself. The morning we chased Fishbone and his skateboard into the shop.”

“You chased Fishbone. I waited outside.”

“Right. Which is why you didn't…except that you did.” I grabbed his wrist. “Omigod, Trey! That's what triggered you at the skate shop. Not the smell of marijuana alone, like in the park. The smell of marijuana plus laundry detergent! Like the Sinaloa bust!”

Trey's index finger started tap-tapping on his thigh. “That makes sense.”

“And another thing—remember Cat the bartender? Richard kicked her out of the house for shoplifting. Guess what Lucius told her to steal?”

Trey narrowed his eyes. “Laundry detergent.”

“Bingo, boyfriend. Which means this thing with Fishbone is connecting some major dots in a major way down at the FBI. And you've been invited to play along.”

***

By the time Trey got out of the shower, I was dressed too—jeans, sweatshirt, running shoes. I had my tote bag fully packed, and a travel mug full of coffee. I'd made tea for him, some of the Lapsang souchong from the shop, which I had waiting on the counter.

He met me in the kitchen wearing his best suit—the Armani made-to-measure, the closest thing to a dress uniform he had. I held out my hand, and he dropped his cuff links into my palm. He was a live wire, barely contained where he stood, and I saw the first hint of the anxious wrinkle between his eyes.

I reached for his wrist. “Stop worrying.”

“The traffic—”

“Everything's open from 400 to the Connector.”

“But the snow—”

“Barely an inch. All the main roads are clear. No ice. I checked.”

I slipped the cuff links into place on his right wrist, then his left. He kept both hands extended, checking to make sure everything lined up properly—shirt sleeves a half-inch below the suit cuff, jacket concealing the holster.

“That will change when the rain starts,” he said.

“I know, I saw the new predictions. That's why I'm getting my stuff done before the sun sets.”

“What stuff?”

I kept my expression neutral. “Shop stuff.”

“The shop is secure. I checked two minutes ago.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and with a quick swipe revealed the four-plex video screen, one quadrant for each of the three camera feeds—the front entrance, the back lot, and the deer-eye view of the main room. He turned it around so that I could see.

I moved behind him and reached for the loose ends of his tie. “I see. But I need to put in a final bit of cold proofing before I settle in here for the night.”

He relaxed. “Oh. That's a good plan.”

I brought the wide end of the tie over the narrow end, then back over to make the knot. Over and through, tuck and neaten. I was finally getting the hang of tying ties—Windsors, double Windsors, half Windsors—and I was finally getting the hang of lying to Trey. It simply required moving where he couldn't see my face. Not that the lie was a huge one. It was a tiny prevarication, more along the line of Technically True But Deliberately Evasive. It would have set off his alarm bells, however, and he had other things to focus on this morning.

I turned him around and examined the final result. As usual, he was an immaculate portrait of male power and potency, at least on the surface. His inside was a stew of insecurity and confusion, but his outside? Dazzling as a diamond.

I smoothed his lapels, the wool satin-soft beneath my fingers. “Trey?”

“Yes?”

“This meeting with Garrity? It's not a test.”

He looked puzzled. “I know.”

I placed one hand just below his rib cage. “Then why have you stopped breathing into your diaphragm?”

He paused, then put his hand on top of mine. When he inhaled, I felt the movement of air flowing into the tight places, from his lungs into his belly, a breath that went all the way in this time.

I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “Much better. Now go kick ass.”

Chapter Forty-five

Every grocery store I passed on the way to Kennesaw had a packed parking lot. The city gleamed Christmas card pretty, but the sky was a sheet of threatening gray. I checked the time—six hours until sunset, when the sun would dip below the horizon and the sky would unload several metric tons of ice and sleet. I shivered at the thought and vowed to be safely tucked in back at Trey's apartment, where the heating stayed on and the water stayed warm.

I parked in the lot of the Best Buy, avoiding two kids hurling snowballs at each other while their harried father tried to herd them into a mini-van. Inside the store was hardly more civilized, with shoppers snatching generators and batteries, crowding the cash registers. I spotted Kenny at the help desk, looking harried in his blue uniform shirt, and pushed my way toward him.

I broke to the front of the line. “You and I need to talk. Now.”

Kenny looked startled. “What? Why?”

“Fishbone's at the police station, spilling his guts. The cops won't tell me what he's saying.” I leaned forward. “But I bet you can.”

He shook his head. “I don't know anything, Miss Tai, I—”

“I've been thinking about this mystery long and hard, Kenny. It's got holes. I'm betting you can fill them because I'm betting you know something you're not telling. And either you tell me what it is right now, or I take my suspicions to the cops. Your choice.” I rapped the counter with my knuckles. “You've got ten minutes to decide. I'll be in the red Camaro out front.”

***

Seven minutes later, he climbed into the front seat of my car, shaking his head. “I don't know what you think—”

“I think you've been lying to me. Everybody can talk about the damn Russian mafia all they want, but you're the key to all this, aren't you?”

“No, ma'am!”

“Cut the ‘ma'am' crap. Lucius started out trading credit card numbers for drugs, then relics, cutting Fishbone out of the deals. He worked alone then, but eventually he got a partner. You.”

Kenny shook his head frantically. “It wasn't me!”

“Bullshit. The Amberdecker bones weren't in the coffin, Kenny—Lucius' were—which means somebody else took them off Lucius' hands. The same somebody who hid a completely different set in Uncle Dexter's walls.” I held up the photograph of the re-burial. “And there you are Kenny, front and center.”

“But I didn't, I swear!” He shoved his glasses up with one hand, practically hyperventilating. “I don't know anything about those bones!”

“Then who does? “

“I can't—”

“You'd better. Unless you want to explain this to the police.”

Kenny let his head fall backward onto the seat and closed his eyes. “I didn't take the bones. But I know who might have.”

“Who?”

“He uses the screen name White Wolf. He's one of the traders in the Rabbit Hole.”

“The what?”

“It's a Darknet forum. White Wolf buys and sell things you can't buy or sell other places.”

“Things like guns and drugs and illegally procured relics?”

Kenny nodded. “When Silk Road went down, Lucius asked me to find him a new connection. Someone flexible, willing to work trades. So I vouched for him to White Wolf.”

“Why?”

“Because Lucius paid me to do it. And I needed the money.”

Kenny looked miserable to be admitting this. No doubt he fancied himself a true hacker, motived by principles, not profit. But we all had our needy places.

I cranked the engine. “Fasten up, Kenny.”

“Why?”

“Because we're going to my place. And then you're taking me down the Rabbit Hole to meet this White Wolf.”

“But—”

“No buts. I'm done with buts. I am getting to the bottom of this once and for all.”

He reached for the seatbelt. “Yes, ma'am.”

***

Fifteen minutes after we arrived at the shop, he had the Tor download completed and the Darknet up. He logged into an online forum—headed by a stylized Black Ops bunny graphic with a leery evil grin—then typed a username into the search box. What he pulled up looked like an online shopping page, but the classification system made it clear that this Wonderland was even darker than the one Alice stumbled into. Categories like Food and Gardening were listed next to Pharmaceuticals and Firearms.

“Gun runners,” I said.

Kenny looked offended. “Not all of them. Some are patriots.”

“Patriots avoiding background checks and ATF restrictions, which means criminals.”

“Not always. People come here because they can participate in a commerce system outside of government control.”

“And yet illegal goods seem to be the main draw.”

I clicked on the category for pharmaceuticals—it featured twenty-seven subcategories, including Opioids, Psychedelics, and Cannabis—but nothing for skeletons. Kenny was ahead of me.

“Click Etcetera,” he said.

I did. Skulls. Human hair. Mummified hands. Each of them detailed with a precise description. One skull was so small it would have fit in the palm of my hand, and I had to fight the urge to look away from the screen.

“Lucius traded with White Wolf through this site?”

He nodded.

“How does that work?”

“The site uses bitcoin, a cryptocurrency. You click this box and a message goes to the contact with your username, and they send you a message back if they're interested in buying. If so, the buyer sends a bitcoin payment to your account, and the seller ships the merchandise.”

I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. “Like through the post office?”

“That's the most dangerous part. The rest of the transaction is untraceable.”

“So where did Lucius have his drugs shipped?”

“The skate shop mostly. Until Fishbone got mad and wouldn't let him anymore.”

I'd known the answer before the words got out of his mouth. I was half-listening anyway, more fascinated with the screen. It really was a psychedelic version of Amazon. There was even a little online shopping cart. Sellers with names like Elvish226, Jackleg, and…

“There's our buddy White Wolf.” I peered closer. “Omigod, he has an approval rating.”

“Ninety-six percent. He got dinged for sloppy packaging once. You can see that in the buyer's remarks. Otherwise he's very reliable.”

I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing. Back in Savannah, if you wanted illegal pharmaceuticals, you had to find some guy living in his mother's basement or brave the hopped-up crazies over on the Westside. This was sanitized and simple and downright pleasant. Except that it was also the frontier, the Wild West, the Shadow Net. No rules, no tracing, no regulation. And I had one of its denizens a click away from me.

I pointed to an icon of the Confederate Battle Flag. “So is that you? Rebel Yell?”

Kenny nodded. “That shows I'm live right now. Lucius used the name Dirty South.”

I pointed to another icon, this one of a slavering snow-colored wolf, fangs bared, a red tongue in a black maw. “And that's White Wolf? Who is also live right now?”

Another nod from Kenny. He was mightily unhappy to be sitting there with me, but he was cooperating. I scooted closer to the screen.

“Send him a message. Tell him you're inquiring about a piece of merchandise.”

Kenny typed out my words. They sat there on the page, dangling like a worm on the hook. I had only one real question for this White Wolf—his very name gave me the creeps, conjuring up images of hooded men and burning crosses—but I wasn't sure how to ask it.

And then a reply appeared. From White Wolf.
What piece of merchandise?

Kenny stared at it. “What do you want me to do now?”

“Scoot over.” I moved the keyboard in front of me and typed
, I have information about a recent sale. One with complications attached.

The cursor blinked, and then White Wolf's reply appeared.
Complications for whom?

Damn, I thought, he used “whom” correctly.
Complications for both of us,
I typed.

I'm listening.

I typed quickly.
Where are the Amberdecker bones?

I don't know.

Dirty South delivered them to you.

No, he made the arrangements, but he did not deliver the merchandise. I've heard he ended up in a coffin not his own.

Damn again. So much for the anonymity of the Darknet—White Wolf knew that Lucius and Dirty South were the same person. I had no leverage, no bartering chip. It suddenly occurred to me that I might be tipping this bad guy's hand in a way I hadn't foreseen. Too late, I told myself. The bait had been taken. Time to reel the fish in and pray it wasn't a shark.

I pulled the bourbon out of the drawer and slopped a fair amount into my empty coffee mug. I typed quickly.
The police are asking questions.

Not of me.

But they will. Eventually.

Is that a threat?

Kenny looked like he wanted to throw up. I swatted him on the knee and kept typing.

No
, I typed.
I have no way of threatening you. But if they keep asking questions, they will find your clients, and if your clients are inconvenienced, then you will be too. I want them to stop asking questions, but I need to know something to make that happen.

The cursor blinked. Finally words started streaming again.
Tell me what you need to know and I will decide.

I took a minute to drain the last of the bourbon.
Dirty South had a partner. Was it you?

No.

Was it the old man at Dexter's Guns and More?

How would I know such a thing? The transactions here in the Hole are anonymous.

I hesitated, then typed.
And yet…

Several seconds passed.
The old man was not involved in the trade. As for the killing, I do not know. I do know that I did not kill Dirty South, nor did I have him killed. Whoever did so cost me a valuable piece of merchandise. Dirty South worked alone. The location of the Amberdecker merchandise died with him.
The cursor blinked.
Unless you have the merchandise he failed to deliver?

No.

What about the other items he promised? The grouping that came with the locket?”

I thought of the bones lying in a stainless steel bed and got a shiver. So Lucius had been trying to sell them, which meant he was most likely the one who'd stuck them in the wall, just like I'd suspected. Not that White Wolf needed to know this.

I know nothing about them
, I typed.

That is unfortunate. Should you ever have those items, or similar ones, to offer, please contact me. I am always open to new opportunities. You know how to find me
.
The cursor blinked.
Just as I know how to find you.

The cursor stopped blinking, and the wolf icon vanished. White Wolf was no longer live. I looked at Kenny, who was as gray as the sky outside. I pushed my glass of bourbon his way. He took a giant swallow, coughed and hacked.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Lord have mercy, Miss Tai. What have you done?”

***

I gave Kenny some hot chocolate and drove him home. The wind was kicking up, fiercer now, dragging the first clouds behind it. That meant the rain was coming. Slow and steady at first, the meteorologists warned, turning to sleet and ice the second night fell. I dropped Kenny off at his apartment complex, waiting until the front door closed behind him before I drove back to the shop.

So Lucius was the sole contact according to White Wolf. Not Dexter. Unfortunately, even White Wolf didn't know who killed Lucius, or where the Amberdecker bones went. But he had known about the other bones, the young woman's bones. And I'd lied to him about them.

Damn, did I want a cigarette.

When I got back to the shop, I opened the faucet to a dribble and duct-taped newspaper a half-inch thick around the exposed spigot in the back lot. Double-checked the security system, because I knew Trey would ask. And then I sat down at the computer, at the now empty screen. He'd ask about this too, how I'd spent my morning. And if I left out chatting online with a black market businessman, the omission would shine in my face like a bare bulb.

My phone rang. Trey. I breathed a silent bit of gratitude that he couldn't read people over the phone.

I put it to my ear. “Hey, I was about to—”

“Stay there. I'm on my way.”

“Why?”

“I have sandbags for your car. And chains of some kind. Garrity sent them. Have you finished at the shop?”

“I have, but—”

“Good. I'll see you in seven…No, eight minutes. We'll drive in together. But I have to tell you something first.”

“What?”

“I'll tell you when I get there. It's very…something. I'll have to show you.”

And then he hung up. I sat back in my chair, watching a clump of dirty snow fall from the roof and splatter on the gravel. Two hours until sundown.