“Step in, Alexander, and close the door. As best you can,” I said, pointing at the broken frame. “We need to talk, Sheriff.”

  Data 5

  9:15 p.m.

  I placed my ear against the door again, listening closely. It had gotten quiet. There had been a loud smashing sound at the Romanian girls’ apartment, with wood splintering and shouting five minutes ago.

  I had been putting the final touches on the social media and email blast I had to send at 9:30 p.m. The one that would destroy Sullivan’s reputation. But there was nothing I could do about it. If I refused to send it, I would take a beating, and then I would have to send it anyway.

  Sullivan knew if he played games with the Romanians there would be repercussions. He chose to disappear and hide out at a hotel. Or at least make it appear he was hiding out at that hotel where he orchestrated the Minelli-versus-Grigore confrontation.

  Why couldn’t Sullivan just go along with it? He got Clemmons killed, along with a bunch of the guys from Randy’s crew. If he had complied, then everything would be fine.

  Sullivan’s picture would both auto-post on several social media platforms and auto-send via email at 9:30 p.m. I wanted to get out of the apartment in advance. Maybe it would reduce my guilt if I wasn’t sitting in front of a computer when the crap hit the fan.

  Then again, the apartment would be the safest place for me physically. At some point, Sullivan was coming after me, probably at Grandma’s trailer or at the campground.

  The damaging picture would disseminate in ten minutes. There was still time to abort. But I knew I couldn’t abort unless Daniela ordered it.

  When Daniela told me to copy Sullivan’s management on the emails, I experienced a swelling of relief. She didn’t understand this would likely destroy his blackmail value to her. If he was suspended, fired, or lost his security clearance, he would have his classified systems access severed.

  Without his government systems access, this ill-fated data-theft plan was impossible. It would be very humiliating and personally destructive to have his prostitute photo sent to everyone who mattered in his life, but on the bright side, it will allow Sullivan to avoid committing treason.

  I sat and stared at the blank monitor. It was tempting to log back on to the system and browse the dark web, but the impending picture blast had me on edge. I shouldn’t be sending these pictures out. Brady wasn’t exactly my favorite person, but I didn’t want to further contribute to the destruction of his life. And he would know it was me who did it. Once that blast went out, I had to be more cautious than ever.

  I decided to risk leaving the apartment. I listened at the door one last time and heard nothing. I exited the room with my backpack and grabbed my bike, which I had pulled into the hallway. The backpack was especially important, given that it contained a small stack of cash Daniela had given me.

  Putting on my helmet, I quietly exited the hallway door to the outside, making sure the heavy door didn’t slam loudly behind me.

  Brady 15

  9:25 p.m.

  And out walks Data with his bike, helmet strapped on securely. He was willing to take huge risks with his hacking but drew the line with risking his skull on a slow-moving ten-speed.

  That ratty little apartment was the new headquarters for many of the shady things going down in Sandusky.

  I had expected Minelli to emerge from the front door with a Romanian in handcuffs. Maybe two of them. Or for someone to be thrown through a window. Maybe a few gunshots. But he was still in there, and all was quiet.

  I photographed a Romanian hooker, Minelli, and Data as they came and went from the apartment. I wasn’t sure what it would prove, but I felt I needed to document their presence at Cloverleaf.

  The call from Jenna was cryptic. She obviously feared being recorded. I was shocked when she proposed meeting in person. The only place that came to mind was the Loco Cactus Mexican cantina up the street.

  It would make more sense to meet her at a remote location, but she had no reason to trust me. We risked being seen together at the restaurant, but unless Minelli or one of his deputies saw us, it wouldn’t really matter.

  I looked at the digital clock on my dash display: 2131 hours. I would wait for another five minutes and then head to the restaurant.

  A soft knock on my passenger window startled me. I was so fixated on the Romanians’ apartment door that I wasn’t monitoring my immediate surroundings. I reached down to the floorboard for Mike’s pistol as I looked up.

  A large black man was peering in the window. It took me a moment to recognize him as Vaughn from the campground. What the fuck was he doing here?

  His facial expression was a mix of annoyance and humor; I caught you doing something shady, dummy.

  I leaned over and unlocked the door. He stood there, unmoving. I rolled the window down.

  “You just going to stand outside my car here drawing attention to me?” I hissed.

  He smirked, shook his head, and then walked out toward East Shoreway Drive. He made a large silhouette against the streetlights that had just flickered on. I noticed a bit of a limp, like he was favoring his left leg.

  When he arrived at the street, he went south, away from the campground. Was he out taking an evening stroll? He disappeared from sight.

  I started the truck and took a right out of the complex. I caught sight of him cutting across the parking lot of the convenience store at the corner. By the time I pulled up to the cross street, he had disappeared into the building.

  I noted the time was 2138 hours. I had to be at the Mexican place at 2200 hours. It was only five minutes away, so I had a few minutes. I pulled into the parking lot and parked along the west side of the building.

  A few moments later, Vaughn limped out, carrying a small grocery bag. He was staring down at his phone as he walked. He almost passed me without noticing but must have caught a glimpse of the green truck in his peripheral vision as he passed by. He stopped and looked at me.

  I motioned him over. He didn’t move. I motioned again. He shook his head and reluctantly came over.

  “Dude, what?” he asked.

  “So, you live over there. You’ve been watching the same things I have. Are you telling me you don’t think something shady is going on?”

  He shook his head. “None of my business.”

  “Good for you. It must be nice to exist outside of the crossfire.”

  “Does this look like I’m outside of the crossfire?” he asked, leaning forward and pulling the yellow polo collar aside to display a nasty welt on his neck.

  “Whoa, what happened there?” I asked.

  “None of your damn business. Maybe if you got in the habit of just minding your own business you wouldn’t be involved in this shit, man,” he said, shrugging.

  “I was minding my own business. I was fucking drugged at that bowling alley down the street,” I said, nodding west. “I did nothing more than have a few drinks and ended up getting trafficked to one of those campground cabins and was posed with a hooker while unconscious. Are you telling me you don’t know that some of those cabins are rigged with cameras?”

  Vaughn set the bag down and crossed his arms. His face still had a skeptical expression. Then he nodded.

  “You think I suddenly went off the rails at a campground I spend each summer at with my family, that I spontaneously decided to bang a hooker while pictures were taken? I work for the federal government; I have a security clearance. This kind of shit could cost me my job, not to mention my marriage,” I said, trying to keep calm. Was it smart to lay this out in front of someone I barely knew?

  “So why did Randy go through the trouble to entrap you?”

  “Because of that job I just mentioned. With Randy out of the picture, my situation hasn’t gotten any better. Those Romanian park workers stepped in and took over. That apartment I was surveilling is their new headquarters. And the sheriff entered in plainclothes a while ago and is likely still in there. Does that sound legit to you?”

  Jenna 6

  10:05 p.m.

  Well, Mr. Sullivan had about five more minutes before I bounced. Meeting him at a cantina was already a highly questionable decision. He had implied that he was being monitored; ordinarily, that would seem unreasonably paranoid. After all, Sullivan was a typical summer tourist, vacationing at a campground.

  Of course, the events unfolding around him were anything but typical. My lack of understanding of the situation was troubling, given a guy in Sullivan’s orbit had died under my care. For my own safety, a conversation in a busy public setting made the most sense.

  Sullivan advised that I find a table in the bar area. I wasn’t a big fan of the Loco Cactus or cantinas in general. I am the Puerto Rican variety of Hispanic, so I have no affinity for Mexican food and drink. The canned mariachi music always seemed forced and contrived. A stiff frozen margarita with chips and salsa was fine at happy hour, but that was about the extent of my interest.

  The place was busy. It was mostly tourists, with a few locals sitting at the bar. The staff appeared to be all authentic Mexicans; short, dark-haired men, many of whom were mustachioed.

  It felt good to be out of the apartment; I had been living in a self-imposed state of isolation for most of the summer. Burnout and exhaustion had turned me into a hermit. Working at the hospital was a constant grind, and I usually lacked the energy to socialize. Not that I counted this meeting with Sullivan as a social event.

  To make matters worse for my social life, I would be switching to the overnight shift tomorrow. That tended to turn my world upside down. Starting late in the evening and leaving at breakfast time was unnatural, and I never got used to it.

  My cell buzzed. I figured it was Sullivan canceling. Good. I would finish my margarita and head home.

  The number on the screen was Minelli’s. I sighed.

  “Jenna speaking.”

  “Hi, Jenna, Tony Minelli here.”

  “Hi, Sheriff,” I said, as minimally friendly as possible.

  “I wanted to chat with you real quick about the video you forwarded earlier,” he said quietly. It was difficult to hear with the buzz of the restaurant noise, so I covered my right ear.

  “Okay.”

  “I need for you to erase that. Delete it from your phone, then delete it from trash. If your videos save to a cloud, delete ’em from that too.”

  It took me a moment to process what he was saying. Delete a video? “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said.

  “The video from the hospital. Of Stoica exiting the room. I need you to delete that.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I have a copy of it. We don’t want to have duplicates out there.”

  “But if it was admitted as evidence, wouldn’t they want the original?” I asked.

  I didn’t have the original; that was still on Gary’s phone. Minelli seemed to have forgotten that.

  “Nah, I can verify the authenticity of it,” he said.

  “Okay, will do.”

  “Do it now, while I’m on the phone with you,” he said.

  I took the phone away from my ear and looked at the screen. I switched to the photo app and found the video. Fuck no, I’m not deleting this. I paused for a moment then put the phone back up to my ear.

  “Okay, Sheriff, the images and video were deleted. I also emptied the trash folder,” I said.

  “Good. Thanks, Jenna. Give me that coworker’s phone number,” he demanded.

  “Gary? Not sure if he wants me to hand that out,” I said warily.

  “Listen, this is a law-enforcement issue; I won’t tell him I got it from you. He will think I looked it up.”

  I sighed. I opened the contacts application and read off Gary’s number.

  “Did you speak to anyone at work about it?” he asked.

  “Nope, I just passed the video on to you. So, I assume Stoica has been questioned? Arrested?”

  “I can’t talk about an active investigation, but everything is under control.”

  I bet it is. The call ended. I took a drink of my margarita and popped a chip in my mouth.

  “Hi, Jenna,” a voice from behind me said.

  I turned around, and it was Sullivan, flanked by a giant black man. He looked like Suge Knight, the infamous rapper-manager from the 1990s, but even bigger. He practically blocked the overhead lights, casting a shadow over the table. I craned my neck to look up at him.

  “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend. Do you really need a bodyguard to meet with me, Sullivan?” I asked.

  The big guy almost smiled, but his mouth didn’t quite execute the expression. Sullivan walked to the other side of the table.

  “I picked up a friend along the way. Mind if we sit down?”

  I gestured toward the chairs, and both men sat.

  “This is Vaughn. He works at Sandusky Shores,” he said, and Vaughn softly shook my hand with his big paw.

  He works at Sandusky Shores. As if that explained his presence here.

  “Jenna,” I said.

  Sullivan scanned the restaurant, looking closely at all the faces. The little Mexican waiter came over and placed more chips and salsa on the table. Sullivan ordered a jumbo margarita.

  “What do you got that is dark?” Vaughn asked.

  “We have Modelo Dark,” he said with a slight accent.

  “Don’t know what that is. I’ll take a tall one,” he said.

  How about a “please”?

  “So, Vaughn, why are you tagging along tonight?” I asked.

  “Good question. I have no damned idea. Sullivan here and I seemed to be crossing paths a lot, and I had some questions about shit goin’ down at the campground. He invited me out for a drink and some chips and salsa, and I had nothin’ better to do,” he said, taking a chip and dipping it.

  “So, can I see the video?” Brady asked, leaning forward.

  When we coordinated to meet on the phone, I mentioned I had a video he should see. I took my phone out, started the video, and handed it to Sullivan. The big man leaned over to look, squinting.

  “I recognize this guy. He is the one who attacked my daughter,” Sullivan said, a frown forming on his face.

  Vaughn raised an eyebrow. “Attacked your daughter?”

  “Yeah. She has severe nut allergies. He broke into our hotel room and spiked her milk with peanut oil. It damn near killed her.”

  Vaughn shook his head. “Now how do you know that, man?” he asked, his voice filled with skepticism.

  “Data admitted that he coordinated it.”

  “Data? Like the android guy from Star Trek?” I asked, incredulously.

  “His real name is Henry Hallux. Another guy who works at the campground. He moonlighted as the tech guy for a local criminal outfit. Data confessed that Stoica was the guy who poisoned my daughter; he knew because he was in on it. He gets these people in and out of rooms with hacked keycards.”

  Vaughn continued shaking his head. Their drinks arrived.

  “So, Data is this world-class hacking wizard, but uses his skills to pop open hotel rooms for the guy who owns the bowling alley?”

  “Are you telling me you didn’t know Data was heavily involved with Randy’s operations? He was the guy. He can hack into almost anything. You don’t know his history?” Sullivan asked.

  “What history?” I asked, taking a drink.

  “Data is a brilliant guy. He was a Silicon Valley player years ago. He was in on a startup that was a big deal, but then they were caught doing a lot of illegal shit. He went to prison in California for a few years. He is on probation and is supposed to be tech-free. Randy made a big investment in advanced tech at the trailer that burned down.”

  “That you burned down?” Vaughn asked.

  Sullivan stared at him for a moment, then gazed down at his drink. “Are you fishing for a confession?” Sullivan asked.

  “Just asking a question, man. Your buddy almost died outside of that trailer.”

  “Right. He survived that but then was murdered in the hospital by the Romanians.”

  “I didn’t see no murder on that video,” Vaughn said.

  “Connect the dots, man. Why would he be walking out of Mike’s room just as his monitors went off? And the pillowcase,” he said, nodding to me as if I was obliged to brief him.

  “A janitor found a pillowcase with a bloodstain in Clemmons’s room. Stoica had stitches that may have dripped blood on it,” I said, taking a drink.

  “Where is the pillowcase now?” Vaughn asked.

  “In Minelli’s possession,” I said. Vaughn furrowed his brow.

  “So, he is testing it. He took a sample of Stoica’s blood?” Sullivan asked.

  “I don’t know what he is doing with it,” I said.

  “How did Stoica even find him?” Vaughn asked, looking at me.

  “Clemmons’s hospitalization was in the news. It would be easy to determine what floor he would be on, due to his injuries.”

  Vaughn leaned back and crossed his arms. “So, the Romanian faked an injury to go to the hospital and take out Clemmons?”

  “No, Stoica had real injuries. A broken arm, a concussion, and cuts. It was supposedly from a motorcycle injury. But if he was in that RV, it would explain all those injuries,” I said. I looked over at Brady, who quickly averted his eyes. Stoica was in that RV, and Sullivan knows because he orchestrated it.

  Vaughn took a big swig of beer, almost finishing it. “So, you sent this video to the cops?”

  “Of course. Sheriff Minelli has it. He didn’t do anything with it that I’m aware of.”

  Brady shook his head. “That video and pillowcase aren’t going to get us anywhere. Minelli went to their apartment at Cloverleaf and paid a long visit. Well over an hour. He was still there when I left to come here. Minelli is crooked. He doesn’t want to arrest Stoica because the Romanians have something on him.”

  “Like?” I asked.

  “Like blackmail pictures. Blackmail was the foundation of Randy Gorey’s operation,” he said.

 

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