Chapter 27
M embers of a dark web chat room who have an obsession with blood moons,” Beth said in a hushed voice. She extended her arm for John to see. “That gave me goose bumps.”
“I had a gut reaction when I thought of it. That’s why I think it has validity.”
“And you think their assemblies are all conducted online?”
“I do. Whether creeps or clergymen, they’d be too cautious to have ceremonial gatherings, especially if they were in costumes and masks and performing rituals that involved tattooing, bloodletting, or sacrifices. It’s not like a book or knitting club.”
“We did a Crisis Point episode on a group that was selling human organs on the dark web. Max surmised they changed their handles more often than their socks in order to protect their anonymity, not only from law enforcement agencies, but from each other.”
“Right. And to join some that are into really dark shit, you have to have skin in the game.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have do something with a high risk factor. Something, which, if found out, would spell your ruin. Fear of exposure would keep you honest, keep you from ratting out anyone else. Without making that kind of commitment, you don’t get in.”
Beth frowned in thought. “So Crissy and the others were…?”
“I don’t know, but let’s say they were the initiation. They were the ticket in for the wannabe aiming to be allowed into the really exclusive group. He would post pictures to prove he did it. He’d post links to news stories about his dastardly deed. He’d have proved himself worthy of being accepted.”
Beth tented her hands and used them to cover her mouth. “I hate to say this, to even think it, but it sounds so ghastly and bizarre, it could be true.”
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “A secret society is merely a guess, and I could be dead wrong. There could be one clever psycho who took all four women and set up Patrick Dobbs and Billy Oliver as fall guys for two of those abductions.
“Or maybe there is a society, and it does meet like a book club. They get drunk on vino and chant amorous praises to Luna. They play rock-paper-scissors to see who does the honors on the next blood moon, and they don’t know beans about the dark web.” He frowned and shook his head in self-deprecation. “Saying it out loud sounds ridiculous.”
“You said Mitch didn’t dismiss it out of hand.”
“He told me he’d get some moles to nose around on the dark web and will let me know if they turn up anything. In the meantime, I’ll pass all this along to my counterparts in Galveston, Jackson, and Shreveport. But I’ll be surprised if they don’t suspect me of taking hallucinogens. And they’d be right to. At this point it’s all fabrication.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Beth said. “Some of the cases we’ve documented on Crisis Point prove that. Seemingly normal people are capable of doing anything.” She pressed his shoulder as she stood.
“Call the other detectives, John. If they’re skeptical, challenge them to come up with a better theory.” She started for the bedroom. “While you’re doing that, I need to call New York.”
The burner phone Tom Barker used exclusively to communicate with the ogre vibrated on his desk. He snatched it up. “Tell me something good.”
“No sign of him.”
“Beth Collins?”
“Has also pulled a vanishing act.”
“Mitch Haskell?”
“Spotted the tail I put on him. Slipped it by crossing a lane of traffic, bumping across the median, and making a U-turn onto a busy highway.”
“Fire whoever was following him.”
“Hell, no. He’s one of my best men. Haskell was just luckier.”
“Luckier, hell. He was smarter. Call him. Threaten him with something.”
“I tried that. When I called the cell number I had sneaked, I got a recording in Haskell’s voice saying, ‘Hi, this is Domino’s. Leave your order and then fuck off.’ His office says he’s on assignment and could be for several days. They asked us to please stop calling, that he’ll contact us at his earliest opportunity.”
“Bullshit.”
“That’s what I said.”
Tom mouthed a stream of obscenities. “Frank, nothing you’ve told me is good.”
“I saved the best for last. I followed Bowie’s kid to school.”
Tom’s heart cartwheeled. “Tell me.”
“His ex got the house in the divorce. I arrived there in time to see her boyfriend leaving. About an hour later, she drove the girl to school.”
“What’s the girl like?”
“Lots of dark, curly hair. Tall. Too skinny for my taste. I’m parked down the street but have a clear view of where her mother dropped her. Awaiting your instructions, boss. Feel better?”
Not all that much. His nose was still swollen, discolored, and sore as hell. This morning his wife had had the gall to ask if it was ever going to look normal again and suggested that another visit to the plastic surgeon might be in order.
“You still there?” Frank asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“Well,” the ogre said, smacking his chewing gum, “while you’re at it, give this some thought. If you so much as touch that kid of his, Bowie will kill you.”
“She’s been a pain in his ass for years. He’s had to use vacation days to search for her when she’s run off. She’s given him nothing but grief.”
“She may not be the apple of his eye, but he would come after you with one of his namesake knifes and gut you on principle. You’d be better off at the mercy of Rambo.”
Even knowing that scenario wasn’t too far-fetched, Tom resented it. “Thank you for that warning, Frank,” he said dryly. “I’ll keep it in mind as I deliberate. Stay where you are. If and when the girl leaves the school, follow.”
“Then what?”
“TBD. I’ll get back to you with a plan.”
“Did you emphasize how urgent it is that I speak with him?” Beth was pacing at the foot of the iron bed, trying to stem her agitation and not sound crazed. Executive producer Winston Brady’s assistant was unmoveable.
“I conveyed that, Ms. Collins, but Mr. Brady is also dealing with urgent matters today. I’m sure that as soon as his schedule permits, he’ll get in touch with you. Have a nice day.” She hung up.
She hung up! If ever Beth had speculated on what her status at Crisis Point would be if Max were no longer there, she had her answer.
“Pompous jackass,” she muttered in regard to Brady. She called the direct line to what was still officially her office, even if not for long. Richard answered, “Ms. Collins’s office.”
“This is Ms. Collins.”
“Beth! Oh my God! You were so overwrought when I told you about Mr. Longren, I worried about you for the rest of the night. How are you? You were taking it so hard.”
“I still am. However, right now, I’m livid. Brady refused to take my call.”
“When?”
“Just now. Even though I told his assistant how urgent it was that I speak with him, she didn’t budge from ‘He’s unavailable.’”
“Honestly, Beth, I am not surprised that he had no time for you. The man is positively frenzied. As long as Mr. Longren was alive, he was still the figurehead producer of the network’s most highly rated show. Now everyone is anxious and paranoid over how his sudden absence will affect their positions here, and that includes Brady.”
“He should be anxious. Up till now, anything that went wrong, he could blame on that doddering old tyrant, Max Longren,” she said bitterly. “His safety net is no longer there.”
“Too true. I swear, his lips must be chapped from kissing so many behinds. The network execs, as well as the show’s sponsors, are pressing him for a guarantee that losing Longren won’t negatively impact the quality of Crisis Point .”
“That’s exactly why I’m desperate to talk to him,” Beth exclaimed. “He must, must cancel the broadcast of that Mellin episode.”
Richard sputtered. “That’s what you wanted to tell him? Then God bless his harpy of an assistant for not connecting you.”
“Explain, please.”
“Brady is maniacally pushing everyone to finish a video obituary for Mr. Longren, which will be tacked onto the end of that episode. Two sponsors have devoted their commercial time to it. As we speak, his long and illustrious career is being edited down to one hundred twenty seconds.”
Beth stopped pacing and dropped down onto the bed. “You cannot be serious.”
“Would I make that up?”
“Max would be horrified. He didn’t even want a funeral. Why is Brady doing this?”
“I suppose he wants to make himself look good.”
“Well, if that’s his goal, he’s going to fail miserably. Airing that episode will ruin him. The network execs and sponsors will hang him in effigy in Times Square.”
“Because of the tribute?”
“Because of the Mellin story itself.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“Vital aspects of it are just plain untrue.”
“How do you know?”
Just in time, she stopped herself from naming John as her source. “The misrepresentations of the truth about that case that I’d come to suspect have been corroborated by individuals close to it. Trust me when I tell you that the story we produced is far from factual, and if it’s broadcast as is, Brady will never work again in this industry. He wanted top billing in the credits. Well, he’s got it. But he’ll rue the day. First, he’ll be a laughingstock, and then he’ll be a leper.”
Richard didn’t respond. Today of all days, she didn’t have the patience to deal with one of his sullen spells. “What, Richard? Talk to me.”
He cleared his throat. “I’ve, uh, heard through the grapevine that not only is Brady dedicating that episode to Mr. Longren, he’s giving him credit as executive producer. He had done the heavy lifting on it and would have signed off on it if he hadn’t suffered that medical emergency. Brady thought it only fair to give him top billing.”
“Oh my God,” she groaned. “This is a disaster. That episode is a falsehood. If it’s credited to Max, his reputation will be shredded. Posthumously, yes, but his legacy will be permanently tarnished.”
Unseeing, she stared at the Christmas cards dangling from the string tacked to the opposite wall, tapping her forehead with her thumb knuckle in the hope of dislodging from her mind a way to prevent this catastrophe. There was only one.
“Richard, I can’t let this happen. You have got to convince Brady to talk to me.”
“ Me? ” he screeched. “I hold no sway over Winston Brady. He probably doesn’t even know I exist.”
“Tell him it’s an emergency.”
“I—”
“Better yet, tell him his career is on the line. That should get his attention.”
“Beth—”
“Swear that I’m doing him an enormous favor for which he’ll thank me later.”
“Beth!”
“Plead, bargain, lie, whatever it takes. And don’t tarry. Go to his office right now.”
“ Beth! ”
“ What? ”
“Something that hasn’t occurred to you is that… that if the episode airs, and if it’s as untrue as you say, your reputation will be shredded, too. Brady generously added your name to the credits as associate producer.”
“Are you free?” John asked as soon as Gayle Morris answered.
“Not for long.”
He’d saved her for last after having spoken with Roberts and Cougar. The result of those conversations was mixed. From the start, Cougar had been lukewarm at best on the moon having anything to do with their young woman’s disappearance.
The new information John gave him on numerology and his speculation about a secret society on the dark web had made the other investigator even more leery. But he’d grudgingly agreed to look back through his files and see if they might have overlooked a weirdo who had a thing going with a moon goddess.
John really couldn’t blame the guy for his sarcasm.
Roberts in Jackson was a bit more receptive. After listening to John’s spiel, he told him he remembered a guy they’d questioned because he’d been acquainted with their victim and had a prior arrest for exposing himself. “During questioning, he admitted to routinely visiting porn sites on the dark web. ‘Routinely’ turned out to be three times a day.”
“You cleared him?”
“His wife provided him with an alibi for the night Anna was taken. But in light of what you’ve told me, I’ll follow up on him and get back to you when and if I have something.”
“Might be wise to have someone watching him tomorrow night.”
“For sure.”
John had thanked him and, now, he was lucky enough to find Gayle Morris with a few free minutes. “I’m short on time, too, but I wanted to bounce this off of you. It comes with a warning. It’s going to sound crazy and like I’m losing it, or am already around the bend.”
“I wish I still smoked,” she sighed. “Go ahead.”
“Numerology.”
“Oh, hell, that’s dense.”
“Very, and I’m skimming the surface.” He told her about Victor Wallace and gave her a rudimentary lesson on how the system worked. “All four girls have double letters in their names. The professor said that would arouse a numerologist’s interest.”
“You think that’s the common thread we’ve been looking for?”
“I don’t rule it out. Neither does Beth.”
“But?”
“But maybe we’ve been looking for the common thread in the wrong place.” He then advanced his theory.
When he finished, she whooshed. “Wow. Four crimes, four culprits, but one motive whose underpinnings are Roman mythology and mysticism.”
“Does it have legs?”
“Shaky ones, John. Like earthquake shaky.”
“I admire your candor.”
“It’s waaaay out there.”
“I know. I also know it’s asking a lot, but could you go back to Larissa’s family one more time? Ask about her friends, a relative, anybody in her realm who was into numerology or the paranormal of any stripe. Anyone who might, just might, surf the dark web in search of like-minded people. That person may not be guilty of anything, but he or she could play on the same playground as the men who are, and could point us toward it.”
“John, I’d help, but I’m working a case where either parent could’ve drowned their two-month-old baby girl in her little pink bathtub. They’re lying to cover for each other, and there’s a mistress in the mix. I have a lot on my plate.”
“I get it.”
“Larissa Whitmore’s disappearance is a cold case.”
“I understand the pecking order, Gayle. I do . But just for a nanosecond pretend that Patrick Dobbs didn’t pitch Larissa into the Gulf. Some other dude did.”
“I’m inclined to agree. But my boss, and his boss, and the prosecutor believe Dobbs was the dude. If I got all of them in a room and started talking about a secret society of men with hard-ons for Luna, an ancient Roman moon goddess, who are stealing girls with double letters in their names, possibly for human sacrifices, and conducting their meetings on the dark web, they would probably demote me to meter maid.”
She sighed again. “I want to help you, John, truly I do. But you know the politics of police departments. Sometimes you gotta go with the flow. I’ve got three boys to educate.”
“I get that, too,” he said, thinking of the art school Molly had her heart set on. But he also thought about the one time he’d gone with the flow, and look how that had turned out. Here they were, still after Crissy Mellin’s abductor.
“Thanks, Gayle. You’ve been patient with me, and I appreciate your time and attention. Let’s hope this whole blood moon thing is nothing more than an inexplicable coincidence.”
“Goes without saying.”
They ended the call by wishing each other good luck. He hadn’t heard Beth as she’d moved up behind his chair, but he sensed her there and turned around. He took one look at her face and said, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s dreadful.”
She recounted her conversation with Richard, and finished by saying, “It’ll be devastating to Max’s legacy, and death to my career.”
“So do what you’ve advised me to do. Skip the chain of command. Go to the person up one rung from Brady and tell him or her of the pending disaster.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“You’ve got a week to set things straight.”
She huffed a humorless laugh. “Actually, I don’t. That was the second news bulletin Richard had for me. It seems that after Max’s body was taken away, the paperwork he’d been working on was cleared off his desk and somehow—Richard doesn’t know how—it got to Brady.
“In his hen scratching fashion, Max had written down notes on the possible connection between November 2022’s blood moon and Crissy Mellin’s disappearance. He’d expanded on everything he and I had talked about. Someone—Richard doesn’t know who—brought to Brady’s attention that tomorrow night there will be the first blood moon since that one.
“Brady thought it would be an ideal tie-in, a great ‘gimmick’ for the narrator to mention that at the top of the program. So, rather than waiting to air the episode next week as scheduled, they’ve moved it to tomorrow night. To coincide with the blood moon.”