Chapter 14 #2
Jack spread the photographs across the viewing table and we worked through them one at a time.
The first few showed the tunnels from different angles and what looked like different nights—the ring, the crowd, the work lights strung from the old brick ceiling.
The energy in the images was almost physical.
You could feel the heat of the crowd, the bloodlust, the underground electricity of something illegal and dangerous happening in a place nobody was supposed to know existed.
Then the faces started to emerge. Vic Caruso ringside, leaning on the ropes, watching a bout with a practiced eye.
T-Bone between rounds, mouthguard out, listening to instructions from someone just out of frame.
Marco Reyes with his hands wrapped, waiting near the tunnel entrance.
A folding table where money was being counted in neat stacks under a work light.
“That’s the bank,” Jack said. “That’s where the bets settle.”
I pointed to the next photograph. A tall man with a clean-shaved head and a tattoo on the side of his neck. Looked like someone who got paid to make sure problems didn’t happen, and to handle them if they did.
“Harold Pruitt’s guy,” Jack said. “Tall, dark hair, tattoo on the neck. That’s one of the men from the van.”
The next photo stopped Jack cold. Standing with his arms at his sides and his eyes on the crowd, was a King George County deputy in full uniform. Badge visible. Duty belt. The posture of a man on the job.
Beckwith.
Not hiding. Not blending in. Standing guard.
Jack’s jaw tightened but he said nothing. He set the photo aside and kept going.
A heavyset man with a clipboard at the edge of the ring caught Jack’s attention in the next image.
“That’s the marina manager,” he said. “The organized crime link Derby found.” He tapped the figure standing behind him, half turned toward the camera. Dark hair, expensive watch, rigid posture. “And that’s Stavros.”
“So he shows up to these things.”
“Not every week. A man like him doesn’t sit ringside for routine cards. He comes when the stakes are high enough.” Jack’s voice had gone quiet. “Or when someone needs to be reminded who’s in charge.”
He turned to the last photograph and went still.
A body on the tunnel floor. A young man, dark skinned and muscular, lying on his back with his arms flung wide and his eyes open and staring at the old brick ceiling above him.
Blood had pooled beneath his head in a dark, spreading halo that caught the work light and turned it black at the edges.
And standing over him, one hand still holding a short-bladed knife with casual ease, was Stavros.
His face was clear and unobstructed. His expression was calm, almost thoughtful.
The body at his feet was still bleeding, and Stavros was looking down at it the way you’d look at something you’d spilled and would need someone else to clean up.
Neither of us spoke for a long moment. The vault hummed around us, cool and silent, holding this image the way it had held it for fourteen months, waiting for someone to come and take it out into the light.
I’d never seen murder posed like a trophy.
“He killed someone,” I said. “In front of everyone. That’s either brave or stupid.”
“It’s a man who’s teaching everyone who’s in charge. He’s showing them all what happens if they cross him. Thank God Dre had the wits to photograph it.”
Jack set the image down with a care that told me his hands wanted to do something else with it entirely. “What’s in the letter?”
I unfolded the single page. The block print was the same steady, disciplined hand as the envelope, and I read it aloud while Jack stood beside me with his arms crossed and his eyes burning.
If you’re reading this then I’m probably dead. I hate writing that because I really want to live. But no matter what happens to me, it’s important the truth come out.
I’m a Marine first and a man second. And I have a confession, because I can’t call out others’ sins without calling out my own.
When I got out of the Marines I was introduced to a man who said he could make me famous like Tyson and Mayweather.
Vic said it had been a long time since he’d seen someone with my natural talent and skill.
I believed him. So I trained and he started signing me up for these fights.
He said they were practice. To get some seasoning on me. I was a little too polished, he said.
Then he introduced me to Nikolai Stavros. He’s the money guy. The sponsor. I didn’t realize until it was too late what these underground fights really were. The tunnels in King George County are the best-kept secret around, and I learned to fight, keep my mouth shut, and take the money.
But I knew things were wrong. And I knew Vic was lying to me. He wasn’t trying to get me on the professional circuit. So I decided I had to figure out a way to get out. I knew that might not be possible after watching Stavros kill a man. Another fighter. That’s when I knew I was disposable.
Joaquin Melendez was his name. But he tried to play the bets on his way out.
He hedged against the house line to walk away with a bigger cut.
Stavros found out, and he was waiting for Joaquin at the end of his fight with a big smile.
Creepiest thing I ever saw. Didn’t even give him a chance to speak.
He just put a hand on his shoulder like he was going to hug him and then pushed the knife right into the side of his neck.
I’m not sure what happened to Joaquin. He just disappeared.
I don’t know if Stavros had ever done something like that before, but there was no fear in him.
He acted like he could do anything he wanted and get away with it.
Maybe he could. He’s got cops on his payroll.
There’s always a guy there in uniform to make sure everyone behaves and no one runs off with the money.
So I started taking notes. Taking names. And I started to plan my escape. I guess it failed.
I hope you take him down. It’s the least I can do in death.
Andre Washington. United States Marine Corps. Semper Fi.
“Joaquin Melendez,” Jack said. “I’ll check with Richmond PD to see if they have a missing persons case.”
Jack gathered the photographs, the letter, and the flash drive and sealed each piece into evidence bags with steady hands.
I thought about Dre’s mother. The yellow front door he was going to paint for her. The house he’d been saving for with money that was supposed to buy them a new life. The surprise he’d mentioned on the phone that last Thursday night, the last time she’d ever hear his voice.
“You think Dre figured out a way to get out?” I asked. “Maybe that’s what he was excited about. He could have taken any of this information to the press or the FBI and blown the whole thing wide open.”
“That would certainly be a motive for murder,” Jack said.
We walked out of Heritage Federal into a Saturday morning that had no idea what we were carrying. Jack opened my door, went around to the driver’s side, and turned toward King George.
“What about Beckwith?” I asked.
“If the pattern holds, he’ll be at the fight tonight.” Jack’s voice was flat. “Standing guard in that tunnel with his badge on when SWAT comes through the door.”
“You’re going to let that happen?”
“I’m counting on it.”