Chapter 87
Chapter 87
O ur working theory was simple. When Maynard did not get what he wanted—that is, the nomination—he’d let his hair down slightly and medicate his frustration. We thought he’d do that in a place where he was comfortable, where he had friends to pat his back and cry in his beer, and where he knew he would not get caught. Or at least, we had the feeling he’d be open to the opportunity in that place if it happened to present itself.
Which, thanks to Jess and Clay, it would.
In my absence, the team had attacked every piece of electronics tied to Maynard and his associates and anyone who worked for him. Most had been turned into listening devices. Which the team had been doing 24-7. Chances were good they knew more about Maynard than Maynard. And Maynard was starting to glance around the corner. At what was coming. At that amount of power. Which meant the freedom to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with whomever he wanted. The hints were subtle, but they were there if you knew what to look for. We not only had his texts, which were cryptic but slightly disturbing; we also had his sound. His tone of voice. Maynard sounded like a man who knew he had the winning lottery ticket but had yet to declare it publicly. Jess and BP had put together a montage of sound bites. In poker language, they were “tells.” To Maynard, his plan had worked and he knew what no one else knew. That he had won. He was just waiting patiently for everyone else to come to that realization. He was about to summit the Everest of his own life. To conquer that which for so long had been off-limits. His language took on a giddiness he was growing unable to mask. This was what we wanted. This euphoria. Because we had the notion it would turn to rage when we pulled the rug out from under him. And a raging man would do things he wouldn’t otherwise.
To trap Maynard, we had to offer him something he was unlikely to resist at a time when his guard, which he had spent a political lifetime building, was down. A momentary lapse brought on by bitter anger with no outlet. No way to vent. We knew when the trap was sprung, Maynard would face a choice. Rage publicly or swallow it privately. We also knew he was far too controlled in public to ever open the valve of the pressure cooker, allowing others to see his weakness. To know the truth of him. But privately? He would want to satisfy an appetite. A sick miscreant like Maynard saw no difference. For that type of person, both prepubescent children and ice cream were simply tastes that satisfied. Something of little or no value to be enjoyed for one’s own pleasure, eliciting no emotional connection, that once mostly consumed was best dispensed in the nearest trash can. Offering a few hours, or minutes, of satiation. That was all.
We knew for the trap to be enticing he had to overhear something he was not meant to hear, and that whatever he heard would have to pique his particular interest and offer zero risk. We also suspected it was highly possible that Maynard didn’t arrange his own fetish pleasures. He might very well employ a staff member to do that for him who was just as perverted as he. But that, too, brought risk. What if the staff member ever tired of running that errand? That interference? Whoever that person was, he or she, and in earnest it was probably a he, must have committed some serious sin and Maynard kept the evidence as leverage. And that sin must have been so egregious that the errand boy would be continually willing to provide unwilling suitors for the senator, because the alternative of Maynard turning in that evidence or revealing it to the proper authorities brought with it the very real threat of life in prison—and even prison was not kind to child rapists. Proving once again that evil people used evil tactics to coerce other evil people to acquiesce to their evil demands. Fear of consequences was a powerful motivator. And among the evil, it may well have been the most powerful.
Stackhouse delivered the silver key and instructed us on how it was used. It wasn’t inserted into a lock so much as presented to an attendant at a small desk, who then punched a button and opened a door, allowing access to the downstairs portion of the pub. If you had the key, you could go anywhere and take anyone with you. No questions asked. Just don’t lose the key. Which was one reason they were about the size of a human palm. Made them harder to misplace.
The Gilded Kilt was famous for its location—an alley tucked between two old warehouses that had been converted to upscale condos and townhomes with starting prices north of a million. Across the street sat a long-forgotten and badly dilapidated theater that, thanks to Maynard, had received federal grants and now stood like a towering sentinel in a thriving artistic culture.
Jess and Clay rehearsed and dressed and had an Uber drop them off, which was not unusual. Maynard himself often Uber’d back and forth between the Capitol, the pub, and his apartment when it was late or he’d had one too many, which wasn’t often but did seem to coincide with the passage of some legislation he’d helped draft or sponsor. When not hiring a car, Maynard also liked to walk, which, based on the data from his phone, involved multiple underground private tunnels frequented only by the people who owned the real estate above them. This back-and-forth pattern suggested Maynard either had paid off a lot of people, which was unlikely, or had hired some kid to hack a few systems and create an access code. Probably the latter. By following his phone, we established that Maynard could traverse ten blocks and never see daylight. Welcome down underground.
We also found something else of interest. He often stopped at one or several of the private residences above ground, where he would spend an hour or the night. The pattern was rather random but limited to one of seven condos. Ownership of the condos was registered to a Florida-based company that, when we peeled back all the baloney wrapped around it, was owned by none other than Waylon Maynard, proving that the senator had done well for himself. No, better yet, he was a real estate genius who owned somewhere north of, by conservative estimates, fifteen million in real estate. Which was a testimony to the power of compounding interest or suggested that maybe Maynard had other sources of income.
When Eddie and BP circled back around and revisited Maynard’s cell data, crossing it with the numbers of his staff, an interesting pattern surfaced. One number had an uncanny ability to precede and follow Maynard at every condo. He’d arrive less than thirty minutes before, spend at most fifteen minutes, and then, just moments before Maynard arrived, retreat to a nearby condo or back to the Gilded Kilt until Maynard exited the premises. Then he’d return, spend maybe five minutes, and exit in a vehicle by way of the belowground parking deck.
Eddie tapped the screen revealing the pattern and said quietly, “Delivery and cleanup.”
I knew what he was saying so I didn’t ask him to explain.
Looking like elevator servicemen, Camp and I poked around and discovered that all seven condos were sparsely furnished. Each had a bed, a couple had a chair, one had a desk, but that was it. Nothing in the kitchen other than some wine and spirits, with emphasis on expensive single malt Scotch, and no food. Nothing to go bad or spoil. And while there were towels in the bathroom, there were no clothes. No pictures. No artwork. Nothing of a personal nature. The suggestion was that while someone might stop off here, no one lived here. These places weren’t inhabited. They were used. Infrequently at most. The only items of interest we did find were cameras. Each condo contained at least four either tripod-mounted or arm-mounted telescoping cameras extending from the walls like lights in a dentist office. Lastly, multiple anchor bolts and pulleys had been sunk into each wall and ceiling, and various lengths of rope hung from each. The locations of the anchors puzzled us until Camp suggested that not only were the ropes to tie people down but to support people who couldn’t support themselves.
“Heavily medicated kids?”
He nodded. “Drugged.”
The setup mirrored what we found in Alaska although, in comparison, the Alaska setup had been thrown together last minute. This was more permanent.
Camp shook his head in disgust and spat. “This joker’s going down.”
I studied the room and wondered what horrors had been committed here. Who had suffered. How long. I spoke without looking at Camp. “I need you to do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“When we kick down this door, I need you to stop me from killing this guy.”
Camp considered this. “Okay, but since we’re asking something of each other, I need you to do me a favor.”
I looked at him.
“Keep me from doing it before you do. And”—he paused—“given that I’m younger, more agile, and quicker on the draw, you need to be on your A-game. I’m liable to be reholstered by the time you clear leather.”
I chuckled. He had a point. “Maybe we should call Stackhouse.”
Camp shook his head. “Nope. Those three girls are like family to him. Stackhouse would enjoy it too much and then we’d all be in federal prison together.”
“Clay?”
Another shake of his head. “Bad idea. That man’s got sledgehammers for fists.”
“Maybe we should just dial 911.”
He considered this too. “Well, who’s gonna hold him and who’s gonna dial?”
“That’s easy. I’m holding. You’re dialing.”
A wrinkle appeared between his eyes as he studied the circus contraptions around us. “Maybe we could take turns.”
I nodded as Gunner walked around the room, sniffing the walls, the hair on his back standing up. He didn’t like this place any more than we did. We pulled the door closed behind us and the waiting began.