Chapter 3 Bloch

3

Bloch

Bloch had been in upstate New York for three days.

She didn't like being away from Kate, but right now Dyani Sandoval needed Bloch more than her childhood friend did. Seven days ago, John Sandoval was tending to his horses on his property. His daughter, Dyani, was practicing for the upcoming tryouts for the school cheerleading team about two hundred feet away. He watched her cartwheel and dance in her faded blue jeans. There had never been a school cheerleader of Native American descent on the team before, but John Sandoval just knew his little Dyani was going to make it. She had incredible stamina. The temperature was in the nineties, perspiration had darkened the back of her T-shirt, her dark hair shone with sweat, and still she danced and practiced her cheers. Always moving.

But her movement had brought her further away from the stables, and close to the white picket fence that bordered the road.

John wasn't concerned when he first saw the white van on the road. He became uneasy as it slowed its approach the closer it got to his fence.

When it stopped and the big man got out of the passenger seat, John was already running for the fence. He watched the man grab Dyani round the waist from behind. Saw him lift her up, her legs kicking in the air. Watched him throw her over the fence like a bag of garbage. Saw him pick her up again, throw her in the back of the van and get in with her. The rear doors closed and the van pulled away at speed as John reached the fence.

This is what he had told the police in the initial report. Amber alerts went up statewide and in neighboring New Hampshire, Connecticut, Massachusetts and Vermont. An unfathomable number of Native American children go missing every year. What made Dyani different was her father. John bred racehorses and he had powerful connections. One friend called another, and called another, and Gabriel Lake was tasked with finding Dyani.

He was a former specialist in the FBI, one of the bright stars of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Until he was forced to retire early. One of Sandoval's friends was an ex-Navy Seal who had gone into the security business. He knew about Lake through his connections with former seals who had joined law enforcement.

There was no one better to find Dyani.

Gabriel Lake was the man who hunted monsters.

Right then, at noon on a hot Monday in upstate New York, Lake was hunting for a piece of paper. Bloch drove the Jeep rental she'd picked up at Albany Airport. Lake had taken the bus upstate ahead of time and met Bloch at the airport. He said he preferred riding shotgun with Bloch. It gave him time to think. And time to organize his paperwork.

Lake had a plastic carrier bag on his lap stuffed to the brim with paper – newspaper clippings, pieces of torn maps, notes, police reports, printouts of pictures, napkins filled with scribblings in blue ink and what seemed like hundreds of small Post-It notes that spilled out of the bag like confetti whenever he shoved his hand inside.

‘You find it yet?' asked Bloch.

‘It's here. I have a system,' he said.

‘You have a mess. That's what you have,' she said.

‘Don't bother me when I'm in the system,' he said.

His right leg bounced up and down on the floor of the Jeep. Maybe it was a nervous thing, or maybe Lake was just one of those guys whose motor was always running.

‘Got it,' he said, and drew out a napkin.

‘Grady Banks,' he said, reading the name that had been scrawled there, tearing the fine paper with the pen nib.

‘I've heard that name before,' said Bloch. As well as her private work for Kate and Eddie, Bloch helped out NYPD from time to time with her area of special interest – children who were sex trafficked all over the US. Bloch didn't have kids, but she had a particular hatred for men who exploited women and children. ‘I didn't know he operated out here.'

‘His gang is involved in everything else that's illegal in these parts, may as well be in for human trafficking too. The name of the bar is . . . wait . . .'

‘Can't you read your own handwriting?' asked Bloch.

‘The ink has feathered,' he said, and turned the napkin over in his hands. Held it up to the light from the window. ‘The Twisted Slipper?'

Bloch punched the name into the car's navigation system.

The predictive program came up with a different name.

‘That's the one,' said Lake.

Within forty minutes Bloch pulled into the lot of the Twisted Stripper. A single-story cinderblock building. It was painted gray with a broken neon sign above the double-door entrance. The structure stood alone on a stretch of barren highway.

‘Drive around,' said Lake.

Bloch did a loop of the perimeter. She knew Lake wanted to get a feel for the size of the place. She checked the odometer on the dash as she drove around, making her own calculations. The lot was almost empty. Some pick-up trucks, Fords mostly, a few Harleys and a single white panel van. Lake noted the registration.

She stopped the car and they got out. Bloch put on her leather jacket over the Magnum slung underneath her left arm. She checked her Doc Marten boots and tied a lace, folded her black jeans over the top of them.

Lake made an attempt to tuck his shirt into his gray pants, pulled on his black suit jacket to hide the Glock he wore on his hip. The jacket had been balled and thrown in the back seat last night. He tried to smooth out the wrinkles. Harry once described Lake as ‘a carefully arranged mess', and the description stuck with Bloch.

‘I think you'll meet the dress code,' said Bloch. ‘But you could do with a haircut.'

Lake rubbed his hands over his head, to feel the weight of his curly hair. Like he hadn't looked in a mirror in a month. Which was probably true. There was so much going on inside Lake's head that he didn't have time to think about dry cleaning, his appearance or even the mundane everyday tasks like paying bills or grocery shopping. He showered and brushed his teeth. That was about all he could manage.

All of his considerable mental focus pointed outward.

And for the last few days it was entirely focused on finding Dyani Sandoval.

‘Something I wanted to ask you,' said Bloch. ‘What exactly did you mean when you asked for my diplomatic skills?'

Bloch wasn't being facetious. She spoke little. And rarely more than absolutely necessary. This had caused some interpersonal issues when she was in law enforcement. Her fellow cops found her cold. She wasn't doing it deliberately – Bloch just didn't do people. She had her friends – her childhood buddy Kate, Eddie Flynn, Harry, Denise and now Lake. That small group of people were her family now.

Despite what her superiors in the police called ‘poor social skills', Bloch was one of the most popular cops on the force. For two reasons. One, she picked up on little details that everyone else missed. That was her superpower. And that led to cases being closed. Second, Bloch could pretty much kick everyone's ass in her department.

You pissed off Bloch at your peril.

Which is why she was asking Lake what the hell he expected of her in the diplomacy department.

‘You have a way of talking to people that's very direct. Plus, I need back-up and I know this kind of case has a personal interest for you.'

Bloch nodded and followed Lake into the building.

Noon on a Monday is not peak time in a strip club. A few rednecks in plaid shirts supped at their beers as they sat around the circular stage with an aluminum pole bolted to the floor. There was no music. No dancing. A few figures were seated further back in the booths, but it was too dark to make out their faces.

Lake made for the bar. Bloch followed.

The bartender wore a sleeveless, stained checkered shirt. It was hard to tell if the shirt was made that way, or if he'd decided to pull the sleeves off one night in a fit of sartorial sabotage. His arms were thick with muscle, fat and faded tattoos. Bloch had started to smell him from six feet away. As she placed her hands on the bar, she steadied herself against the powerful odor of old sweat.

Lake smiled at him. Waited for the bartender to initiate the conversation.

The bartender wiped at his straggly beard with a wet cloth, said nothing.

‘I'd like a glass of water, please,' said Lake.

‘We don't serve water,' said the bartender.

Bloch sensed movement behind them. Then she heard the scraping of metal chairs on a wooden floor. Behind the multitude of bottles on the shelf of the bar, there was a mirror.

Two men, much bigger than the bartender, who was going on for six foot three, got up off their seats. One of them, the biggest one, made his way into the gloomy section of the bar. The other, the one wearing a Stetson, folded his arms and watched Lake.

Lake pointed to a sink behind the bar, said, ‘You've got a faucet. I'd really like a glass of water, please.'

The bartender stood back, grabbed his crotch with one hand. ‘I've got this, but I ain't letting you drink from that either.'

The redneck guard behind Bloch laughed.

‘I don't like you,' said Lake.

The bartender took a step forward, reached under the bar and came up with a pump-action shotgun in his hands. He held it across his chest, said, ‘I don't like you either. And now it's time for you to leave.'

The redneck in the mirror didn't even have time to unfold his arms. With one swift movement, Lake reached across the bar, took hold of the barrel of the shotgun in one hand, twisted it and flipped it one eighty out of the bartender's arms and into Lake's. It was all about leverage and speed. Lake pumped five shells onto the floor then set the gun on the ground.

‘I think we're going to stay a while. Is that Mr. Grady over there?' He pointed to the man sitting alone in a booth.

The bartender said nothing. His mouth was still hanging open.

‘I thought so,' said Lake.

Bloch followed him to the man at the booth. He fitted the description of Grady Banks, owner of this fine establishment. He wore a leather waistcoat over a black T-shirt. Small, greasy hands lay flat on the table beside a shot of whiskey. It was the tattoo of a swastika on his throat that gave him away. Although, in a place like this, Bloch guessed there could be more than one guy with Nazi tattoos.

Another security guard – one who looked like a heavyweight wrestler – sat alone at a small table pushed against the back wall. He was ten feet from Grady. A large, rusted and bullet-ridden interstate sign had been affixed to the wall behind him. It was the kind of thing that passed for interior decoration in this place.

Bloch saw Lake notice the big man seated at the sign. Way too far from his boss to be any kind of effective security.

They exchanged a knowing glance.

‘Mr. Banks, my name is Gabriel Lake. I'd like to talk with you.'

Grady didn't move. He looked calm and confident. His reply was laconic, even disinterested.

‘You look like cops. Or you used to be cops. We don't like cops around here. What do you want?' he asked.

‘You know what we want,' said Lake. ‘There's a white panel van parked behind this building. Just like the one used to snatch Dyani Sandoval. This room is one hundred feet long, but the building on this side is a hundred and thirty feet long. Your man over there isn't doing too good a job protecting you from all the way at the back of the room. Bloch here could do some real damage before that guy got his ass off the seat. So he's not protecting you. He's protecting the door hidden behind that old road sign. We'll leave once you give us Dyani. You didn't expect a ton of media attention when you snatched a Native American girl so I figured whoever has her will keep her hidden until the press storm dies down and her face disappears from the TV screens. Then you'd move her on to a buyer. That's not going to happen now. You're going to let her go.'

‘Get the fuck out of here before—' Grady began, but Bloch didn't hear the rest. Her phone had buzzed in her pocket. She took it out, read the text message.

‘Lake,' she said, ‘got a text from Eddie. He needs us. We need to cut this short. Let me try some of that diplomacy .'

Bloch moved past Lake, and as she sat down in the booth across the table from Grady, a faint sound was heard in the room. A distinctive one. The noise that's made when steel brushes quickly against leather.

Underneath the table, Bloch pushed the barrel of her handgun into Grady's knee. His expression changed suddenly.

‘You know what happens when you get shot in the knee with a small caliber weapon?' she asked.

Grady didn't move. Didn't speak. His eyes locked on Bloch. After another moment, he shook his head.

‘After a knee replacement and a year of physiotherapy, you might walk again without a limp. But the real worry is infection. Small fibers from your pants get lodged in the wound. If the surgeon doesn't remove all those little pieces, they fester, and cause infection. That brings the risk of amputation.'

Grady's Adam's apple bobbed up and down inside his scrawny throat.

‘I have good news and bad news,' continued Bloch. ‘Good news is you don't have to worry about infection. Bad news is I'm holding a Magnum 500 loaded with a four-hundred-and-forty-grain semi-rimmed cartridge that will take your leg clean off at the knee, instantly. Unless you or one of your pals here knows how to clamp the femoral artery that sits behind your kneecap, you'll bleed out in around ninety seconds.'

A thin bead of sweat rolled down Grady's cheek.

‘Here's your choice. Listen carefully. Get your man to open the door and bring out Dyani, unharmed , and we'll give you an hour and a half before we call the cops. You could make it to the next state by then. That's the deal. The girl and ninety minutes. Or ninety seconds. Think fast.'

In her peripheral vision, Bloch saw Lake tense. He turned and looked back at the bar. She heard boots on the wooden floor behind her.

Lake swept his jacket out of the way of the Glock on his hip, said, ‘Go ahead and pick up the shotgun. Load it.'

The other security guy was obviously making a move toward the weapon. Bloch didn't hear any more footsteps. He was having second thoughts.

Lake said, ‘Pick it up. I want you to.'

For all his eccentricities, intelligence and quirks, there was another side to Gabriel Lake. And here it was – on display. His face had darkened. His eyes had taken on a dead quality – like a shark. Bloch felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She'd seen this look on Lake's face in the past – right before he shot a man to death. Lake was a gifted investigator, but he was also a killer. Maybe that's why he was so good at catching them.

No one moved.

Bloch pushed the barrel of the handgun into Grady's knee. He picked up the shot glass, drained it, said, ‘Butch, get the girl.'

‘What the fuck?' said the big security guy seated at the sign. He got up. The man Bloch now knew as Butch was well over three hundred pounds. And very little of it was fat. His arms looked like anchor chains on a battleship.

‘Just get the fucking girl, Butch,' said Grady.

Butch banged on the sign with his fist. It slid back. He disappeared into the dark room behind the sign. A moment later he came back out, with Dyani Sandoval in front of him. The girl was filthy, covered in sweat and crying.

Butch placed his huge hand in the small of her back, pushed her forward. She cried out and landed heavily on her left shoulder. Lake went straight to her.

Bloch's eyes flared.

‘I said unharmed ,' said Bloch.

She stood, grabbed a handful of Grady's long, straggly hair and drove his face into the table. A wet crunching sound was followed by Grady's moans.

Bloch moved out of the booth, and did two things with incredible smoothness.

She holstered the Magnum.

She picked up the empty shot glass from Grady's table.

Butch laughed as Bloch walked toward him.

‘What the fuck are you going to do, little lady?' he said derisively.

A short time later, Bloch stood in the lot of the strip club and shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched Dyani embrace her father. John Sandoval kneeled down and held his daughter. They wept and held each other tightly. The news vans were starting to arrive and the sheriff's meat wagon was almost full. Grady had been led out with his nose spread over most of his face.

Butch came out on the paramedics' crash trolley.

‘Good news,' said Lake. ‘I talked to the paramedic. They think they can save Butch's eye – most of the glass stayed out of the eyeball – but his right arm is in bad shape. The guy told me he'd never seen a spiral fracture this bad since a farmhand got his arm caught in crop machinery. They don't think Butch will play the violin again.'

‘Did you talk to the sheriff?'

‘Sure, Butch isn't going to want to press charges. He's headed for the State Pen and he only has one arm to defend himself now. He's not going to let it get around that he got maimed by a hundred-and-fifty-pound woman from New Jersey.'

‘Good. I have to get moving. I'll need your help on this one.'

‘What's Eddie into?'

‘Kate caught a new case. A wealthy New Yorker on a murder charge. They need some background and photos of the murder scene.'

‘So what do you need me for?'

Bloch cracked a smile, said, ‘Diplomacy.'