Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [65]
“But you don’t believe him.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
His own beam swung back and forth. “Maybe McClure was mistaken.”
Naomi glanced at him. “Are you kidding me? Mistaken about a white slave trade clearinghouse, mistaken about the body of Arjeta Kraja?”
“Do you see any evidence of those things?” McKinsey squinted. “He said he was calling from where?”
“He didn’t say.” Naomi walked into the back room, which was no bigger than a good-sized closet. “He was with Dennis Paull and Alli.”
“GPS?”
“He disabled it on his cell and his signal is being bounced, so he can’t be traced. But he must have been on the move because the signal kept cutting out.” She was staring at the painting of blue and gray mountains, whose ragged tops seemed to shred the blue sky. “What the hell is this doing here?” She glanced around. “No other paintings, wall hangings, calendars, zippo. But Jack said there was another room with Arjeta Kraja laid out in it, dead as a doorpost.”
“I don’t see anything of the sort,” McKinsey said. “Ever occur to you he was full of shit?”
When she gave him a dirty look, he added, “Between the two of you, Alli Carson could be a serial killer and she’d never get arrested.”
“Don’t be a dick.” She went over to the painting and felt behind it. “There’s something here.”
McKinsey came over and unhooked the painting, setting it down. They both stared at the one-way glass, then, cupping their hands, tried to peer into the other side.
“What the fuck?” McKinsey said.
Naomi flipped the wall switch, but nothing happened. “Go get the manager,” she said.
While he was gone, she checked around the tiny room, trying to find a way into the space beyond the one-way glass. She found nothing, which puzzled her so much that it was the first question to put to the restaurant manager.
He was a slender Chinese man in his midfifties, with a flat face and eyes that darted about like a pair of frightened mice. He licked his lips continually and his clasped hands made washing motions.
“I don’t know,” he said nervously. He frowned, clearly puzzled. “I didn’t even know the room existed.”
“But you own this space,” she said.
He nodded. “But it’s not used by the restaurant. I rent it out.” He looked around. “At least I did.”
“Who rented it?” McKinsey said.
“A company. Qershi Holdings.”
“Who the hell’re they?”
The manager spread his hands. “I have no idea.”
“Who is Qershi Holdings’ representative?”
“I only dealt with a voice over the phone.”
“And that was enough for you?” Naomi said skeptically.
“He sent cash over as a binder. Two months’ worth.” The manager shrugged his negligible shoulders. “Before that, this space just gathered dust. Though I advertised heavily, I couldn’t give it away. In my business when cash speaks, I listen.”
McKinsey looked around the space. “So what was going on down here?”
The manager shrugged.
McKinsey stared at him. “You’re a real font of knowledge, aren’t you?”
“You never got curious?” Naomi said.
“I was paid a lot of money not to be curious. A stipulation from my tenant.”
Naomi tapped a pen against the side of her smartphone. “So, basically, they could have been auctioning off little girls down here and you wouldn’t know about it.”
The manager gave no indication that he knew anything.
“We came down here through the restaurant,” McKinsey said.
“There’s a back entrance,” the manager replied. “I was told to keep the lights off in that area.”
“So where is everyone?” Naomi said.
“They must have moved out late last night. I was here until closing—around midnight—and I didn’t see anything.”
“Of course you didn’t,” McKinsey muttered.
The manager leaned forward. “Pardon?”
“How do we get into this space behind the glass?” Naomi said.
“Like I said—”
A little yelp exploded from the manager’s mouth when McKinsey smashed the glass with his elbow, then began to pick out the remaining shards from the frame. Naomi trained her flashlight on the interior. It was a perfect square, small, airless. A faint but unmistakable sickly sweet scent