John buys Finch a Sencha tea on the way the way to the library, half because it's become a habit, and half as a bribe. Harold no doubt knew that he'd met Joss in the park and was probably frowning in disapproval at such a public dalliance. Give him his favourite beverage and at least he couldn't be too snarky, Reese reasons.
Harold destroys that particular theory in less than a minute of him entering the library and making his way to the office.
"If you insist on meeting Detective Carter in public places it would be advantageous to the both of us if you let me know first. You aren't the only person with eyes on her."
"But I'm sure that I'm the prettiest." John bats his eyelashes, smiles and gives Harold his tea. "I was careful. Any new intel on Kent?"
The older man takes a sip of his drink and doesn't look remotely mollified. "Lemmings are pretty too, and if you aren't a little more restrained when it comes to the Detective, probably have a similar life expectancy." Turning back to his computer he brings up a tab onscreen. "The Starlight Motel. Fifty rooms only sixteen of which are currently occupied according to the reception's computer."
"Business is slow," John remarks.
"Indeed, but it's not particularly surprising." Finch pulls up footage from a traffic camera overlooking the place. The motel is a U-shaped two storied building with a small office taking up the equivalent of a double room on the right hand side. On the left the building is covered with scaffolding and tarpaulin, the roof half gone.
"A fire?" Reese guesses.
"Six days ago a blaze got out of control. According to insurance records it was probably started by someone falling asleep with a lit cigarette. Three people died – all of them young women. Only one was identified." Harold taps the keyboard and a picture of a girl of about nineteen flashes on screen. "Traci Camber, a runaway. Reported missing by her father just over a year ago."
"Traci." The young girl's brown eyes look out of the monitor happily; it's obviously an old picture, she's posing with a fat white cat in her arms and looks carefree. John feels indescribably sad. "Jacey knew her, she was the link to the Motel."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Finch falters for only a moment. "The insurance is paying up and there are no outstanding investigations in the fire. Essentially its been brushed under the rug which is more than a little suspicious given that three women are dead."
"Someone is paying off either the cops or the insurance broker?"
"I'd say both, Mr Reese. The fire barely made the papers, the dead girls didn't at all. Someone is keeping this tragedy under wraps."
"Grayson Kent." Reese keeps himself calm, but he can't help but think of pretty Traci whose eyes had been so full of hope, and remember the way Jacey had hugged him as though overwhelmed by any sort of kindness at all. "If he was going to kill his girls then this is a sloppy way to do it though."
"My thoughts exactly." Harold turns his chair with his knee and swivels his chair to meet John's eyes. "But if there were unforeseen circumstances - one of the girls attempting to escape, or merely having too much information, it does make sense. Fire does after all erase evidence, and by contacting the police and the insurance brokers it does allay suspicion towards the Motel so long as you don't look at the paperwork too closely.
"Hiding in plain sight," John agrees. "The same tactic that Kent used when he hired Jacey's services. Three dead girls and Jacey are now missing from his stable – he's going to have to replace them one way or another if he wants to keep his clients provided for. I think that it's time for me to pay a visit to the Starlight Motel."
"I concur." Harold watches as Reese fills a duffle bag with ammo, a few grenades and something big, black and deadly looking. "I'd like the names if possible of the two unidentified girls."
John zips up the bag and nods. There's no quip to be made about Harold being soft hearted and wanting to make sure that they were buried with proper gravestones. None of this is remotely funny.
"I'll keep in touch." Hauling the bag over his shoulder he jogs down the stairs and into the street.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Starlight Motel manages to actually be uglier in real life than in the photograph Finch had pulled from his computer. There isn't much traffic around and the neighbourhood has the quiet, dispirited air of a place that had been thriving ten years ago before being mostly abandoned. Most of the nearby businesses are either boarded up or obviously struggling, the tiny front gardens of the small houses parched or neglected altogether.
Strange place for a motel, John muses, but as far off the radar as you could get in New York City. Getting out of the car he tosses his leather jacket onto the back seat of the Range Rover and checks his reflection in the wing mirror. He hadn't bothered shaving that morning so there's stubble forming on his jaw. Messing up his hair a little he tries not to think of Jacey's hedgehog joke. In jeans and a t-shirt he could pass for a nondescript low level criminal looking for somewhere to hide out for a couple of days. The Glock is tucked into a boot and he's got two knives with him as well though – no need to be complacent. The big guns are close enough to retrieve from the Range Rover if he really needs them.
Jogging over the road and towards the office he takes in as much as he can without being obvious. The wing that had been gutted by fire is a sad charred mess covered over in plastic as though to disguise a corpse. Some half hearted scaffolding prevents the tarpaulin from flapping in the faint breeze but its obvious that if any restoration is going to take place then it certainly hasn't started yet.
The other side of the building is in better shape but only in comparison to its counterpart. The plaster, a yellowish green, is peeling off revealing the gray of breezeblocks in some places. The stairs that lead to the iron walkway providing access to the second level have bled rust down the exterior of the first. A desultory half burned palm tree sits in a pot in the middle of the courtyard.
John walks over to the office. From ten paces away he can hear the sound of a television and see a pair of sneakers resting on the tiny front desk. When he knocks on the door before opening it the sneakers don't move, but the man slumped in the chair behind the desk lifts his head and kills the volume on the TV.
"Hey." The man looks to be in his early twenties with a mess of already receding dark hair and sleepy reddened eyes. The smell of marijuana is so strong that Reese briefly wonders if he's going to get a contact high from it. "Lookin' for a room?"
"Got any free? "
The stoner whose name badge proclaims its owner to go by the name of "Anthony" smiles and finally slides his legs off the desk. "Yup. Single or double? We're not exactly overrun with business at the moment if you couldn't tell."
"Single." John watches as the kid squints at the computer screen and taps a couple of keys. "What happened to the place? I heard a couple of women were killed."
"Yeah. Sucks doesn't it? The guy whose job I took quit afterwards must have not been doing his job properly. I mean there's no smoking signs all over the place, but do people listen?"
"Apparently not." John keeps tabs on what is going on outside. Two thick-set men in their thirties are gathered around the stairwell at the far end of the building, obviously engaged in an argument. "So you started working here after the fire?" He keeps his voice friendly.
"This is a temp job, like two weeks tops. I've got a screenplay I'm pimping at ComicCon; Harry Potter meets Freddy Kruger - seriously dude I'm gonna be the new Joss Whedon."
"Good for you." The two men have stopped arguing and are making their way to the parking lot. "Do you know who those guys are?"
"Them?" Anthony tips back his chair and looks out the window. "They're part of the building security. Kinda dicks, I'd keep out of their way if I were you. Of course while making the most of our many luxurious amenities. Room 14 is all yours, how long do you want it for?"
Reese looks at the two men and calculates how long he can render them unconscious and or restrained until Fusco can pick them up. "Two nights ought to do it."
"Okay." Anthony takes the proffered credit card, scans it and gives John a key with a plastic tag on it. "Enjoy your stay."
"Thank-you." John pockets the key, exits the office and makes his way towards the two men outside. They look startled as he jogs towards them hands twitching to their sides in the unmistakable gesture of reaching for fire-arms. "Hey! Hey Guys!" Panting with exaggerated breaths, he rubs a hand through his hair and pretends to look worried. "You're Kent's guys right?"
The larger of the two, a well built Latino eyes him suspiciously. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm a friend of Jimmy's. He sent me to bring back Jacey." John nods back towards the motel.
"You got Jacey? Man, where the fuck is Jimmy? The boss is not pleased."
"Jimmy is staying out the way, y'get me?" The other man, a blue eyed brunet of about forty years old gives him a meaningful look.
"Good for him." The big guy looks at John curiously, sizing him up. "He can't run forever though – word's out that he ran off with the little bitch. Half of Brooklyn is waiting to turn him in. Hell, you give me Jimmy as well as the girl I'll split the reward money." The man's eyes narrow speculatively when he looks at him "Thirty thou each. What d'ya think?"
"What the hell Izzy?" The other man huffs with annoyance and takes several steps towards Reese. "You've known this dick five seconds and you're making deals with him? We don't even know if he's got the slut."
John resists the urge to close his eyes at the spittle that sprays his face before replying calmly, "I'll show you the girl. I'm going to need help finding Jimmy – I can't take him out on my own, he's got friends with him. Once they're both delivered then we split the reward money."
The two men look at each other and nod in wordless agreement before following John towards room number fourteen..
"So long as I can fuck her first," the dark haired man mutters. "I don't do sloppy seconds, just.."
John turns the key in the lock of the door and elbows him swiftly in the throat before kicking backwards. The man topples into the room with a satisfyingly strangled yelp of agony as his knee shatters. The bigger man takes a step backwards, brown eyes wide, his hand scrabbling for his gun, but John grabs his collar, smashes his head against the door frame and tosses on top of his partner. Walking through the door he breathes deeply to contain his rage and kicks the man in the head hard enough to daze him without actually killing him. Removing all of their weapons he ties them up with their belts and a pair of curtains that are quickly and efficiently shredded. After making himself a cup of coffee with the low brand sachets in the tiny kitchen area, Reese sits back and watches the pair from a rickety chair. Writhing on the floor they look like the worms that they are.
John takes a sip of the terrible coffee. "We're going to play a game now, gentlemen," he says quietly. "I like games, don't you?" Taking the Glock from his boot he makes a show of checking the chamber and clicking off the safety before putting it on the table beside him. Both men's eyes widen, the bigger of the two starting to protest until the gun is trained upon him. "Here's the rules. You scream I kill you both. You try to escape I kill you both. I'm going to ask you questions and the one with the best information lives. Lie to me and I will know." Taking another sip of coffee, he taps his ear-piece. "Boss you getting this?"
"Unfortunately yes, and don't call me "Boss" again, especially when you are unleashing your inner sadist." Finch does not sound happy, but then he pays him for doing the necessary things that don't make him happy, John thinks.
"What happened to the girls who died in the fire. Who were they?"
Both men start babbling at the same time until aims the gun at their heads. "One at a time. You first." He points to the smaller of the two. He's pale and sweaty with pain. Being tied up with a broken knee-cap can't be much fun. Given what he's probably done to girls like Jacey, John decides that he doesn't care.
"I wasn't there I swear to God. But I heard about it. One of the Johns's wives turned up HIV positive – Kent was the only supplier of girls to him. He killed himself but you can't sell infected merchandise, not to people like that. Kent covered it up, the wife never knew, but we're talking trust fund elite here. Sooner or later the men talk amongst themselves. The girl had to go."
"Which girl?" John keeps himself very calm.
"Traci." The big guy is still struggling to breathe. "The judge liked her best. Kent kept three of the biggest earners in a room here."
"What were their names," Reese demands.
The man shudders on the floor, his eyes rolling. "Dan.. Danielle and Sue, I think her name was Sue, everyone called her Blondie. And Traci."
"Surnames?"
"Jesus man, whores don't have real names!"
"Nor do hired muscle," John drawls. "Would you like me to leave a note with your remains for whatever family is unfortunate enough to share DNA with you?"
"Casey, he was the guy on reception, he was supposed to take out Traci." the younger man takes up the tale with ill-disguised panic. "Either he got trigger happy or she jumped him and the other girls helped out, but what was supposed to be a message ended up a complete and utter cluster-fuck. Kent got me and Jez to torch the place. They were already dead though, I swear! Casey, he was kept around long enough to talk to the insurance but he went missing a week ago and the only place you're gonna find him is in the Hudson river if you ask me."
"Grayson Kent. What does he have to do with all of this?"
"I've only seen him a couple of times." The Latino know identified as "Jez" looks terrified. "He tries the new merchandise out himself though. Both kinds."
"Both kinds?" John raises an eyebrow.
"Guys like Jimmy, they skim off the school-girl cream. Go down to schools, pretend to be frat boys, bring up the pretty things with no baggage for his stable."
"Like Jacey and Tina."
Izzy swallows hard. "Neither of us were involved with that."
"And the other kind?"
"Eastern European girls. Once a month he gets a delivery. The next one's tomorrow. They get sold on pretty quickly – Grayson is kind of racist."
John decides not to lose any more brain cells pointing out that rape doesn't come with a get out of jail free card depending on the passport or lack of owned by the girl. "Do you know where and when?"
"Red Hook, somewhere. I don't know if Casey emptied the files in the office..." Izzy says fearfully when he gets to his feet. "Look come on man, you don't have to do this."
It only takes a moment for Reese to yank both men back to back and entwine them both so tightly that they can't wriggle free. Jamming both their mouths with a gag of twisted curtain, he searches their pockets, retrieving a hefty roll of fifty dollar notes and two cell phones that he disables before locking the door behind them.
"Did you get all that Finch?" John murmurs as he heads towards the Motel reception desk.
"I'm searching records as we speak," Harold replies. "If you could uncover anything in writing it may help our cause. Incriminating paperwork does have a tendency to become particularly susceptible to both shredders and naked flames in cases like this."
"I'm on it Harold."
Walking purposefully over to the Motel's office, John shoves open the door with his shoulder.
"Hey,dude, what is it the air conditioning busted again?" Anthony looks up from behind the desk with a smile before he catches sight of the gun and his eyes widen. "Woah. Seriously man. There's no money kept here. I mean like maybe a hundred bucks. And my bikes out back. You can have that."
"You're going to be very quiet and show me where all the files are kept, and I'm going to be very good and not hurt you in ways that you have previously only seen in torture porn films." John smiles as sweetly as he can.
"Yeah... Sure.. I mean... I've got a key..." Andrew holds it out towards him as though it were a talisman that could ensure his safety. "It's for the filing cabinets in the office, the ones that I'm not supposed to touch."
"Thank-you Andrew." John takes it and perches on the edge of the desk. "Now you see we have a problem. You've seen a lot more than you should have."
"Oh c'mon man." Andrew looks like he's about to cry. "It's Thanksgiving tomorrow, I'm all my mom has. You can't kill me over a shitty reception job."
"So," John continues as though he hadn't heard him, "In a moment I'm going to knock you unconscious with my gun and take some files from you. You won't remember what I looked like and you won't remember where this came from either." He holds up the stolen roll of bills before giving them to the young man. "Put it in your shoe and call the cops when you come to. Use the cash to promote your story."
Anthony gives the cash a distrustful look but accepts it, tucking it into his worn sneakers. "Am I helping out Batman or the Joker here?"
John gives a sad smile. "The girls that died here were only the tip of the ice-burg. I'm trying to stop it from happening again."
"Batman it is." Anthony sighs and leans back in his chair. "If you could try not to give me brain damage that would be..."
Reese knocks him out with a quick efficient blow to the head. There are two big filing cabinets, one locked, one not. After having a quick rifle through the former, John quickly picks the lock of the latter. It's mostly empty and the files that are within are a complicated mix of documents.
"Finch?" It's a moment before his partner answers.
"There are two cargo ships coming in tomorrow to Red Hook that have links to Grayson Kent. I think that it's time that we brought in our mutual friends."
"Fusco and Carter won't be pleased." John hoists the files under his arm and heads towards his Range Rover, keeping his gun hand free.
"On the contrary, Mr Reese." Harold seems calm as ever. "Foiling an international sex trafficking ring probably gives a warmer feeling to the soul than a pumpkin pie."
John dumps the files on the passenger seat and sighs. "I worked hard on that pumpkin pie."
"I'm sure you did, and that young miss Brundett had nothing to do with it."
John tosses the earbud into the glove compartment and drives on towards the library, turning the classic rock radio station up loud.
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