James Swain - The King Tides

“Yes, it has.”

Daniels ended the call. Her eyes found Lancaster’s face, and they stared at each other for a long moment. They both knew she had made a mistake. But she wasn’t going to admit it just yet. It was part of her training. The FBI taught its agents to create theories when conducting investigations, and to shoehorn the evidence they found to make those theories work. That worked most of the time. When it didn’t, innocent people often ended up getting hurt.

His cell phone vibrated in her hand. She fumbled opening the Message app.

“It’s from Nolan,” she said.

“Brace yourself for a surprise,” he said.

She opened her brother-in-law’s message and stared at the screen. Her other hand came to her mouth and stayed there.

“Oh my God, is that Nicki?” she said in shock.

“It sure is,” he said. “Your niece looks just like Cassandra.” He let a moment pass, then said, “Do you have any idea how much harm you’ve caused her?”

She kept staring at the screen. “What are you talking about? What’s happened?”

“Well, since you don’t believe a word that I say, why don’t you call your sister and let her explain the situation to you?”

She moved toward his chair. She still hadn’t made a move to free him, and he sensed that she was taking a perverse pleasure in keeping him prisoner.

“I want you to tell me what’s going on,” she said.

“Call your sister,” he said.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“No. Call Melanie. I’m sure she’d enjoy getting caught up.”

She snarled at him like a junkyard dog. Moving to the couch, she sat down and made the call. Soon she was engaged in conversation with her sister. The pleasantries were short and awkward. She grew silent as Melanie told her about Nicki’s stalkers and the attempted abductions. Her eyes grew moist, and tears raced down her cheeks.

“This is terrible. I’m so sorry, Mel,” she said.

They continued to talk. He rose from his chair and entered the kitchen. Silverware and canned goods covered the floor, and it looked like a tornado had hit it. He cleared a space with his feet and leaned his back against a wall. As a kid he’d read a book about Houdini that had included explanations of how the famous escape artist had gotten out of handcuffs without using a key, and he decided to give it a shot. He lowered his handcuffed wrists as far as he could. Kicking off his right shoe, he lifted his right leg, and slipped his foot through the circle created by his arms, all the while hopping on his left leg to stay balanced. It worked, and he repeated the exercise with his left leg.

His wrists were now in front of his body. His arms had started to cramp, and he shook them to make the pain go away. Then he went in search of a ballpoint pen. He found one in a cup beside the fridge and unscrewed it and removed the cartridge. Houdini could open a handcuff with a paper clip, so Lancaster had to believe it wasn’t terribly hard. He jammed the cartridge in the tiny space between the ratchet and locking mechanism and, finding a soft spot, pressed it hard. The handcuff came free. He repeated this with the other wrist and again achieved success.

He smelled coffee. The pot was still on. He could be a bastard with Daniels, or he could be nice and pretend like nothing had happened. The second approach was more to his liking, and would give them a fresh start. He poured two mugs and grabbed the sweetener and returned to the living room.

Daniels was still on the phone with her sister. Melanie was doing all the talking, while Daniels listened and wiped away her tears. He placed a mug and sweetener on the coffee table, followed by the handcuffs. Her eyes registered surprise.

“I was wrong,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Did you tell her about the Cassandra videos?” he whispered back.

She shook her head.

“You have to,” he whispered.

“I don’t know how,” she whispered back.

The conversation between Daniels and her sister dragged on. Lancaster started to feel like he was intruding and went into the kitchen to tackle the mess Daniels had made. He put the silverware into the dishwasher and set it on wash, then stocked the canned goods back on the pantry shelves. The cans all had sizeable dents in them. He could not remember encountering a law enforcement agent with such anger issues, and he wondered how long it would be before her superiors took notice.

“Do you have any more coffee?” She stood in the doorway wearing a sheepish expression, the empty mug dangling by its handle from her finger.

“For you, anything,” he said.

“You’re funny. Do you want to kill me?”

“No. You made a mistake and you said you were sorry. We’re good.”

“My sister said you were a decent guy. She was right.”

He refilled her mug while taking a hard look at her. The rage was gone, replaced by disappointment and shame. She’d been ready to make a bust, and it had gone south instead. He’d had the same thing happen to him as a cop and knew the hollow feeling it left.

“How much did you tell your sister?” he asked.

“Not much. Melanie was always the alpha. I just listened. It sounds like she and Nolan have been through real hell. Not to mention what Nicki’s been through. How did these sick bastards connect my niece to the Cassandra videos?”

“Nicki was in a high school musical. A boy at her school coaxed her into singing a song from the musical in her underwear, and he posted it on YouTube. The video’s pretty bad, yet it got ten thousand hits. Mostly from sickos who saw the Cassandra videos. One of them pretended to be a Hollywood producer and contacted the boy and got Nicki’s personal information, which he must have posted online.”

“You’re a hell of a detective, Jon. I’m impressed.”

“That’s why I get paid the big bucks. Can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m assuming you posted the Cassandra videos on a site that the FBI can monitor. That allows the FBI to collect the IP addresses of the men that download the videos, and get them on your radar so you can watch them. Am I right?”

“You’re right, we do monitor them. The Cassandra videos aren’t illegal to download because it’s me the viewer is looking at. But if we catch one of them downloading other child pornography, we nail them.”

“That’s what I figured. Here’s my question. There are a dozen Cassandra videos. Based upon the date stamps, it appears you posted one video each week to keep the bad ones hooked. That tells me you had a big audience for them. How many downloads were there?”

Daniels sipped her coffee. “I don’t know the exact number.”

She was lying. Websites had cookies that allowed their designers to see how many visitors had come to the site in real time, and he envisioned Daniels checking the site a few times a day to tally the number of perverts she’d ensnared in her trap. She knew the number, but wasn’t willing to share it with him.

He went into the bedroom to clean up the mess. She followed him and stood in the doorway holding her mug. “I never would have created those videos had I known I was putting Nicki in jeopardy. The last time I saw her, she was a little kid.”

She wasn’t willing to take the blame for the harm she’d caused. He’d known cops like her before. It was all about making the bust, and if innocent people got harmed, too bad. Maybe she hadn’t realized the videos would hurt her niece, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t another teenage girl out there who bore a resemblance to Cassandra and whose life would be upended.

He put his socks and underwear back in their respective dresser drawers. His Kindle was at the bottom of the pile of clothes, the copy of The Hanover Killers front and center, and he was tempted to shove it in her face, and ask her if the harrowing experience described in the book had driven her to create the Cassandra videos.