Page 12 of Witness 8

‘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. Fortwo 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.