Page 24

CHAPTER 24

A short time later at Families United

“I’ll call Lucinda Gonzalez right now,” Elaine said. “What a fantastic break in the case. Have you called Grant Miller?”

They had piled into Bailey’s oversize truck–Alex and Sofia in the second seat–to make the short trip to Families United. Now, with Bailey taking the Langleys to their own safe spot, Suzanne had set up a Zoom meeting with Elaine at her work desk to tell her about the listening devices Barry and Alex found and of Stan’s involvement in planting them.

“No,” Suzanne said. “Officer Randolph is going to tell him about the bugs. And since Henry Tate is a state employee, shouldn’t Lucinda be the one to handle it with him?”

“Absolutely,” Elaine agreed. “I’ll call her right now. I just hope she can find Henry Tate before he gets suspicious. I’ll bet whatever is going to happen, it will be soon. What are you going to do now? Hey, there Kristopher.”

“Hey yourself,” Kristopher replied as he put two oversize mugs on Suzanne’s desk. “Glad to see there was coffee available.”

Elaine’s bright laughter brought Suzanne a small measure of relief. “Are you kidding? Human service workers practically live on the stuff. Tea, as well, but I’ve a lot of confirmed coffee-heads working here. Coffee is included in the annual budget. Are you pulling up Stan’s records?”

“I am,” Suzanne said. “This is not going to look good for Families United, is it? I mean, I’m the one who hired him.”

“You are not to worry about that,” Elaine ordered. “If Stan Dembowski’s paperwork was forged or fake, that’s not our responsibility or fault. Start with finding his address and text it to Grant Miller. And tell Alex I said, ‘good job’.”

“Will do,” Suzanne promised as she ended the meeting. The screen went dark, and she reached for one of the cups. “Wow,” she said after taking a sip. “What a day.”

“And it’s not over.” Kristopher hitched the chair beside her desk closer and sat. “What ‘cha going to do now, Miz Bennett?”

“Open Stan Dembowski’s Families United file,” she said, her fingers punching the keyboard. “Ah. Here we go. That’s him.”

The photo showed a Caucasian male with dark eyes and a beard, wearing an orange and white UT knitted skull cap. “He doesn’t have the beard anymore,” Suzanne said. “Barry won’t let his servers or cooks wear them ‘cause he’s afraid of hair getting in the food.”

“Holy crap,” Kristopher muttered. “I think I know this guy. What about the rest of his info?”

He leaned in, and Suzanne savored the faint scent of soap mingling with his coffee. “Here,” she said, tapping more buttons. “Stanislaus Tobias Dembowski. Thirty-five years old, originally from Warsaw. Made his way to the United States a year ago via a program called Humanities International. Chose to relocate to Tennessee because he likes Dolly Parton.”

“Well, yeah,” Kristopher agreed. “I mean, who doesn’t?”

“Has a background as a laborer, no advanced degrees, no criminal record,” Suzanne continued. “Bachelor, no known family.”

“Any distinctive marks?”

His tightly coiled tension rolled onto Suzanne as she continued to search. “None listed,” she said. “You mean like a tattoo? If he has, I never noticed it. Why would you think he has one?”

He remained silent, staring at the screen. After a long moment, his mouth tightened and he said, “Call Barry.”

“Why?”

“Just do it please, Miz Bennett,” and Suzanne realized even with him using her nickname, something was terribly wrong. As if things could get worse.

“Okay,” she said, reaching for her phone and placing the call. “Hey, Barry,” she said when her friend answered. “Here’s a question for you. Does Stan have any tattoos?”

“Yeah, he does.” Barry still sounded cross. “He’s got a big red dragon tattooed on the back of his head. Said he was in an industrial accident when he was still living in Poland. He said he’s got burns all over his body too, but I’ve never seen them and got the tattoo so people wouldn’t make fun of him being bald. I saw it once when he took off that knitted cap he always wears to put on a visor cap. Why all the questions?”

“Just a hunch,” Kristopher told him and the triumphant sparkle in his eyes pushed Suzanne’s heart into a two-step. “Thanks, Barry.”

She ended the call and squinted at him. “You gonna let me in on this, Sergeant Brower?”

“Look up the word Balaur,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Oh, man, this could be it.”

Suzanne’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard. “Spell that, please.”

“B-a-l-a-u-r,” he replied.

“Got it,” she said and then gasped as the picture of large, multi-headed dragon filled her laptop screen. “Merciful heavens! What is that?”

“That, my dear, Miz Bennett, is the symbol from Romanian mythology.” Kristopher’s soft voice held a note of intensity she’d never heard. “A mythical beast known not only for its destructive powers but for kidnapping maidens and young girls. It’s found in other Eastern European folklore too.”

“Ugly beast,” Suzanne said. “And this is important because–?”

“Don’t you remember me telling you earlier about that child trafficking ring in Romania? That’s their name and symbol. All their members have dragon tattoos, although this is the first I’ve heard of any of them having one on their head. It’s usually on the palm of their hands.”

“Do you think the burn story is true?” Suzanne asked. “Why would he have his in a different place? Does that signify something?”

Her protector shook his head. “I don’t know. Would you let me look up something, please?”

“Sure.” They changed places and Kristopher took out his phone, consulted it, and spent a long time typing on Suzanne’s keyboard. At last a website appeared, and he opened it. “There we go,” he said. “Take a look.”

Suzanne stared at the photos. “That’s Stan!” she cried, pointing at one of the men she knew from Daisy’s. “But his eyes are green.”

“Tinted contact lenses are cheap, effective disguises,” he said. “But look at this.” He hit another series of keys and the photo reversed, giving a clear view of the back of Stan’s head. A three-headed dragon, wings spread out, covered the entire area, inching toward his forehead. The intricate design and vivid colors were almost beautiful. Until one remembered what it represented.

“How awful,” Suzanne said, shaking her head. “To think I hired that monster to work at Daisy’s.”

“You couldn’t have known that,” Kristopher argued. “And Elaine is probably right. Stan, aka Toby, probably entered the country with false or forged papers. It’s common practice.”

“You think?”

“Yep.” Kristopher hit a button, and another photo popped up. “And that’s Gregori Bogdan.” Kristopher pointed at the picture of a Caucasian man with brown hair, medium build, no smile. A rather ordinary-looking man.

But it was his eyes that kept Suzanne’s gaze fixed on the photo. Eyes without expression. “It’s like staring into nothing,” she murmured.

“It is,” Kristopher agreed. “He is without a doubt, the scariest human being I’ve ever had dealings with though we’ve never met face-to-face. As far as I know, he’s never seen me.”

“And that’s the one who put a price on your head?”

“It is.”

“Is his head tattooed?” Suzanne continued to stare at the screen.

“Should be,” Kristopher said. “Getting your head tattooed is part of Balaur’s initiation rite, which suggests that Stan is either a new member or his claim about his hair not growing is true.”

“Amazing,” she murmured. “So much has happened since early Friday morning. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster that barely stops long enough for me to catch my breath.”

“You okay there, Miz Bennett?”

“Am I helping in all of this?” Something like guilt rose in her eyes. “Or am I only adding to the mess?”

Kristopher stared at her in disbelief. “What are you talking about? Why would you think you weren’t helping?”

“My parents always said I wasn’t good enough at things or I didn’t try hard enough,” she said, sadness creeping into her voice. “They said if I did better in school–and I got straight A’s by the way–they could have stayed sober and kept me out of foster care. I mean, is any of this mess my fault? Mercy being killed or David vanishing or me hiring a suspected child trafficker–”

“Hold up there,” Kristopher ordered. “None of this is your fault that your parents became alcoholics, understand? And it’s a damn shame they couldn’t get their shit together to see what an awesome woman you turned out to be. There’s nothing you could have done at age eight for them to become alcoholics or addicts or whatever their choice of poison was. That’s their denial talking, and you shouldn’t have had to tap-dance through your childhood to keep them sober.”

She lowered her head, and his heart twisted as tears began to slide down her cheeks. She turned away but he gently pulled her into his arms. “Let it go, Miz Bennet,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her hair. “Just let it go.”

She cried for a long time, harder than he’d seen before and he guessed it was not just the memory of her parents but everything that had happened since Thursday night and losing Mercy. Recalling Elaine’s silence when she’d cried on Friday–he kept his peace and let her cry.

She finally stopped and pulled a handkerchief from her jean pocket. “I think this is yours,” she sniffed against its folds.

“Got plenty more,” he promised. “Feel better?”

“Yeah,” she said ruefully, putting away the handkerchief. “Let’s put away these cups before Bailey comes back. We can do more research at the safehouse.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “You make good coffee.”

“Ah, shucks, Miz Bennett,” he teased as he followed her to the small kitchen. “I’ll bet you say that to all the boys.”

“I don’t know many boys like you,” she said as they rinsed and put away the cups. “I guess that old saying is true. You know, the one about good things.”

“I hope you’re not going to say something about small packages,” he said. “I’m not as tall as some of my Brotherhood Protectors, but I stand six feet in my socks so I wouldn’t call that short.”

“I was thinking of ‘good things come to those who wait’.” She tilted her head back to look up at him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve met someone as nice as you. Glad it turned out to be you.”

“Me too,” and he leaned in for a long, slow kiss. It grew in intensity as a raw desire slammed through Kristopher and he wanted nothing more than to join himself with this brave and stubborn woman who’s desire for justice had brought them together.

But then, like clockwork, his phone sounded. With a muffled curse, he took it out and sighed. “Bailey is downstairs,” he reported. “We better go.”

“You know,” she said after they’d gathered up their things and headed for the elevator. “One day, we’re going to have to silence our phones and see where these kisses take us.”

And stepping into the elevator with her, Kristopher found he had no reply.