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The revelation rippled through the room.
“Mayor Howard has been taken into custody for now and is on suicide watch. We also have a...” She hesitated. She didn’t want to give away much about D.D.’s new charge, Bonita. The girl was alone, voiceless, vulnerable. “We have a source,” Kimberly said at last, “who has led us to believe there is another player in this operation. An unknown male, can’t tell you anything more than that at the moment. It’s highly possible he’s the one who killed Martha Counsel, so whoever he is, he clearly has a stake in things. We believe the cook may also be complicit, and she has disappeared. Sheriff Smithers has issued a BOLO with her description. Also missing, another maid, Hélène Tellier. We have reason to believe her life is in jeopardy. Maybe even the cook, or the UNSUB, kidnapped her.”
Around the room, eyes widened. Hearing it all spoken out loud, even Kimberly was startled by just how much had happened in the past twelve hours.
One of her fellow FBI agents raised his hand. “We have news that might be relevant.”
“Go on.”
“We’ve been running background on all the names of hotel guests we’ve been able to gather for the past sixteen years, looking for registered sex offenders, individuals with criminal histories, et cetera.”
Kimberly nodded.
“A good ten to fifteen percent of the names registered at local hotels—they don’t exist. The names appear to be aliases. Nor can we find corresponding credit card charges to go with these reservations, which suggests the individuals paid cash. Cross-referencing the names with restaurant credit card receipts, also nothing. We have dozens of room reservations at multiple lodging establishments that appear to belong to ghosts.”
Sheriff Smithers stirred.
“Ten to fifteen percent, you say?” he spoke up.
The agent nodded. “We’re talking dozens of people a year, going back a decade.”
“There’s always some people who prefer to pay cash. But that number seems mighty high. All lone individuals? Male, female?” the sheriff asked.
“No discernible pattern. Some reservations are for couples, some for males, females. Some names imply ethnicity, though who knows?”
“Time of year?” Kimberly pushed.
“Follows the seasonal trend. Most of the names are from the summer, when Niche is busiest. Then weekends in the fall, that sort of thing.”
“So our ‘ghost’ tourists are arriving with everyone else. Blending in.”
“Correct.”
“Across multiple lodging establishments?”
“Also correct.” The agent hesitated. “Though it’s worth noting we didn’t get any names from the Mountain Laurel inn. They claimed their computer system didn’t go back far enough. I’m wondering now...”
“If you did have access to those records, just how many more ‘ghosts’ that would add to the list,” Kimberly finished for him.
The agent nodded.
“What would draw dozens of people to one small town each year, all operating under fake names?” Kimberly asked slowly. She looked at the sheriff, but it was Keith who spoke up.
“Human trafficking, drug distribution, illegal organ transplants or other medical procedures,” he rattled off. “Maybe even a pornography ring, though most of those perps prefer to stay at home with their computers. A sex ring, on the other hand, that would do it.”
Kimberly stared at the computer analyst. “Thanks,” she said finally.
“In all of those scenarios”—Keith leaned forward, clearly warming to his topic—“the constant is that Niche is serving as the hub. The participants come here, using fake names, then go home again. Given the amount of tourists passing through, they have the perfect cover, right? A stranger spending the weekend hardly stands out. While the location of Niche—tucked up in northern Georgia, where you have drive time to four bordering states as well as easy access to Atlanta and a major airport—makes it ideal. Finally, the small size and limited economy makes it easier for coercion. Pay off your neighbors, threaten them into silence, either works. Frankly, I’m surprised more quaint mountain towns aren’t used for illegal enterprises.”
Keith sat back. Sheriff Smithers rubbed his face. The poor man looked like he was about to keel over, while in the back of the room, tall, built-like-a-brick Franny appeared positively faint. She was clutching the delicate gold cross she wore around her neck and shaking her head slowly, as if to ward off words that couldn’t possibly be true.
“Jacob Ness was here,” Flora spoke up, her voice perfectly toneless. “We met his father today, Walt Davies, and he took us to the abandoned shack where Jacob first held me eight years ago.”
“Walt Davies?” Sheriff Smithers roused himself in disbelief. “He’s Ness’s father?”
“He grows microgreens,” Flora said.
Keith covered her hand with his own.
