He sighs. “Some record company execs. Other times, it’s producers and sound engineers. That kind of thing.”
Astra and I share a look, the confusion I see on her face mirrored on my own. We turn back to Bauer; his cheeks flush, and an expression of embarrassment crosses his face.
“What is this about?” I ask.
He frowns and squirms, finally getting to his feet, and paces the floor behind his desk. Whatever it is he’s not telling us obviously makes him uncomfortable.
“Joey? What’s this about?” I press.
He finally stops pacing and leans on the back of his chair, his face a picture of torment. Bauer looks down and sucks in a breath before raising his eyes to us.
“Look, I’m going to tell you something about me. Something personal,” he says. “But I need your word that it goes no farther than this office.”
“I can’t make that promise, Joey,” I tell him. “If this has any bearing on our case—”
“Trust me, it don’t.”
I look at him evenly. “Okay, if it doesn’t, then it won’t leave this office. If I think it could be connected, even tangentially, then I have a duty to report it.”
“Like I said, it don’t,” he repeats.
“Okay, then tell us.”
He sighs and looks pained. “Listen, there are two things I’m really passionate about—music and spoken-word poetry. I’m an artist. I play jazz music and do spoken word at open mic nights around the city. But neither one of those things are going to pay the bills, y’know?”
I sit back in my chair, flabbergasted. Of all the things he could have told us, that wouldn’t have even made my top one thousand list. And judging by the look on Astra’s face, it wasn’t on her bingo card either.
“I started the club because I wanted to be close to the music. I even do a set now and then,” he tells us. “But running this place is expensive. So is studio time. Anyway, I heard that you could make a ton of cash putting together these matchmaking things, so I jumped in. Plus, it puts me in close contact with some people who might be able to help my music career. So, I’m trying to kill two birds with one stone. You know what I mean?”
It’s such a ridiculously outlandish story I don’t think it can be anything but the truth. Out of all the things he could have chosen to be to deflect from any potential connection to the abductions, a spoken-word poet and struggling jazz musician seems the least likely. They just don’t sound like the sort of thing a guy would make up. Not to mention that I hear the distinct ring of sincerity in his voice. He’s not making my BS detector ping in the least. What I do hear, though, is a resounding thud ringing in my ears that is the sound of Bauer’s potential connection to the abductions falling flat. Even Astra seems to finally accept that he’s not our guy.
“Okay, I think we have what we need here,” I say as we get to our feet. “Thanks for your time, Joey.”
“Should I block out some time on my calendar for the next time you come back here to rattle my cage?”
“No, I think we’re good,” Astra says.
“But, given that you are in proximity to some powerful and influential men, please keep your ear to the ground,” I tell him. “And if you hear anything—”
“You’ll be my first call.”
“Thank you.”
“And… you won’t tell anybody what I told you. Right?”
“Your secret’s safe with us,” I say.
“All right. Thanks.”
“Jazz musician, huh?”
He beams with obvious pride. “Yeah. I’ve got a couple self-produced albums available for download. I go by Jay-B.”
“I actually really dig jazz,” I tell him. “Maybe I’ll check them out.”
“If you do, don’t forget to leave a review,” he says. “Unless you don’t like ‘em.”
Laughing to myself, I follow Astra out of his office, then we make our way out of the club. Once we climb back into the SUV, she turns and shrugs.
“Spoken-word poetry? Really?” she asks.
“Just goes to show that when you go turning rocks over, you never know what you’ll find.”
FBI Operational Black Site, Foggy Bottom District; Washington DC
As much as it blows my mind to admit, Joey Bauer, aka Jay-B, is actually pretty good. He’s smooth on the saxophone, and I can hear influences like Coltrane and Sonny Rollins in his work. He’s got some work to do before he’s as good as those guys, of course, but I’m surprised to learn that he’s not half-bad. His music is actually quite beautiful and filled with genuine emotion; I never would have expected that level of art from a guy who looks like he should be starring on Jersey Shore, not in the studio making good music.
As the next track on Bauer’s second album plays, I turn over in my bunk and close my eyes, doing everything I can to get to sleep. We’ve been going a hundred miles an hour since the team got here, and everybody is running on fumes, so I ordered everybody to turn in and get some sleep. The hope is that once we wake up with some sleep under our belts, we can attack this from a different angle. Maybe we’ll be able to see things from a fresh perspective that will yield some results, because as of this moment, we’ve got zilch. Maybe even less than that.
The lack of anything to go on, though, is making it incredibly hard for me to sleep. I keep going through everything in my head, trying to figure out what it is we’re missing or just not seeing. Our bad guy is methodical. Careful. Highly organized and intelligent. He’s not the most physically imposing man, but he compensates for that by wisely using the Taser, virtually eliminating the chance that he’ll have to fight to gain control of his victims. He smartly avoids putting himself in a position where a bodily confrontation is inevitable.
We’ve hunted some of the most despicable and dangerous people on this planet. But even the most vicious killer out there doesn’t scare me as much as guys like the one we’re chasing right now. And what scares me is that although no bodies have turned up and we have no idea what he’s taking these kids for, his intelligence and the organized, methodical methods he employs makes him exceedingly tough to catch. I fear these kids may have just vanished into the ether and will never be found. That scares me more than what’s going to happen to my career if we don’t find them.
I hear soft footsteps in the hall beyond the door to my room and wonder who’s walking around when they should be sleeping. But when I hear the hand on the doorknob, a jolt of adrenaline hits my system, and I sit up and reach for the Glock that’s sitting on my nightstand. The door opens, and when Astra sticks her head in, I relax.