Page 72 of Love Me Darkly
Donovan nodded. “And the undercover op?”
“I haven’t mentioned it yet, and I won’t until we get that fucker in there to crack. When I put through the request to Carlisle, I want ironclad evidence backing us up. She needs to see we have a way in and a clear plan. In the meantime, we need to get ready for Glow Night.”
Donovan heaved a sigh. “Really getting sick of Solstice.”
Mateo grunted. “I feel you, but Korenic will be there, so we should be too. In the meantime, we have nothing left to do but let Caleb dangle until Smitty’s up to bat. So, I was thinking … lunch? I know a great place not far from here.”
“Oh yeah?” Donovan asked, slipping on his sunglasses. “Where are we going?”
Mateo retrieved his own glasses and steered Donovan toward the doors. “Your auntie’s place. I’ve been having some very vivid dreams about red beans and rice.”
“All right, let’s go over it again from the top,” said Agent Smith, hands clenched behind his back as he faced Mateo and the team. “Here’s what we know about the inner hierarchy of The Veil.”
They stood clustered in the conference room around a large whiteboard on wheels—Mateo, Donovan, Williams, Jones, and Darcy. The short, stocky agent had written on it in a rigid, efficient hand, a pyramid of the inner hierarchy of The Veil. It was late—a few minutes past eight p.m., and the entire team showed signs of fatigue. It had been a long day, mostly consisting of waiting around for Caleb Morgan to realize that his options were few to none. They’d sent Smith in at around two o’clock, after ignoring several requests for food, water, or bathroom trips. Caleb had been isolated, starved, dehydrated, and left in a room with an overhead light that had been purposely tinkered with so that it flickered occasionally. One of his chair legs was shorter than the others, and the vents offering air conditioning had been shut tight. The foundation had been laid and the way paved for Smith, who had gone into the interrogation room with a rare gleam twinkling in his eye. The man was in his element, striding in and proceeding to wrap Caleb Morgan around his finger.
Mateo hadn’t bothered to listen in, trusting Smith to do what he was known for. The man emerged five hours later without his shirt, jacket, or tie—just an undershirt, dress pants, belt, and shoes. He strode straight to Mateo and silently placed a recording device in his palm—Caleb’s confession.
Mateo laughed at Donovan’s shocked expression. “I told you he would break him. How’d you do it this time, Smitty? Good cop or bad cop?”
Smith grunted and crossed to the coffee station, helping himself to the strong black brew. Going into his back pocket, he came out with a pack of cigarettes.
“Neither. Kid never had a dad, so I went Father John on him. Threw in a couple of those ‘us white guys against a changing world’ moments. Easy work.”
Mateo smirked. ‘Father John’ was a character Smith often played when dealing with suspects like Caleb—those from broken homes with checkered pasts. Those who had never known the gentle but firm guidance of a father figure. He started off stern, portraying an air of disappointment in their behaviors, as if his opinion of them ought to matter. Over time, he grew gentler, yet still stern, poking and prodding and exposing their vulnerabilities until they crumbled, telling him everything he wanted to know.
Slipping a cigarette between his lips, Smith had taken up his coffee. “Goin’ for a smoke. Lemme know when you’re ready to dig in.”
By the time Smith returned from his break, Mateo and Donovan had listened to the recording and started documenting the details. Smith had then taken everything and organized it into the chart they now stared at.
Smith used the dry-erase marker in his hand to point at the names written off to the side of the pyramid, an arrow indicating an adjacent connection. “We have our Associates, guys like Tariq Hayes, Wilson, and Morisson. They’re not a part of The Veil—Tariq is Black, Wilson has Jewish ancestors, and Morisson is too old. But they’re good enough to do business with, and the only color that matters in that type of arrangement is green.”
“So, they have no power outside their function within the drug and human trafficking business,” Williams offered.
“Right. Now, at the bottom of the pyramid we have the Acolytes. These are your regular members—the sheep. There’s a bit of hierarchy within this tier and as a recruiter, Caleb is at the top. He and the others help bring in the Prospects … that’s what Jones will be if we can get him in. Prospects serve in silence and prove their worth through a variety of tests—physical pain, humiliation, drug-induced rituals.”
Mateo eyed Jones from the corner of his eye and watched the young man take that in. Caleb’s confession had been filled with details of the things new Prospects were expected to do to prove their loyalty and devotion. Jones seemed unruffled, paying rapt attention to Smith as he pointed at various points on the board, talking faster now that he’d gotten going.
“Above the Acolytes and Prospects are the Harbingers. These are the true gatekeepers of The Veil. They supervise the Recruiters and the trials, and they have the final say on whether someone is let into the fold. Prospects practically worship these guys, doing whatever they can to stand out and be noticed. The more depraved and unhinged a Prospect can be when given the chance, the better. The Harbingers are always watching, sizing up the Prospects for the best and the strongest. And then we have the Sovereigns.”
“The true villains in all this, if you ask me,” Darcy muttered from where she sat curled in a chair with her knees drawn to her chest.
Smith tapped his marker against the board over where he had written SOVEREIGNS in all caps. “This is where the money comes from. Wealthy white men—politicians, CEOs, lawyers, bankers. Caleb says most of these guys are only in it for the power and the money, but a handful are true believers who participate in rituals. They are mostly silent partners, but a few take more active roles.”
“And what occurs during these rituals?” Donovan asked.
Smith shook his head. “Caleb’s clearance isn’t high enough for him to attend rituals. To be invited to one is a great honor. He would do anything to be included.”
“Could Caleb identify any of these Sovereigns?” Williams asked. “Has he seen any of them in person?”
Smith shook his head. “The Sovereigns are referred to with code names, and they come to the temple masked.”
Jones frowned. “Temple?”
“The mansion,” Smith clarified. “It’s not just a party spot or a meeting place. It’s a sacred Temple of The Veil.”
Donovan came closer to the board, pointing at the top of the pyramid, where two squares sat side by side. “And these two? The Benefactor and the Shepherd? Why are they side by side like this?”
“Because,” Smith answered, “Caleb can’t tell me which of them is actually at the top of the pyramid. He assumes they share power. Korenic is the Benefactor, a patron whose wealth and connections open doors and keep the proper authorities and officials in The Veil’s pocket. My guess is, the Benefactor is cultivated from among the Sovereigns. Korenic is a trust fund kid with an impressive pedigree; he’d fit right in.”
