Ronnie Masters | the MENTALIST (COMPLETE)

SEEING RED : pt I

"Snail mail isn't dead, Cho." Ronnie gloated, marching into the CBI bullpen, manilla folder in hand. "Our messenger has answered." She'd received the envelope in her own mailbox and had promptly stuffed it into the folds of a newspaper, ducking into her car where she'd sneakily dropped it into an old report file that she  was taking back to the office.

Carla Masters' spies didn't need to know why she was keeping a prepaid return envelope. 

Cho sat up in his desk chair, eyes following her as she triumphantly sat herself down at her desk and opened the folder. "What does he have to say?" 

The man who had delivered the first note to Ronnie's desk had written back almost immediately. According to California law, law enforcement are prohibited from bribing suspects or witnesses for answers, so they couldn't offer the man money for his cooperation. Instead, they'd sent their request in an envelope resembling one from the area's power company, and had included the prepaid return envelope, addressed to Ronnie's apartment. The enclosed letter had been printed on CBI stationary, endorsed by the Mayor of Sacramento's signature, and included ample warning of the danger this man had put himself in. 

He had been all too happy to comply. 

"He says that the guy who restocked the vending machine in his apartment handed him three thousand dollars to deliver the note to my desk. The guy was armed so he just did what he told him to. Hasn't seen him since." Ronnie tossed the letter like a frisbee to Cho.

Eyebrows low in thought, Cho opened up the folded sheet of paper. "Vending machine?" He paused, realization lighting up in his eyes. "Didn't your mom operate a Coke truck?"

Ronnie nodded wryly, a pinched expression on her face. "That she did." 

Carla Masters' primary transportation vehicle for the kids that she grabbed was an eighteen-wheeler. She had an expert forger—a regular contact of hers—paint the truck and trailer in the perfect likeness of a Coca-Cola semi-truck. It was so camouflaged it was practically invisible. That truck could go anywhere there was a vending machine—cities, country, open highway; apartments, schools, courthouses, restaurants—anywhere. 

Nobody batted an eyelash at that truck until Ronnie stood up in court and confessed every dirty secret she could think of. 

The hundreds of children they'd trafficked became known as the Coca-Cola Kids. 

"I assumed she'd change her MO after I ratted her out, but apparently the truck's still in the rotation." Ronnie mused. She was already typing up a request to get access to the apartment security footage in the hopes of identifying the vending machine guy. 

"She's got no reason to decommission it." Cho said, putting the letter in a new folder to be filed. "There are thousands of those trucks. Even public awareness can't get every single one of them under suspicion." He got up and moved to perch himself on the edge of her desk, watching her write the email. "We'll track down whoever gave him the money and hope you know him. We'll have to go get their records, see who's on their list for merchandise restocking. Either we're looking at their usual guy or someone under his pretense. In the meantime I want to send the notes over to somebody who can analyze the handwriting." 

Ronnie sent off the email and rested her elbow annoyingly on his knee, plopping her chin down on her palm. "Sounds good." 

Cho ignored her invasion of his personal space. He grabbed a pen and a pad of sticky notes. A second later, he showed her what he'd written: "We need to put cameras in your apartment." 

Uneasy, Ronnie met his eyes. He stared back, sure, unwavering.

He'd written because he was worried they were bugged. He worried there was no limit to Carla's reach of awareness.