The Last Witness

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “There’s the subsidy check,” Payne said.

  O’Hara nodded. “There is that. But try covering your monthly nut with three hundred bucks from CPS, maybe another three hundred in food stamps.”

  Payne shook his head. “That’s not even seven grand a year.”

  “If that much,” Mickey said. “Further, a lot of foster families, sad to say, are not going to win Parent of the Year by, for example, slapping around Joyce for not cleaning house quietly enough while they’re on their fat asses watching the Eagles lose. And if there are other kids in the house, and there usually are, either other foster kids or biological ones, they take advantage of the new kid on the block, including abusing Joyce physically and/or sexually.” He paused, then raised an eyebrow. “Maggie phrased it, ‘Think Cinderella but a triple-X-rated version.’”

  “Kids can be incredibly cruel,” Jim said matter-of-factly.

  “And so much for any chance of Joyce’s fairy-tale ending,” Payne said bitterly, then shook his head. He took a healthy swallow of scotch.

  “So,” Mickey went on, “Joyce, enduring a living hell, has limited options. She can go back to step one, the group home, and hope for a better foster family to come along and take a chance on her. Or she can run away. Let’s say Joyce is sixteen now. What is she going to do to survive? How does she provide basic food and shelter? And safety?”

  He looked between Jim and Matt.

  “So, she goes back to square one,” Matt said.

  “And reserves the runaway option,” Jim added.

  “Joyce is still essentially a child and operating in survival mode, doing the best she can with what little she has learned the hard way. Keep in mind that she has never had any good adult role models.” Mickey sipped his beer for a moment, then went on: “Okay, so she’s back in the group home. She’s frustrated to the point that she’s contemplating the runaway option when one of the staff—say, someone in the kitchen who’s been watching her—approaches Joyce and says, ‘You’re a beautiful girl. I know how you can make a lot of money. I can hook you up with this guy. . . .’ And Joyce hears all about the other girls who at her age went to work waiting tables or as a hostess and earned enough money to get out on their own.”

  “Bingo,” Matt said. “Just what Joyce wants to hear. She’s sold.”

  Jim grunted again. “Literally. Sold out.”

  “For a lousy hundred-buck kickback,” O’Hara said, nodding. “You’ve got kitchen staff making maybe eight bucks an hour. At forty hours, that’s three-twenty a week—sixteen grand a year—before taxes, et cetera.”

  “And the social workers don’t make a helluva lot more,” Payne put in, grabbing an onion ring.

  O’Hara, still nodding, said, “At this level they average about forty grand, give or take. To get that, they have to have a good degree, which means they’re strapped with college student loans to repay. A couple hundred bucks coming in tax-free is golden. Better than manna from the heavens! They justify it by saying what they’re doing is a matching service. They’re just getting the girls a job, an opportunity. If the girl decides to go and dabble in something on the side, that’s the girl’s decision. So, one girl goes out the door, and new ones come in.”

  Payne was shaking his head. “I was about to say it’s disgusting that people in a position of power over kids would take advantage of them. But then I had the mental flash of those high school teachers banging their students.”

  “Obviously not everyone’s dirty,” O’Hara said. “But that certainly doesn’t ease the pain caused by those who are.”

  He waved for the bartender to bring them another round.

  “Meanwhile,” O’Hara went on, “Joyce meets the guy, who then says he has no openings for waitresses. He tells her he’s got something higher paying but he’s not sure she can do the job—which of course only makes her want it more. Then he quote unquote reluctantly agrees to give Joyce a chance, saying he’ll personally show her the ropes. He says it’s a massage business. Really just body rubs. He tells her that he will bring in the customers, she massages them for a half hour, then they split the hundred bucks.

  “Suddenly she sees that the guy is giving her the attention she’s been craving. He lays on the affection and the material things to make Joyce feel special. Then he feeds her drugs, her inhibitions go down, and next thing she knows it’s no longer massages. She’s being paid for sex. And he’s keeping all the money. And she’s trapped.”

  “Did Maggie say she’d seen this happen?” Payne said.

  “Last time we spoke, I guess maybe six months or so ago, she said she’d heard about it from the girls and other case workers. Nothing concrete that she could take to the cops. And she said absolutely nothing at Mary’s House.”

  “Well,” Payne said, “that would be an expected answer. But clearly Maggie would never do it. Money is not an issue. Not to mention sex trafficking a minor carries a sentence of ten years minimum. But what about the other women, Emily Quan and Jocelyn Spencer?”

  O’Hara shrugged. “Who can say? I don’t think so. But it cannot be automatically dismissed.”

  Payne, looking at O’Hara, then looked beyond him to the front door. “Here comes Jason. And he doesn’t look happy.”

  [THREE]

  Little Bight Bay

  Saint John, United States Virgin Islands

  Monday, November 17, 4:50 P.M.

  Maggie McCain, holding the fifty-foot-long white-hulled catamaran on a fast course, looked up from under her navy cap and smiled. The sails were finely tuned to the point that the big cat hummed with the steady stiff wind. It felt alive, knifing with a smooth rhythm through the waves. And that had made Maggie feel more alive. And given her time to think.

  It had taken Maggie a half hour to reach the north shore of Saint John, the next island over from Saint Thomas. Farther east, she could make out Sage Mountain rising on the horizon at Tortola—where not even a mile of water separated the British Virgin Islands from the USVI.

  Maggie, the wind whipping her ponytail, scanned the Saint John shoreline looking for her landmark. The lush green hills rose steeply above the enormous volcanic boulders and the strips of white sand beach.

  She loved the seclusion of Little Bight and the fact that few could find it. The mouth of the small bay was barely twice as wide as the catamaran’s beam of twenty-five feet. It was tucked in behind a mass of boulders that formed a crescent at the foot of a tall hill, making the entrance all but invisible.

  After a moment, among a line of brown boulders, she found the landmark—an enormous rock softly etched by wind and water that to her eye resembled one of Picasso’s contorted human faces.

  She spun the big stainless steel wheel, putting Pablo’s big-eyed boulder dead ahead. Then, coming up on the gap to the bay, she uncleated the mainsheet, letting the air spill out. She dropped the mainsail. Minutes later, sailing on just the jib, the big boat smoothly slipped behind the crescent of boulders and into the protected bay.

  What a difference being on the water makes.

  I am back in control.

  —

  An hour earlier, Maggie had felt completely overwhelmed. Shaking out of control, she had taken the heavy shot of Cruzan rum to calm her—and then immediately knew that she could not keep drinking. She needed to clear her mind, and to think.

  She had looked out at the sea and seen the small white triangles that were the sails of boats moving between the islands. She then immediately hopped up and grabbed her gear.

  She went through the gap in the thick wall of sea grape trees Beatrix had told her about and found the stone path that cut back and forth down the hill to the beach and marina.

  The dockmaster turned out to be in his thirties, a very tanned bald-headed man named Captain Jesse, who was the epitome of efficiency. Just as Beatrix had said, he had had the boat ready to go and insisted on a thorou
gh walk-through, even after Maggie’s announcement that she had sailed the very small model catamaran a few times.

  “As you know,” Captain Jesse said, “no two boats are the same.”

  The layout of the boat was basically similar to all other catamarans—the main cabin, with the galley and large living area, was between the two big hulls. Steps on either side of the main cabin led down to the four staterooms in the hulls, two queen-sized beds forward and two aft, which were separated by their lavatories.

  Back up on the deck, the dockmaster had shown her that the electronics—from the VHF radio to the GPS to the wind-speed and water-depth gauges—all were in working order. He then pointed out the location of everything else she might need—the three anchors to the life jackets, emergency flares, first-aid kit—as well as the array of black panels affixed to the topside of the main cabin.

  “Not all our boats have those,” Captain Jesse said. “They’re the solar cells that charge the batteries. Don’t want to step on them.”

  He had shown her that the fuel and freshwater tanks were topped off, and that the galley was freshly provisioned. There was food enough to last a week, if Maggie stretched it, as well as nice wines—including two bottles of champagne—and beers.

  “And,” he’d said, “enough of our ubiquitous rum to throw a wicked party.”

  She smiled. “My friends I’m about to pick up will be excited to hear that.”

  He leaned forward and quietly added, “And if there’s anything else they might need, I can handle that, too.”

  Else? What else?

  Oh . . . that.

  “It’s quality. Only the best. There is a lot of bad stuff sold here.”

  Careful. Don’t come off as a prude. . . .

  “That’s always good to know.”

  He handed her a card. “My cell is on here.”

  “Thank you,” she said, then shook the dockmaster’s hand, discreetly slipping him a folded hundred-dollar bill.

  “Just let me know,” he said, hopping onto the dock.

  As he began untying lines, she pushed the starter button on the small outboard diesel engine. A couple of minutes later, all lines free, she eased the boat out of the slip.

  —

  At anchor in Little Bight Bay, the big catamaran floating in water so clear and still it looked to be suspended in air, Maggie pulled out the laptop and the satellite antenna and powered them up.

  The window for her e-mail was up, so she clicked to update the list that was her in-box. There were a dozen new e-mails, including one from Matt Payne, and that made her curious.

  The voice mail Amanda left me said she was in the Keys with Matt when she heard about the attack from Chad.

  She clicked on Payne’s e-mail, nodding thoughtfully as she read it. When she had finished, she realized she had begun to tear up.

  If Matt has that e-mail I sent, then my father is behind this.

  But Amanda has to have something to do with it, too.

  I know the last thing she wants is Matt doing police work. Especially chasing another murderer.

  She’s carrying his baby . . .

  She had to give her blessing for him to help me.

  Maggie sighed, then quickly opened another browser window and typed in PhillyNewsNow.com.

  “Well, so there you go,” she said aloud, after reading the lead story’s headline: “Update: Society Hill Home Invasion.” Tailor-made real-time proof.

  She reached into her canvas sail bag, pulled out a small digital camera, then, holding her head beside the laptop screen while holding the screen at such an angle that there would be only blue sky in the background, she forced a smile and snapped a series of photographs. Using the camera’s wireless function, she sent the images to her laptop. And, after picking the one that clearly showed the headline, she went back to her e-mail window, clicked on REPLY, attached the photograph, and wrote:

  From: Maggie

  Date: 17NOV 0510

  To:

  CC: SGT M.M. Payne

  Subject: RE: Your safety

  Attachment: 1

  Dear Matt,

  Thank you for writing. It is difficult to express how much I deeply appreciate your concern.

  I hope the attached photograph is what you need to know that I am genuinely safe.

  With all due respect, and with admiration for your proven skills as a police officer, considering the circumstances I could not be in a safer place.

  Please know that while this is an arduous situation, one that I do wish were resolved, I feel there are a few things that I have to do before, as you put it, life is back to normal.

  I sincerely hope to see you and Amanda soon.

  Fondly,

  Maggie

  She read it over, nodded, then sent it.

  Then she thought: Why should my family get it secondhand?

  And she then forwarded it to her parents and to her cousin Emma.

  She then went to the My Free Texts page, punched in the California telephone number it had assigned to her, then her password.

  The conversation string of text message bubbles was still there, along with a new bubble. She read it.

  He wants me to bring him a page from the book as proof?

  How stupid does he think I am?

  “A place of my choosing”?

  How absolutely magnanimous of him.

  She read the message again.

  I need to give him something, though.

  She took the camera inside the cabin. She pulled from her backpack the notebook that was the ledger on the girls. She turned to a page that had a list of the girls’ names and the cities where they were working. At the top of the page there also was a crude doodle of a woman’s crotch.

  She took a couple of photographs of that page, then repeated the process of sending it to her laptop.

  Sliding the notebook inside the backpack, she had to work it around the thick brass-zippered bank pouch. And then she had an idea.

  She pulled the pouch and the plastic bag that was imprinted in gold with Lucky Stars Casino & Entertainment from the backpack. Then she removed a handful of the hundred-dollar poker chips that were in the bag and fanned a wad of the hundred-dollar bills from the pouch. She took shots of the chips on top of the cash and bank pouch.

  At My Free Texts, she attached one of the images of the ledger page to her reply and wrote:

  HERE IS YOUR PROOF. NOW GET ME MY MONEY. I WILL TELL YOU LATER WHERE THE PUBLIC TRANSFER WILL TAKE PLACE.

  She sent it, and a minute later was about to sign out when a new bubble popped up:

  267-555-9100

  THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

  BUT I AM AFRAID THAT I DO REQUIRE PHYSICAL PROOF. PLEASE.

  THIS IS A GREAT DEAL OF MONEY INVOLVED.

  We are not meeting, she thought, even if it were physically possible.

  Not now. Not ever.

  Maggie, after attaching an image of the poker chips and cash, fired back:

  PROOF? THIS IS ALL THE DAMN PROOF YOU NEED.

  GET ME THE $200,000 AND YOU GET THE ACTUAL BOOKS.

  [FOUR]

  Kensington, Philadelphia

  Monday, November 17, 3:30 P.M.

  Ricky followed Héctor out the back door of the row house. As they walked toward a gate—the same razor-wire-topped chain-link fencing that surrounded the three backyards also separated them—he noticed that there was another heavy smell in the air, a different one, not quite as metallic as earlier.

  On the other side of the gate, Ricky saw the large-gauge electric power cables, more or less concealed, running to the center row house from the PECO meters of the houses on both sides of it. He followed Héctor past the enormous air-conditioning unit, a new one that
had been spray-painted in clouds of black and gray so it would not stand out, then onto the small wooden back porch.

  The industrial smell was getting stronger. Ricky turned toward it and saw where it was coming from. A sheet-metal hood, bowl-shaped and also spray-painted with gray-black clouds, was mounted outside a rectangular hole at the foot of the back wall. It covered what had been a small window to the basement. Ricky visualized the four-inch-diameter vent tube behind it. The tube went down to the heavy steel lid that was cinched tight to the top of a 110-gallon drum, a ring of flames from a gas burner flickering under it.

  Héctor, approaching the back door, saw him looking at the vent.

  “Another day and then that’s done.” He shrugged. “Bigger ones take a little longer than usual.”

  Héctor slipped a key in the door’s dead bolt, turned the knob, and swung it open. When they stepped inside, Ricky saw that there was another curtain of floor-to-ceiling clear plastic. Immediately beyond it, at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement, there were two cardboard boxes, their sides labeled “Technical Grade Sodium Hydroxide Lye Beads.” One bulged with women’s clothes. The other, half full, contained shoes and purses.

  “All that,” Héctor said, “is to get incinerated.”

  Ricky nodded.

  Héctor pulled the plastic curtain aside, and they entered.

  Héctor grinned and made a sweeping gesture toward what was the main floor of the house. It held a giant tent made of the plastic sheeting—inside which was a small forest, two long rows of bushy green plants six feet tall—and what looked, at least by comparison to the old house, like a space-age array of hoses and wires and tubes supporting the tent.

  “My controlled growing environment,” Héctor said, waving Ricky inside the tent. “This is much better than what I started with in Miami. And soon we start another one in the first house.”