by Jack Hardin
Jet had been in law enforcement long enough that nothing surprised him anymore. He was not struck by the consideration that a man with a pretty wife, a four-year-old daughter, and a baby boy could be laundering money for an organization that trafficked young girls.
His phone rang, replacing David Lee Roth’s vocals with a generic tone.
“Hey, Ellie.”
“Jet, what are you doing?”
“Staring at IHOP.”
“Staring at IHOP? What’s that mean?”
“Exactly how it sounds. I’ve been sitting here for two hours waiting for Blake Duprey to come out with his daughter. How long does it take to sit down and have a meal with your tiny daughter?”
“Are you at the one on North Cleveland?”
“I am.”
On the other end of the line, Jet heard Ellie snicker. It was a first; he had never heard her snicker before. “Jet, that location has all-you-can-eat pancakes on Fridays. Chloe begs my sister to take her there every Friday when she picks her up from school.”
“All-you-can-eat?” He sounded like a forlorn time management expert. “That explains a lot.”
Ellie asked, “Did you get those cameras set up on the rooftop last night?”
“I did. Nothing so far. They may have cleared out for good. Did you find anything else on Cruz?”
Ellie relayed her brief conversation with Abby. “She said Cruz used to spend time at a bar called the Ugly Pelican. You know it?”
“Yes. We staked it out a couple years back looking for a local dealer. It’s heavy on the Hispanic, light on the Caucasian. Not sure that’s the best place for you to go asking questions.”
“I can handle myself,” she said.
“That I don’t doubt. I think what I’m saying is that if a pretty white lady comes walking in, you’ll get every eye on you for the entire length of your stay. It might not be the easiest scenario for you to stay low key.”
“So you want to take it?”
“I’ll stop in with my best Spanish accent. I’ll blend right in.”
Ellie laughed. “All right, it’s all yours. Will you go tonight?”
“No. My granddaughter has a varsity softball tournament this weekend. It starts tonight and runs through most of tomorrow. I’ll swing by tomorrow night. With it being a Saturday, it should be busy. Might give me a better chance to score some info.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be out tomorrow night, so leave me a message and let me know if you get anything.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’ve got a gala for cancer research. It’s Major’s brainchild, and I’m his date.”
“Well, have a good time. And try to take your mind off all this. It will be here when you get back.”
They hung up, and David Lee Roth returned, singing about dancing the night away while Jet stared out his windshield, wondering just how many pancakes a four-year-old could eat.
Chapter Thirty-One
The can of hairspray hissed as she pressed the nozzle and held it away from her body. She heard her front door open and Major announce his arrival. “One second!” Ellie set the can down and, after taking a final look at her hair, escaped the fumes and exited the bathroom. Major was standing in the center of the living room flipping through a copy of Field & Stream that he’d lifted from her coffee table. When he looked up and his eyes fell on his niece, he halted.
Her blonde hair was gathered above her neck in an elegant chignon, set off by a pair of diamond drop earrings that had once belonged to her mother. Dark eyeshadow colored her eyelids, and the perfect shade of red adorned her lips. Her backless dress was royal blue, loose skirts flowing freely below her waist, accompanied by a side slit. Matching high heels gave her five-foot-seven frame another three inches.
“Ellie,” Major said. “You’re the explicit definition of a lady.” He stepped up and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. “It’s nights like this I wish your father were still with us.”
“Me too,” she said softly, and then nothing else.
The front door opened for the second time in as many minutes, and Tyler’s head popped in past the door frame. He stepped in and shut the door, stopping his greeting to Major short as soon as he saw Ellie. He stood straighter and stared at her, then said in a voice full of astonishment, “I want to cat-call you right now, but I’m trying to be more grown—”
He cat-called her.
Ellie smiled. Tyler stepped to her, his eyes bright. “Really,” he said. “You look...gorgeous.”
Ellie wasn’t the blushing type. But she could nearly feel one coming on. “Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed him gently, leaving a hint of lipstick on his lips. He didn’t seem to mind.
Tyler held a thin, narrow box in his hand, one that might fit a pencil or a letter opener. He removed the lid and gently lifted something from it. Ellie’s eyes widened as he held up a tennis bracelet. It threw a thousand spangles of light across the room.
She started to speak but was held back by his hand encircling her wrist like it was gathering up a baby bird. “You’ve got that internal beauty,” he said. “I wanted you to have some on the outside too.” He winked at her, and she laughed as the clasp clicked into place.
Tyler stepped back, and Major gave him a gentrified nod, an older man silently informing the younger that he had done well. From behind Ellie, Citrus offered his consent with a sharp yip of approval. Ellie examined the bracelet. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“You ready?” Major asked.
“Yes.” She grabbed her clutch from the kitchen table. “Let’s go.”
Tyler turned to Major and spoke to him like a protective father. “Don’t keep her out past midnight,” he said.
“Tyler,” Major said, “I held this lady in my arms not five minutes after she was born.”
“Bring her back whenever you want.”
“There you go.”
Ellie said goodbye to her dog, and the three of them went out the front door. Tyler’s F-150 was parked behind a burgundy Jaguar XJ. “Major,” Ellie said. “Did you just buy a Jag?” For as long as she could remember, Major had always driven a Jeep.
“I couldn’t see taking my niece out for a nice date in a Wrangler. So I asked Carlos if I could borrow one of his cars.” Major opened the door for her, and Ellie blew Tyler a quick kiss before hiking up the bottoms of her skirt and getting in. Major shut her door and went around to the driver’s side, and when he started the Jag, the Beatles continued singing “Penny Lane.” Ellie was examining her new bracelet. Behind them, Tyler’s truck growled to life.
“He’s a good man,” Major said as he checked the rearview mirror. “But you really should tell him to get a haircut.”
The gala was at the Ritz-Carlton in Sarasota, nearly two hours north of St. James City. The luxury hotel was perched on the edge of the water and offered sweeping views of Sarasota Bay and Longboat Key. Carlos Hernández’s call to friends, associates, and philanthropists was happily answered by over one hundred attendees, all gathered in tuxedos and fine dresses to spend an evening fighting pediatric cancer.
The evening commenced outside, near the pool, where guests ordered drinks at a tiki hut and mingled as the sun began its descent into the Gulf of Mexico, while a DJ kept the atmosphere charged with the relaxing and familiar voices of Jimmy Buffett, Jack Johnson, and Don Henley.
Ellie and Major stood in an outdoor lounge holding their drinks while Major discussed his favorite debuts from last year’s Miami boat show with the president of Navsec, the state’s largest manufacturer of monofilament fishing line. Ellie was about to offer her opinion on the 226 Cayman, Robalo’s newest addition to its bay boat line, when a deep voice came from behind them. “Ellie, where did you find your date?”
She turned to see Carlos towering over her, and she thought her head might tip off her shoulders as she craned it to look him in the eye. “I found him panhandling in St. James City. The adventurer in me decided to invite him along.
”
Carlos looked Major over and grinned. “Well, he cleaned up well.”
Major said, “I like your Jag, Carlos. I might not give it back.”
“It’s a fine machine, isn’t it?” Carlos excused himself and navigated clusters of guests as he walked over to the DJ. He grabbed a mic, and the music faded as he thanked everyone for coming and invited them inside for dinner.
Ellie and Major placed their empty drink glasses on a server’s tray and took their seats at a table near the front with Carlos, his wife, and a couple who ran a cancer research foundation based in Lee County. As the servers brought their food course by course, Ken Gambini, a local comedian who had just signed on a three-part comedy special with Netflix, kept everyone in stitches with a flawless routine highlighting water births, airline food, and glitter, which he claimed was one of the ten plagues of Egypt, his authority on the matter stemming from the fact that he had four young girls.
As the meal came to an end, Carlos excused himself from the table and stepped behind a podium on the stage. After a few light-hearted jokes of his own, Carlos turned to the topic of the evening, discussing recent statistics relating to childhood cancer and a personal account of his own grandchild winning her battle with leukemia. Everyone here, he summarized, had a responsibility to continue making the world a better place for current and future generations.
He finished by introducing Major, without whom the night’s event would not have taken place. Major joined him on the stage, and the men exchanged hugs before Major took his place behind the microphone. He thanked Carlos for the introduction and began: “I’m just a small business owner from a big island that generally gets overshadowed by Sanibel. But we like being Florida’s best-kept secret.” Major had taken a piece of paper with him to the podium—a prepared script of what he wanted to say. Now, he folded it and placed it inside his jacket pocket. A frown started to creep over his features, but he overcame it with a forced smile. “Nearly fifteen years ago, the daughter of one of my best friends died of cancer. One day she was playing with friends in her front yard, and the next a doctor was talking to her father about chemo and cell counts and bone marrow transplants.”
Major went on to discuss cutting edge treatments that were often held back due to a lack of funding. “Cancer affects us all in some way. If it hasn’t touched us directly, it’s touched someone we know and love. And kids...” Major paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “Kids shouldn’t have to deal with cancer. They should be playing baseball, worrying about ballet recitals, and dreaming of college and changing the world.”
Major swallowed hard, overwhelmed by a cause he cared deeply about. Ellie suddenly wished she were up there with him, holding his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. But she stayed in her seat, trying to keep willing tears behind her eyes. She knew Major would never fully get over what happened to little Katrina, or the poor choices her father, Quinton Davis, would end up making years later.
Major finished a few minutes later and returned to his table with loud applause, and as the evening drew to a close, the guests drifted back outside, enjoying a fresh round of drinks and lively conversation in the cool evening air.
While Major fell to chatting with a group of people Ellie didn’t know, she returned to the tiki hut and ordered a vodka cranberry. Behind her, someone lightly cleared his throat, and when she turned around, she immediately placed the olive-skinned man standing before her. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and, like all the other men who were present, he wore a tux.
“Hello,” he said. “Am I correct in thinking I saw you on Pine Island last week?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “You were leaving Jet’s office.”
“Yes.” He extended his hand. “I’m Alex.” They shook as she introduced herself. “Are you a client of his as well?” he asked.
“No. Just a friend.” Ellie quelled a desire to tell Alex about her involvement in helping find Juanita. She didn’t want to violate any unspoken privacy agreements Jet tried to maintain with his clients. So instead she said, “Is Jet investigating something for you?”
Much of the cheer drained from Alex’s face. “Yes. I run a day shelter for children in West Hialeah. A few months ago, one of the girls in the neighborhood went missing. Jet, I am hoping, can help find her. So far the police have not been too persistent.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “If anyone can find her, it would be Jet.” The bartender extended her drink across the bar. She took a sip before asking, “Do you know anyone here tonight?”
Alex was holding a glass of his own, half full of ice and amber liquid. He took a sip and nodded, “Yes. Carlos, actually. He grew up in West Hialeah and is one of our most generous supporters. He asked me to come so he could introduce me to some individuals he thought might be willing to donate to the shelter. He’s actually the one who’s offered to pay for the work Jet is doing.”
They heard Alex’s name called from the other side of the pool. Carlos was waving him over. “Excuse me,” he said. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
After Alex left, Ellie walked over to the railing that looked out over the dark waters of Sarasota Bay. Palm fronds rustled dryly above her as a gentle breeze blew across the water, and she closed her eyes, remembering so easily why she loved the Gulf Coast.
She could hear Jet’s advice not to think about Juanita tonight, but now she was finding that it wasn’t so easy. Not after meeting Alex, and not after hearing that it was Carlos who was funding the investigation. An impatient angst grew hotter inside her. At this late hour, Tiffany would be at home, Kayla tucked in and asleep, both still grieving a husband and a father who was not actually dead. Ellie disagreed with Nick’s decision not to tell his family. But she understood it. And Nick’s brother was dead, ostensibly murdered by Victor Cruz.
And then there was Juanita.
When Ellie was a little girl, her father ingrained a simple philosophy into her, one that still woke with her each morning: Do for one what you wish you could do for everyone. Ellie couldn’t help every victim of sex trafficking. But she could help one. She could rescue one.
Victor Cruz was the key, Ellie knew, and she was going to wake up tomorrow morning and not rest until she found him, until he or someone he knew led her to Juanita.
The ice rattled in her glass as she drained the rest of her drink. After taking a final look at the bay, she returned to the bar and went to find Major.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Ugly Pelican sat off Kismet Parkway in north Cape Coral, nestled between a boat repair shop and a defunct bowling alley. It was your basic stucco structure, windowless, painted a searing yellow that served as a backdrop for a sorry mural of a pelican. A truly ugly pelican. Jet couldn’t tell if the artist was just that bad or if, given the name of the bar, the eyes were intentionally made to resemble charred golf balls and the beak a melting spoon. Regardless, as he made his way across the dirt parking lot, he thought Juanita could have painted an ugly pelican with at least a little more charm.
The inside was dark, lit by tired bulbs that set the room in a dim and hazy yellow glow. Speakers above the bar poured out Latin Trap that fought with dozens of conversations for auditory dominance.
As Jet made his way to the bar, he fielded surprised and cordial smiles, double-takes, and a few cautious frowns. He was right on target with what he had told Ellie: he was the only Caucasian in the joint, and he stood out like, well, the only Caucasian in the joint.
The bartender looked to be in her late twenties. Her right arm was covered in a sleeve of tattoos, and her hair, shaved at the sides, was dyed blonde. A black tank top was cut off and revealed a pierced belly button. “Help you?” she asked.
He had to raise his voice to be heard. “I’m looking for a Victor Cruz. You know him?”
She spread her hands on the bar top and leaned in, a piece of gum snapping in her teeth. “Why?”
“He owes an old debt. Has he been here lately?”
“What, you like a bondsman or something?”
“No. I’m not a bondsman.” He tried again. “Has he been here lately?”
“I haven’t seen him.” Her interest in the topic was thin to begin with; now it receded altogether. “You want a drink or what?”
“Sure. I’ll take a Red Stripe.”
“We don’t have Red Stripe.”
“Okay...a Miller Lite then.”
She handed him a bottle. He paid, and as he looked around for an empty table, he spotted only one: a two-seater on the far wall. He went to it and sat down. This wasn’t a biker bar and wasn’t filled with sour-faced people who wanted him out. He didn’t expect to be harangued or interrogated. But two things would happen. The bartender would tell someone, and word would get around, with someone finally approaching Jet to see what his interest was in Cruz. That, or a curious regular would stop by and inquire what a cream-skinned, gray-haired anomaly was doing there alone.
He took out his phone and brought up Instagram, started scanning posts. Social media was a new thing for him. He finally opted in when his grandchildren started using it to showcase their lives. As grandchildren went, they were surprisingly good at bringing their grandparents into their lives, often texting or calling just to say hi or to share a recent experience. But Jet didn’t want to miss anything—the goofy faces, the excursions with friends, the laughter with smaller siblings—so he jumped across a generation or two and signed up for an account.
He was nearly finished scanning through the pictures from the softball tournament when someone approached his table and greeted him. Jet looked up to see a mustachioed police officer, smiling and clutching a half drunk bottle of water. The officer wore an amused smile. “I see a white man sitting alone in a place like this, and I think that either his date is running late or his car broke down and he came in here to wait for a ride.”