On his knees from a distance, he reached out and touched her arm. She didn’t respond. Mario, an experienced detective, had dealt with people on the verge of an overdose, stone drunk out of their mind, and severely injured—it was crucial to gain their trust. The last thing he wanted was to frighten them, causing the person to bolt.
“Good morning,” Mario said in a whisper and a gentle tap on her hand.
A hand came from under her, holding a rusted small pocketknife.
Mario caught her wrist and held it tightly. “You’re okay,” he said. “I’m a police officer. I can help.”
Her eyes showed she was terrified, and then she trembled with tears flowing down her cheeks. Mario did his best to console her, taking the knife and releasing his grip. He made some headway in gaining her confidence as the three of them sat on the marble floor.
“Do you have a family member I can call?”
The girl gave a strange look with an eye shift from the priest back to Mario. “Yo no hablo inglés.”
“It’s a start, first time she spoke,” Simms said. He leaned closer to the girl. “No inglés?’
She shook her head. “No.”
“That’s all the Spanish I know,” Monsignor said.
Mario stepped away and made a call. Avery, fresh out of college with a degree in Criminal Law, had a requirement to learn fluent Spanish and Vietnamese for graduation. French was once the most spoken language in New Orleans next to English, but Spanish and Vietnamese had taken over.
Avery was confident she could help, so Mario called dispatch to have a patrol car rush Avery to Saint Michael’s Church.
It didn’t take long for Avery to arrive, and Mario met her in the church parking lot. Briefing her on the situation as they walked, Avery stopped and pulled Mario by the arm.
“I’ve got this,” she said. “I tested very good in Child Psychology.”
Avery followed Mario into the side alter. The frightened young girl’s eyes lit up, seeing a female. Avery motioned for the priest and Mario to stand back.
Other than hello and goodbye, Mario and the priest were limited in speaking or understanding Spanish.
Avery sat across from the girl. The kid broke into a smile and spoke. Avery turned back to Mario. “Her name is Camila Garcia.”
While Avery dug for information, Mario called missing persons at the Broad Street Child Services office. The clerk asked for the birth date, which Avery shot back to Mario quickly. She continued to gain the girl’s confidence, and their chatting back and forth was promising.
Avery learned Camila was abducted yesterday in Mississippi and passed the information to Mario who was on hold with Child Services. He explained to the clerk when she returned he’d jumped the gun in calling. Enough time hadn’t lapsed for Camila’s name to show up on the national system for missing persons.
People started gathering for the evening services, and Simms suggested they move Camila to the priest’s vestment room behind the main altar.
Mario had a better idea and called a hotel manager at the Holiday Inn on Tulane Avenue. He’d often accommodated Mario with a free room for a drunk to sleep it off—most times for a city official or prominent businessman. It kept the community gossip-free and did not have the person show up home in a cab, drunk and smelling like cheap perfume. It also kept him out of divorce court.
It was best to bring Camila to a motel room with Avery and not the police station where the young girl could get frightened and clam up. The Holiday Inn manager had housekeeping prepare a freshly cleaned room by the time Mario arrived.
Camila drove with Avery, and Mario followed. When they arrived at the motel, the manager flagged the cars around the building to a ground floor room. Avery stopped sharp and parked so that Camila wouldn’t notice a black van in front of the room labeled NOPD Crime Scene on the doors.
“What the hell, Mario?” Avery asked with a fast pace toward him. “You’re going to have some woman cop drill the girl after I gained her confidence?”
“On the way over, you stopped at a shopping center.”
“Yes, so what?” Avery said her face turned red. “She needs to get out of those nasty clothes. Make her comfortable, and maybe we’ll find out what happened.”
“That we will do.” Mario shifted on one foot. “Right now, you need to explain to Camila that the female officer and nurse that just came out of the van will be discreet.”
“Mario, you can’t do this—not now!” She raised her voice and quickly lowered it. “Please, I just got her talking. By the way, she and her father are not citizens, and she speaks pretty good English.”
“She’s trained not to talk to anyone.” Mario gave a head jerk. “I don’t care about her immigration status. It’s protocol. The agent will handle the rape kit and take her clothes to the lab. Then your job will be to see she stays calm, takes a shower, puts on the fresh clothes, and resume the questioning.”
“We don’t know if she was—”
“During a traumatic event, people will say anything not to relive it. The results will tell a story as well as give proof and give you an opening for further questioning.”
Avery went to the car, and with a soft, gentle voice, chatted with Camila. They spoke briefly then Avery took her hand and walked her to the motel door.
“Avery?” Mario shouted. “I’ll be out here if you need anything. By the way—you’ll make an excellent detective.”
The encouraging words brought a smile to Avery, but she still faced the assignment of convincing Camila to work with the crime scene team.
Mario caught up on his messages. He had received a call from the Chief and texted her he’d have to get back to her, then typed 911, a signal Mario used with her when in the middle of a critical investigation and couldn’t talk. The Chief reaching out to him must not have been important since he didn’t get a quick phone call right back.
Mario’s eyes glued to the motel door didn’t stop him from pressing the number one on his cell phone for Howard. A second call within a few minutes.
“Damn it, Howard,” he whispered. “Where the hell are you?”
A good thirty minutes passed before Avery waved Mario into the motel room. Inside, the officer packed up her medical bag and, with gloves, stuffed Camila’s clothes into a separate bag.
The nurse in passing told Mario, “I’ll have a report within a few hours. It depends how backed up the lab is.”
Mario nodded. “Thanks for coming out so quick.” He closed the door behind her.
A hairdryer sounded in the bathroom. Avery detailed her findings during the process. Camila took a shower and cooperated very well under the circumstances. From the questioning and describing what the nurse was about to do, it appeared no one forced themselves on her.
“That’s a good start,” Mario said.
The turn of the bathroom door handle clicked, and Camila appeared in new jeans, a top, and pink girly sneakers.
“Well, who is this beautiful lady?” Mario asked, hoping his friendliness made Camila comfortable. A smile back, and in her native language, she replied, “Thank you.”
Camila and Avery took a seat at a small round table in front of the window. Mario sat across from them on the edge of the bed. He gave Avery a worried look and asked for her to follow his direction.
“I’ll ask the questions,” he said. Avery smiled and gave a slight pat on Camila’s hand.
The questions flew one after another, and Camila answered quickly and to the best Mario could tell by her expression, honestly. She didn’t hesitate and often frowned and once started to cry but caught herself. He revisited the series of questions that upset her because it was crucial to hit hard on something that brought her to tears.
Camila said twice she was kidnapped on the way to school. Mario addressed the subject a third time and she changed the time frame from walking into the schoolyard to getting off the bus.
Mario slammed his hand on the table and shouted, “Stop lying!” He forced Avery to expr
ess herself in the same matter. She did, avoiding the hand action and got a reaction.
Tears flowed. Camila held her hands to her face.
“That’s too harsh,” Avery said. “She’s upset.”
“I don’t care. All I’ve heard is bullshit for half an hour. In the schoolyard, someone approached her, or she never got off the bus—stick to one lie at a time.”
“Me temo que,” Camila said.
“She’s afraid,” Avery replied.
“Creo que mi padre esta involucrado,” Camila said, this time giving Avery a dead stare.
Avery slowly turned to Mario.
“So what did she say?” Mario tried to rush Avery along.
“Calm down, Mario. We have a breakthrough,” Avery said, turning back to her.
“Como es eso?” Avery asked.
Camila rattled off fast to a point Avery had a bit of a problem following. Then she got her to slow down and repeat.
Avery pulled a water bottle from the ice bucket on the dresser, gave it to Camila, and then turned to Mario. “She left for school the other morning. Like every day, her father sat on the porch reading the newspaper—his nose buried into the paper. She boarded the bus and was frightened when she saw none of the other teenagers were on board. The bus was empty.”
Mario’s nose flared much like it did when he was about to blow. Knowing he had to keep his cool, he excused himself and walked outside to make a call. He called Howard a third time, and after it went directly to voice mail, he hit the red button.
“Where the hell is he?” Mario mumbled. Then jammed the cell phone into his pocket.
He walked to his car, not sure why other than to cool down. He leaned against the bumper, eyes gazing at the sky, questioning why he was digging so deep into what might turn out to be a runner. If it weren’t for Monsignor Simms, he’d not even have responded to the church. One call to Child Services, they would have had a couple of female cops out, and they would deal with the pack of lies he’d learned.
He marched back in with full intentions of taking Camila to the police station and letting the proper department handle her. The case he was most worried about was going cold from lack of attention by him, and lord knows where or who Howard was so distracted by that he couldn’t answer his phone.
“Avery, pack her up,” Mario said, pushing through the motel door.
“Leave us alone,” Avery said, kneeling on the floor next to Camila. A wave of her hand had Mario step back outside.
Mario walked for ten minutes aimlessly in the parking lot before Avery came out.
“I have something,” she said, stepping out to Mario.
They leaned against the car while Avery detailed to Mario some of the mixed-up conversations she had with Camila.
The story started two days earlier when the school bus pulled to the house. Her father, a plant worker at a mill, would arrive home just before she went to school. His tradition was to relax, read the newspaper, and fix breakfast before crashing after a twelve-hour shift. That morning was no different except he came home a little earlier.
“Is there a mother?” Mario asked, cutting her off.
“Long gone. Took off with some guy about ten years ago is all the father ever told her,” Avery said and continued the story.
When the bus didn’t pick up any other passengers and bypassed the school, she shouted to the driver. That’s when she realized he wasn’t the regular bus driver. Outside of her town, Bay Saint Louis, Mississippi, the bus pulled to the side of the road. Two men jumped on, and they took off down the highway. All she knew was they were heading west on I-10. The men approached her and said they wouldn’t hurt her. That was the last thing she remembered.
“What the hell?” Mario asked.
“Hold on,” Avery replied. “Until she woke up in a small apartment.”
Sitting at a table in front of an open window, a woman played with a cell phone. Camila asked to use the bathroom. A nod directed Camila to the bathroom door. Reappearing a few minutes later, Camila kept one hand behind her. Pulling at the waist of her pants, she approached the woman and asked why she was there. The woman didn’t answer.
Camila went back to the single bed against a wall. She didn’t remember coming into the room and must have been unconscious. That’s when she noticed a fire escape outside a window.
A quick turn and Camila revealed a small towel wrapped in her hand. A seventeen-year-old who played on the school’s championship volleyball team came across the top of the woman’s head like she was serving the ball for the winning point. The small drinking glass in the towel smashed down on the woman’s head, spilling glass pieces to the floor. Camila held tightly and drove the cut edge down the side of the woman’s face and buried it in her shoulder.
The woman’s cry sent someone rushing down the hallway. The footsteps sounded heavy, and her thoughts were it was the men that had kidnapped her.
Camila pushed the window open, jumped to the steel landing—then she got lucky. Her weight on a ladder dropped her to the next landing, then to the ground by a sliding ladder. She ran for about an hour, not knowing where she was or going. That’s when she found the church.
It was all Mario needed to hear. She wasn’t some kid running away from home. His detective instincts told him Camila was telling the truth without hearing it directly. Her tears, the quivering lips as she spoke to Avery earlier, proved she was sincere.
The lies she told were not trying to redirect him. People say many things during a traumatic experience, but their mind protects them, not allowing them to relive the reality.
It was time to go. Mario didn’t have a plan other than to not tell the Chief or make a report on Camila. They loaded her in the car and brought Camila to a safe house, a place Mario had used many times hiding witnesses or snitches. The Police Department never approved the safe house, and that was fine with him. No one knowing the whereabouts made it safer—no possibility of a location leak.
Mario had Avery explain that he would deliver Camila to a safe place. Mario accepted her smile as approval, and they drove off.
Chapter 23
The timer on Howard’s cell phone beeped—he quickly turned it off. It was time to rendezvous at Roxy’s club. He sprung from the desk chair, and before exiting the front entrance, the desk sergeant called him out.
“Detective,” he shouted, waving some pink phone messages in his hand. “As you asked, I didn’t disturb you, but DeLuca called three times. Said you’re not answering your cell phone, and if I saw you to make sure to have you call him.” The sergeant stepped to Howard and handed him the messages. “You put me in an awkward position—you know, lying to Detective DeLuca.”
Howard took the messages and tossed them in the trash. “Now, no awkwardness. You never saw me,” he said and walked out the door.
There was no reason to return Mario’s calls. No matter what he said, it wouldn’t change his mind from going to Roxy’s in the hope of confronting Julie.
He battled with Monique’s voice messages and texts as he walked around the corner to Bourbon Street. He didn’t have time to deal with her craziness, so he did the next best thing and texted her. I’m involved in a case—I will call you.
Opening the door to the club was like looking inside a tunnel—pitch black until your eyes adjust. Howard waited a few seconds, then walked toward Pixie behind the softly lit bar.
Roxy barged in from the kitchen, fully dressed as if he was ready to go on stage. Makeup, a gigantic wig that appeared taller than necessary even for his jug head, and a sequin dress that flashed from every angle when he walked under a bar light. “Pixie, are you set?” his deep, loud voice shouted. “Do you know what to say?”
“Yes, Roxy. For the tenth time.”
“This is some serious stuff,” Roxy said, both hands on the bar in Pixie’s face. “There is no room for error or for you to go into a frenzy.”
Roxy pulled the drapes back from the front window, much like at night so the Bourbon Street c
rowd could get a peek inside the club. A little enticement to join in the fun.
Howard stepped back to the far wall where the light didn’t reach. He took a seat, pulled out his Glock, took the safety off, and pumped one bullet in the chamber, then re-holstered it. Then he checked the gun in his ankle holster. He was ready for any action Julie might throw his way. It crossed Howard’s mind he might have a face-off with Julie. If so, it was business as usual. One assassin would walk away, the other rolled out in a body bag.
Everyone was in place, Roxy on stage viewing from behind the curtain, Howard at the back darkest part of the room, and Pixie behind the bar cleaning a glass.
“You look nervous, Pixie,” Roxy shouted.
“I’m not nervous,” he shouted back.
“Then stop cleaning the same damn glass—try another one.”
Roxy, a stickler for perfection, liked his shows—everything had to look perfect down to Pixie cleaning glasses.
The door handle turned at the front door and opened slowly. All eyes glued to see Julie, but Howard noticed the shoes first. It was a man or a woman with men’s shoes and socks.
“May I help you?” Pixie asked on cue.
“Are you Tony?” the man asked.
From across the room, Howard nailed the voice—it wasn’t Julie; she’d sent Jin.
“No, but Tony said someone might come asking.” Pixie handed him a piece of paper.
Jin reached for the note, and Pixie pulled his hand back just like Roxy told him. “I believe you promised some money for this info?” Pixie said his line perfectly with a hand on his hip and an attitude.
Jin pulled a roll of money from his pocket and dropped five crisp one hundred dollar bills on the bar. Pixie reached for the cash, and Jin took the note that read to ask for Roxy. It was the phone number for the club.
Jin turned to leave, and a steel barrel pressed against his head, halting him.
The Auction House Page 12