Raven Rain

by David Stever

“Ever approached by traffickers?”

  “Yes. By some Haitians. Once. Wanted me to keep girls for a while before they were sent to other cities. Much the same as what you are working on. Acclimate them to a new life in the States, and then send them to the bright lights of New York.”

  “And?”

  “I threw them out of my office. Unfortunately, one of my guys had to reinforce the message.”

  “She has a team of security pros who lend a hand when needed,” I added.

  “I see,” Monica said. “Any idea how the girls were to be transported?”

  “Not, really. My understanding, and this is only from what I read, girls—and boys too, don’t forget—come across the border in Texas, and then are brought up the East Coast. In the case of the Haitians, they fly them into Florida and drive up.”

  “We figured as much. Just trying to get a handle. These folks always seem to be one step ahead.”

  “Sure are,” she said. “A lot of money involved, money the girls never see.”

  “Copy that,” Monica said, forgetting she was the only cop in the room. “So, you never hired girls who came through traffickers, to your knowledge?”

  Leah paused and slowly shook her head. My guess was she was counting to ten. “Never. I wish I could be of more help.”

  “Me too. Nice to meet you. Cool place you have here. I need to come back.”

  “I’ll have a table waiting.”

  We all stood. They shook hands and Leah and I hugged. Monica and I started for the door, but Leah stopped us. “Johnny, got a second?” Monica took the hint and kept going.

  “Sure.”

  Leah grabbed me around my neck and kissed me full on the mouth like I’ve never been kissed before. “That’s a reminder.”

  “I don’t need a reminder,” I said.

  “She might.”

  I stared into the gorgeous dark eyes and thought the less said the better.

  30

  “What was the bit with your hand on my shoulder? If you wanted to send a message, it worked.” Monica and I were in my car, headed back to McNally’s.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You were flirty.”

  “She’s grown. I’m only helping your relationship. Going on a date once a month might work for you two, but it leaves twenty-nine other days in the month for someone else to pay attention. And her, too. If I stir the pot, one of you will realize you need to increase the dates to two or three a month.”

  “Or, you enjoy keeping everyone off-balance. Leave some friction in your wake.”

  “Or, I can take one of those twenty-nine days. You don’t think men hit on her? What does she do with her non-Johnny days?”

  “We are fine and secure in our relationship, and I don’t need you to create a problem where there isn’t one.”

  “I apologize. But if I want something, I don’t hesitate.”

  People do not change, including her. This was always the issue with Mad Dog, and it made her unlikable with many officers. She had her own set of rules and achieved results, but many times at a high cost. She would march into a situation, create havoc, obtain what she wanted, and leave as if nothing happened.

  Saying nothing at this point was best, but I was not going to stew in curiosity. “What do you want?”

  “Huh?”

  “What is it you want?”

  She smiled. “You want to talk about this now?”

  “You started it.”

  “Hey, no secret I always had a thing for you. I think you felt the same. We never got there, for whatever reason. Working together again brought it all back and meeting Leah motivated me. No ring on her finger, Delarosa.”

  Was this her creating havoc only to leave later or was she serious? I glanced at her. The window was half-open, allowing the wind to toss her black hair around her sexy, freckled face. Damn. She was such an enigma for so many of us, and now do I have a chance to crack the code? Keep your head, Delarosa.

  We drove in silence for a few miles until her cell rang.

  “Sure, Gil. I can meet in thirty minutes.” She held the phone down from her face, and asked me, “The FBI. Mind if we meet at McNally’s?”

  “Sure, fine.”

  She gave the agent the address and ended the call. “Thanks. He has new information on the sex trafficking. I want you to sit in on the meeting.”

  “He’ll never allow me in. Plus, I should duck out at this point. It is your case, not sure how I can help.”

  “Johnny, if this is about the conversation we just had, please pull over so I can shoot you right here.”

  “No, it is not.” We stopped at a light. “My client is nothing but contradictions. We can press him, but I don’t want to tip off Talia, and we don’t know if there is anything there or not.”

  “But it’s all we have.”

  I lowered my sunglasses and looked her dead in the eye. “Besides, I’m too much man for you anyhow.”

  “Oh, Delarosa.” She hit me in the arm. “Game on, stud.”

  A horn blared behind us. The light had turned green. “Shall we go, Mad Dog?”

  “You have yet to experience how mad this dog can be.”

  ###

  FBI Special Agent Gil Evans stood five foot seven on a good day. Slight of build, thinning brown hair, his weapon had to weigh more than he did. He was all business, though—got straight to the point with his intelligence.

  We gathered in my booth, and much to his reluctance, I had Katie take notes. Monica convinced him I had information that could open a door for us into Entertainment Ventures.

  “The Texas Border Patrol reports at least a dozen girls were smuggled into the Houston area last week,” he explained. “They crossed over somewhere near Laredo, safe harbored in either San Antonio or Corpus Christi for a few days, then moved to Houston. From there, we were able to track four girls into Atlanta, then lost them. We want to stop them in Port City, squeeze the bottleneck south—Atlanta, then Texas, so forth.”

  “All teenagers?” Monica asked. “And all will be forced into prostitution?”

  “Mostly teens, some in their twenties. Not always into prostitution. Many into forced labor or domestic servitude. Yes, in this country. Not just cities, either. Some are fanned out to small towns and rural areas to work basically as slaves on farms or in homes as maids, domestics, or nannies. Travel documents are confiscated so they can’t leave.”

  “Unbelievable. How can we help?” I asked.

  “Detective Mattson tells me you might have a lead into Fantasy Escorts?”

  “Yes. Flimsy, though,” I said.

  “Mr. Delarosa agreed to do what he can. Best angle we have so far,” Monica said.

  “The focus is on their travel from Atlanta north, which should happen in the next few days. Anything you can add will be helpful at this point. Information only.” He focused on Monica. “Please do not take any actions.” Then back to me. “Your involvement is off the record?”

  “For now. My priority is to help my client. I’ll turn over what I can without exposing him. If he is complicit, I am happy to turn him over.”

  “Fair enough. The bureau thanks you. You can reach me through Detective Mattson.”

  Agent Evans departed.

  “I can’t believe Mister Shelton would be involved in human trafficking. Even though he is a pig, in my opinion,” Katie added, as she closed her laptop.

  “Did something happen?” Monica asked.

  “Hell yes. We had a group of guys in here and in comes the football hero—”

  I stopped her. “Not the time.”

  “Girl talk, later,” Monica said, winked at her.

  “Yes, but I still think he’s too dumb to be involved in trafficking.” She got out of the booth. “Mike needs me.” She pointed a finger at both of us. “I want more street time. I need my hours if I’m ever to get my license. Don’t leave me sitting here.”

  “Yes, bad ass,” Monica said.

  “I mean it.”
She went into the kitchen.

  “Entertaining, isn’t she?”

  I nodded. “Oh yeah. What’s the plan, Detective?”

  “I hoped you had one. Call you later.” She slid out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I promise Robbery I’d help run warrants. Shouldn’t be too long.” She went out through the rear door.

  I sat in thought for a while. Was Katie correct? Was Stan too dumb to be involved in human trafficking, or did he allow himself to be seduced deep into a criminal enterprise that had no exit? If he did not come clean with me and allow my help, even the Shelton way—the glad-handing over-the-top bullshit—wouldn’t save him.

  31

  The lunch traffic in McNally’s tapered off, so I decided a mental health break was in order, at least my version, which consists of a handsome bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon and a Dave Koz CD in the player. I poured a hearty shot into a glass and sat back on the sofa with my feet propped on the coffee table. Monica’s flirty jab during our meeting bothered me. The last thing I needed was Leah friction. Was it a genuine attraction that resurfaced for Monica, or her twisted way of endearing herself to me to gain an advantage on what could lead to her breaking the case? I had to remind myself, a second time, her caustic nature was her style—use any means necessary to sharpen an angle.

  The GPS on Stan’s car reported he traveled from Davis Airfield at ten o’clock the previous night and went straight home. Down and back in one day, as he said. He was on my agenda for the day, along with his paramour, Dee Dee. I thought I would fire a shot across her bow to provoke a response. The two meetings with her were as if I met with two different women. First, she was scared and wanted protection, to the second meeting where her flirting was as blatant and obvious as her motive. It did not take a seasoned private eye to figure out she only wanted to compromise my investigation. Why, though?

  Drink number two went down as smooth as the first. I stretched out on the sofa as Dave Koz’s saxophone launched into, “Life in the Fast Lane,” the soundtrack for the Stan Shelton lifestyle: traveling in the fast lane with no exit ramp in sight.

  I sent him a text, asking to meet.

  I searched Myrtle Beach golf courses on my phone and called one at random.

  “Pro shop,” a girl answered.

  “Hi, is this the course where the NFL players are having a tournament?” I asked.

  “Umm, hold on.” She came back a few seconds later. “That was yesterday at Shoreline Golf Club.”

  “Oh gosh, I’m a day late. Thanks.”

  Never hurt to follow up on a client. Stan had too many question marks swirling around his head for me to neglect my due diligence.

  The next shot was at Dee Dee. No texting—I called; she answered after two rings.

  “This is a surprise,” she said. “New information on the case?”

  “Sorry, nothing new. I was wondering if we could continue the conversation from the other night?”

  “Well, aren’t you the mystery man. I would love to.”

  “Not sure about any mystery. Free tonight? Meet you at Joey Mac’s?”

  “Perfect. Eight o’clock?”

  “See you then.”

  Third on the agenda was the toughest. Talia Thorne. No phone number. I never asked and I doubt she would share it anyhow. Hell, she had her goons bring me to her place quite literally under the cloak of darkness. I would find my way into her world. She could try to operate in the dark if she wanted, but what was done in the dark always found the light.

  Koz was in the groove. I stretched out on my sofa just as his, “Lullaby for A Rainy Night” filled the room, and prayed for the soul of Paul Ellison.

  ###

  “Johnny, hey.” Katie’s voice.

  My eyes opened; blonde hair hovered above me. She shook my shoulder and it took a moment to focus. “Katie?”

  “Damn, you were out. Slept through my calls.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Two.” She checked my phone. “You missed a call from Monica, who is on her way, and one from Shelton.”

  “I’ll call him back as soon as I can think.”

  “No need. He’s downstairs, holding two guys hostage with some ridiculous story about him, a running back, and three pro cheerleaders.”

  “Are you kidding? Can you bring him up?”

  “If I can pull him away.”

  “Throw an extra swivel in your hips, he’ll follow you anywhere.”

  “Shut up.”

  I headed for the bathroom to splash water on my face to wake up from the bourbon-induced coma.

  ###

  “Drink, Stan?”

  Katie had successfully lured the raconteur from his audience.

  “Why not.” I poured two, handed him one. “I got your text and thought, hell, instead of responding, I will just pop in, see what is new with my favorite PI.”

  “Glad you did. How was the tournament yesterday?”

  “Wonderful. Great to hang with some of the old guys. Golf game sucked. Can’t drink and play at the same time. So, I drink and pretend at golf. I used to drink and play football. Played my best games hammered. Did I ever tell you about the time we were in Kansas City—”

  “Whoa, Stan, hold up. I’d love to listen, but once you get rolling, it’s hard to bring the big train to a stop.”

  He laughed. “Another time. But after all this mess is over, you and I hit the town. My treat.”

  “You’re on. Tell me about your plane though. You own it?”

  “Smartest money I ever spent. We use it for all our travel on the East Coast. Yesterday, less than two hours down, then came right back last night.”

  “Nikki go too?”

  “Hell yeah, she loves those events—all the pretty people, media. She eats it up. Plus, the real reason, I tend to get attention from the ladies, and if she’s around, they back off. Prevents a lot of strife.”

  “What problems you have.” My phone buzzed, a text from Monica.

  “Can I come up?”

  “No, we’ll be down, and you are NOT a cop around him.”

  “Copy.”

  “Ready?” I said. His behavior was bizarre to me. Did he forget about the second phone call?

  “For what?”

  “The phone call? You were to transfer money today.” Does his mind block out the things he wants to avoid, and only allow him to concentrate on the past, where he can glorify his exploits? Or did he take one too many shots to the head?

  “Shit, Johnny. Everything I got going on…did you talk to them? Did you?” His face reddened, eyes went to the floor. “I can’t transfer any money. It will expose me. I’ll be shit. Nikki will divorce me if she ever finds out what I did. Can you call? Buy us some time.”

  I opened my notepad to the number and used one of my burners and called. A messaged played: “This phone number is no longer in service.”

  “Now what do we do?” he asked, his eyes huge, pleading.

  “What you do best. We go on offense.”

  32

  Acheer went up from four guys at a table when Stan and I walked into McNally’s. Monica had a spot at the bar, chatting with Mike. I introduced her as my friend.

  “Any friend of Johnny’s is a friend of mine. What are you drinking, sweetheart? I’m buying.”

  “Thanks, nothing for me. Only stopped in to say hello to John.”

  The group of guys called for Stan.

  “My public awaits. You are welcome to join us.”

  She smiled. “Something tells me I am much safer here on my stool.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “Offer stands, but I got to say, my man here keeps himself surrounded by beautiful women. Between you and her”—he pointed to Katie—“damn, John, you have excellent taste. I love my blondie over there, but the freckles on this filly are some of the sexiest I ever laid eyes on.”

  Katie ignored him. I figured Monica would shoot him on the spot, but she surprised me.

  “
Why, thank you, Mister Shelton. Maybe I should join you. I love a man who appreciates an attractive woman.”

  He shouted to the guys, “Boys, hold tight while the master goes to work.”

  Mike and Katie stopped what they were doing. She picked up the TV remote and muted the sound. The men went silent. I glanced at Mike and his eyebrows were popped.

  Oh God.

  Monica remained on the stool. She grabbed the collar of his sport coat, pulled him down to her and whispered into his ear.

  His eyes went wide, his face got red, and his head bobbed up and down. He didn’t say one word.

  After a minute or so, she let go of his jacket and he straightened. And for the first time in forever, he was silent. Rivulets of sweat ran down the side of his face. He pointed to the back of the bar.

  “Leaving, Stan?”

  He nodded.

  I walked a few steps with him. “Go home and stay there. I need to think about our next move. If they call again, message me immediately. Do not leave your house.”

  All he did was nod. He grabbed my hand with both of his and shook it, then went out. The room was quiet. T he four guys asked for their check. Katie beamed from ear to ear.

  “Mad Dog,” I said. “We’ll never know, will we?”

  “Nope.”

  “Want to go for a ride?”

  “Sure.”

  Davis Airfield was twenty-five miles south of town and not too far from my cottage on Crescent Beach.

  “Why are we here again?” Monica asked.

  “Hunch.”

  “A smart detective never ignores a hunch.”

  “Take off your blazer and holster. We are a couple inquiring about flying lessons. Don’t need anyone to smell a cop.”

  “Copy that, ten-four, roger.”

  “Wise ass.”

  We parked in front of a small, one-story, white cinder block building, and went inside to an open space that had a counter, sitting area with sofas surrounding a table, a TV monitor on the wall displaying the local weather radar, four vending machines, and a trolley with a coffeemaker. Behind the counter were floor-to-ceiling windows. Brochures advertised flying lessons. “First Lesson Free!” No employees inside, so we ventured out through a side door that opened to the tarmac.