Hard Evidence

by Pamela Clare

  By Sunday afternoon, Tessa found she wanted to get their thoughts on the investigation. Over glasses of hot apple cider, she told Reece and Kara what had happened since she'd last seen them, leaving out anything that might compromise national security—Julian's name, her background, and the fact that she seemed to turn to warm Jell-O every time Julian touched her. When she finished she found herself looking at two sets of somber eyes.

  Kara broke the silence. "This is serious, Tessa. During the TexaMent nightmare, Chief Irving told me he hoped I didn't end up getting killed. He never said the kinds of things he's saying to you. Floating in the Platte? Good lord!"

  "Kara's right." Reece stood and added more wood to the fire. "I trust Irving completely. If he thinks these guys are that dangerous, you need to do everything you can to protect yourself— starting with staying away from that undercover cop."

  "It's not like I've been trying to run into him, you know." Tessa took a sip of her cider. "How would you handle this, Kara?"

  "I'd do what you've done—follow the gang angle and see where it led."

  "What if it led to the Platte?" Reece stoked the blaze, his face toward the fire. Then he shut the glass door and went for his coat. "I'm going to grab more wood."

  He seemed angry.

  "He's just worried about you, Tess."

  Tessa nodded, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. She wasn't used to having people care this much about her. "I know."

  Then Kara glanced toward the door, as if to make certain Reece couldn't hear them, her lips curving into a smile. "I want to hear more about this undercover cop. You don't have to tell me his name. Just tell me what it was like when he kissed you!"

  Tessa felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. "You're as bad as Holly!"

  * * *

  Julian sat at the bar, pretending to be mesmerized by the topless blonde as she wrapped herself around a steel pole to the sterile rhythm of techno. She squatted down, offered a glimpse of her barely concealed crotch, then rose and reversed the view. A fake blonde with equally fake breasts, she had a smile painted on her young face. If she was eighteen, he was eighty.

  He'd had the place under surveillance hours after Zoryo mentioned it. Three video cameras in the window of a fifth-floor hotel room down the street recorded everyone who came and went, catching every vehicle that entered the big parking lot. But there was only one way to find out what went on inside the club, and that was to be there.

  Sunday night clearly wasn't the big moneymaker at Pasha's. The place was nearly empty. Last night it had been packed, with horny college boys mixing with bikers, CEOs, and geeks to indulge in their one common interest—tits and ass. None of them cared how the girls came to work there or what kind of conditions they endured. They came to satisfy a craving, some content merely to stare, others trying to cop a feel, a few hoping to arrange for more.

  Julian had spent last night in the shadows, taking advantage of the crowd to look around. He'd located the cameras and the exits and watched who came and went through the guarded door to the right of the stage. Unless he was very much mistaken, there was more than accounting going on back there.

  Tonight he was pretending to drink heavily and tipping big, hoping to catch someone's attention. Money was the only thing men like Burien lusted after more than women. Flashing lots of jack might be enough to get him behind that guarded door. It might also get him rolled.

  The girl finished her dance routine with her breasts thrust out and her hands on her narrow hips in a sad attempt at seductiveness. The handful of hard-core patrons applauded, and one or two tossed cash. Julian pulled a fifty from the wad in his pocket and held it out to her, hoping to draw her nearer. It worked like a magnet.

  She took the money, gave him the first genuine smile he'd seen all night. "Thank you."

  She spoke with an accent—Russia, maybe Ukraine.

  "My name's Tony—Tony Corelli." He leaned closer but didn't touch her. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

  "Irena." A garden-variety Russian name and probably no more real than her breasts. She smiled but didn't make eye contact. "Would you buy me a drink?"

  He knew damn good and well she wasn't old enough, but he pulled out another fifty. "Anything you want, baby."

  They made small talk while she sipped her watered-down drink. Julian learned she was from Ukraine and had come to America after a talent scout had promised her a modeling job with a top New York agency. It went without saying that she should have known better. She was too short, her face too plain for the pages of Vogue, but when combined, poverty, ambition, and naivete made powerful blinders. She wouldn't say why she was working as a stripper, but he already knew. Like millions of other girls, she'd arrived to find the promises false and the job quite different from the one she'd been offered.

  "So, Irena," Julian leaned closer and lowered his voice to a husky drawl, "is there someplace we can be alone?"

  "That is not allowed." For a moment she met his gaze, and he saw himself through her eyes—just another old man who wanted to get between her legs.

  He was used to that look. He'd seen it too many times in too many places from too many girls just like her. But he didn't really want her at all. He wanted the man who had betrayed her, the man who was using her, the man who held her leash.

  On Monday morning, Tessa hit the newsroom feeling rested and refocused. She'd put the shooting into perspective, gotten Julian Darcangelo out of her mind, and put together a clear plan of action. She checked her messages, made an appointment for tomorrow morning with Chief Irving and the leader of the gang taskforce, then headed to the I-Team meeting.

  "I had a productive afternoon on Friday," she said, omitting the fact that she'd spent a good part of it in jail. She hadn't yet figured out how she was going to tell Tom. "I found evidence of gang activity in the neighborhood—both witnesses and graffiti. I also found neighbors who claimed to have seen the car and the victim at one point or another. I've asked for a year's worth of gang-related police reports, as well as all correspondence between Denver's gang taskforce and the Los Angeles police. I'd like to have a news feature by Wednesday."

  Tom nodded, then picked up a piece of paper and slid it across the conference table. "Care to explain this? A source in sheriff's records faxed it to me this morning."

  Her arrest mug shot.

  Tessa's pulse tripped. She met Tom's gaze, smiled. "I found what one witness thought was the victim's home and was arrested for going under the yellow tape. Chief Irving personally tossed the charges and apologized."

  "He damned well better have." Tom leaned back, watched her coolly. "Any reason you didn't tell me?"

  "If they hadn't let me out, you'd have been the first person I called."

  Joaquin picked up the piece of paper, a grin tugging at his lips. "Nice shot."

  Tom moved on. "James, what's the latest on Rocky Flats?"

  But Tessa knew she hadn't heard the last of it.

  "Her name was Maria Conchita Ruiz, age sixteen." Dyson sounded tired. He was in his late sixties now, beyond retirement age and deserving of some rest. Still, he kept going. Julian admired the hell out of him. "We got a positive ID from the Mexican consulate ten minutes ago. Mexican authorities say she disappeared on her way home from her maquiladora job in Ciudad Judrez."

  Julian read through the report Dyson had just faxed over.

  'That fits his pattern. His coyotes bring them across near El Paso, then divvy them up along the way, using truck stops, cheap hotels, and rest stops as transit points."

  Human contraband was the easiest to conceal. Once controlled through threats, drugs, and violence, it could be hidden in plain sight.

  "I sent Margaux up to Longmont to check out reports of underage girls working in a massage parlor there. The town has a large Hispanic population with a lot of undocumented agricultural labor. Could be Burien's taking advantage of that. She doesn't think so, and she knows him better than anyone except you. But the U.S. attorn
ey's office has gotten several tips, so it seemed worth a look-see. Anything to report on your end?"

  "I'm up to forty-seven suspected Johns. We start questioning them today."

  Julian didn't mention Lonnie Zoryo or his extracurricular activities at Pasha's. He hated keeping Dyson in the dark, but he'd-suspected for some time that Burien had a mole at HQ. It was the only way to explain how the bastard had managed to remain one step ahead of him for so many years. He couldn't imagine it was Dyson-—the very idea was unthinkable—but rather someone who worked in the same office. Until he knew who it was, he would keep some of his cards hidden.

  "Heard you had a bit of trouble with a journalist."

  Margaux's big mouth.

  "One of the witnesses happened to be a journalist. I handled it."

  Yeah, you handled it, all right, Darcangelo. You handled her, and now you can't get her off your mind.

  "Good. I want this guy, Julian. I want his balls stuffed and hanging on my wall by Christmas. Let's get him and go home."

  "I'm with you."

  Julian hung up, read through the report again. He'd gotten the results of toxicology yesterday. Forensics had done all they could, giving Julian as complete a picture as he'd ever have of the victim's last hours. Combined with the evidence they'd taken from the basement apartment, it would lead him to the men who had imprisoned her—and hopefully to Burien.

  Cause of death had been nine fatal shots to the torso—that much had been obvious. What hadn't been obvious was the heroin in her system and the track marks on her arms. Or the array of bruises on her body. Or the semen inside her that had come from seven distinct sources of DNA. Or the restraint marks around her wrists where she'd recently been bound.

  Maria Conchita Ruiz had been born free and had died a slave.

  You could have saved her.

  It was the truth. Julian might have raided the place, put an end to what he knew was going on there, freed Maria and the other three girls. But he'd done his job)—and waited. And while he'd been waiting for one of Burien's higher-ups to visit the girls and lead him back to his boss, Maria had found the strength to run.

  Julian had made the opposite choice last time, busting down the door and charging in, guns blazing, to save a carload of kidnapped teenage girls from a similar hell. They had survived and gone home to their families, but Burien had escaped, his thugs wounding Margaux and killing two agents in the process.

  Julian still struggled to live with that choice. Now he would have to live with this one.

  He set the report down on his desk, then walked toward the shower, still sweating from his workout—aikido and weights. He'd slept late, having stayed at Pasha's until two a.m., talking with Irena and making headway with the bartender, an idiot named Chet who liked to brag about the number of strippers who'd danced on his dick. Julian had pretended to envy him while tossing back shots. Then he'd staggered out the door in a feigned drunk and headed off down the street to his truck, making certain he wasn't being followed.

  He hadn't cracked the place, but he was making progress.

  Tomorrow, he'd take his first look at what the surveillance cameras had picked up. But today he was going to pay a few upstanding members of the community a visit—and confront them about the way they spent their free time and their extra cash. Then he would check on Tessa and make certain she was keeping out of trouble.

  Keep her alive, Darcangelo.

  How the hell had she become his problem?

  He stripped off his sweatpants, turned on the water, and stepped under the spray.

  Tessa sat on the median in the middle of Speer Boulevard and watched a homeless beggar who said his name was Arthur work the line of cars stuck at the red light. Most of the drivers, on their way to lucrative jobs downtown, ignored him. Others rolled down their windows, passed dollar bills to him, and were rewarded with one of his nearly toothless grins and the words "God bless!"

  She'd been interviewing him for about half an hour, the rhythm of their conversation dictated by the color of the traffic light. He smelled strongly of alcohol and had the restless edge of someone who'd lived most of his life on the street. Dressed in a dirty green army coat and tattered jeans, he held a cardboard sign that read, "Vietnam vet. Anything helps."

  But Arthur wasn't really a war vet. He was an escaped felon who'd thumbed his way to Colorado from Louisiana, or so he claimed. When that announcement hadn't scared Tessa off—and after she'd laid a five-dollar bill in his hand—he'd started talking. He told her how gang members picked on the weaker homeless people, stealing their money, their booze, and their drugs, beating them up if they resisted—or just for fun. He told her how most of the time, those who'd been beaten chose not to seek medical help for fear the police would get involved.

  "It's the rules of the street," he'd said.

  The light turned green, and the queue of cars accelerated and moved down the street.

  Arthur came over and stood beside her, his gaze on traffic. "It's too damned warm," he said. "I make better money when it's cold. People feel bad for me."

  Tessa went back to her questions. "Have you heard any rumors about a turf war, any talk about a teenage girl being killed in a drive-by?"

  Arthur glanced down at her as if she'd asked something really stupid. "There's always a turf war goin' on. And, yeah, I heard about the shootin', but I ain't heard no one say who done it. Was she wearin' colors?"

  ¡Ayudeme! ¡Me van a matar!

  "No, not that I could see. She wasn't wearing much of anything, actually."

  Arthur nodded. "Coulda been anyone who done it. Maybe gangs. Maybe her pimp. Maybe she was workin' as a mule."

  Her pimp? A mule?

  Tessa hadn't considered those possibilities. "She seemed too young to be working as a prostitute."

  Arthur laughed. "You ain't spent much time on the streets. A lot of homeless kids end up turnin' tricks, bein' pimped. Some trade sex or do porno for food. They gotta survive somehow. Hell, some join gangs to keep away from the pimps and the dealers."

  The light turned yellow, then red.

  A new queue of cars drew up beside them. Arthur went off to beg, while Tessa digested what he'd told her.

  Was it possible that the girl had been a homeless teen who'd gotten mixed up with a pimp? Had she been trying to escape and been killed in retribution? Were the three other girls family and friends, as she'd assumed, or were they part of some pimp's stable? She remembered what Mr. Simms told her about the older woman.

  I always thought it was strange the way she watched them—like a hawk. I figured maybe she wanted to make sure they didn't steal nothing.

  A window rolled down, and a middle-aged woman with short brown hair and a round face waved a white flyer out the window, interrupting Tessa's thoughts.

  "First Baptist Church is offering a soup kitchen this Sunday," she shouted over the sound of idling motors, thrusting the piece of paper into Arthur's hand. "Lots of good food and warm winter clothes. Be sure to come, and bring your lady friend."

  Arthur turned to Tessa and handed her the flyer, his lips curving in a smile. "She thinks you're my woman."

  Tessa glanced down at her denim jacket, black turtleneck, jeans, and the Merrells on her feet. Did she look homeless?

  Arthur laughed at her reaction. "You want to talk with the gangs, you gotta hit Crack Park in Five Points or head into Aurora."

  "Crack Park?"

  He grinned, then turned back toward waiting dollar bills. "Curtis Park. But you'd best watch out, darlin'. Them boys'll eat a tidbit like you for lunch."

  More than any other street, Colfax told the story of Denver. It carved its way east to west, from the projects of Aurora past the golden dome of the state capitol to the skyscrapers of downtown, passing from poverty to ostentatious wealth, from adult bookstores to art galleries, from pawnshops to museums, until it turned into Highway 6 and disappeared into the mountains beyond. Its sidewalks were walked by hippies and housewives, prostitutes and politi
cians, students and senior citizens, businessmen and bag ladies alike.

  Tessa parked her car in front of a Muslim grocery at Colfax and Yosemite and walked east into Aurora. She'd spent a few hours in Curtis Park, interviewing more homeless people and hearing similar stories from them. Everywhere she'd looked there was gang graffiti, most of it street advertisements for crack dealers. But she hadn't seen anyone who looked like a gang member or a dealer. She'd have to come back at night.

  Now it was nearing evening, and the streets bustled in the waning daylight. A young man dressed in jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt sold homemade CDs out of the trunk of his car, his speakers throbbing with bass. An elderly grocer adjusted the display in his window. A gaggle of young Latinas stood by the front door, sipping soft drinks and giggling.

  They stopped giggling when she walked up to them.

  She switched into Spanish, introduced herself, and showed them her press card. The girls watched her through mistrustful eyes as she told them about the shooting and described the victim. But before she could ask them whether they'd heard anything, they hurried away, shaking their heads.

  "No sabemos nada," said one. We don't know anything.

  She got the same reaction from an elderly African-American couple, a group of young men playing a game of three-on-three, and the cashier at the nearby liquor store.

  No one wanted to talk with her.

  She couldn't blame them. She knew what it was to grow up poor, to trust no one, to fear outsiders. And that's what she was here—an outsider.

  She had just passed what was obviously a housing project when a group of five boys—all around the age of ten—walked up to her. Most wore Oakland Raiders caps turned to the side, and a few had blue bandanas tucked in their jeans pockets or tied around their necks.

  Mini-Crips?

  "You want somethin'?" one of them asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

  He looked pretty tough for a kid still small enough for Tessa to turn over her knee. She felt a stab of sadness that anyone so young should have to be so hard. Had she been this way?

  "I'm Tessa Novak with the Denver Independent newspaper. I'm looking for someone who can tell me what's happening on the streets." She showed them her press card, thought of the graffiti she'd seen near the site of the shooting. It was taking a big risk, she knew, but if she didn't do something, she wasn't going to get anywhere. "Syko or Flaco around?"