by Frank Zafiro
“Good. Go on.”
“It’s also a good thing with him because it raises my profile as a bigger hitter in this game.”
“True.”
“And it’s three victims rescued instead of just one. That’s three times the intelligence when they’re debriefed, and three times the beans for you to report to our federal overseers when it comes time to justify all these expenses.”
“And?”
“And it’s three less women sold into slavery.”
“Which is the most important part of what we’re doing here,” he added, agreeing.
The thing is, as corny as that line was, I knew Lieutenant Mark Shepard meant it. And that I believed it, too. It was just something that seemed to get lost sometimes in the morass of procedures and details and risks.
“Why is three victims a bad thing?” he asked.
“Flip side of that same coin,” I told him. “It raises my profile. He’ll tell his bosses, who will become interested. They’ll probably look into me. If the Les Amour front doesn’t hold up, the whole thing crashes.”
“The front will hold. The FBI set it up.”
I stared at him, saying nothing.
He stared back. “They know what they’re doing.”
“Really? Like at Ruby Ridge? Like at Waco?”
Shepard actually glared at me. “You want to trade fuck ups, agency for agency? Because we’ve all got them. Our back yard isn’t exactly clear of dog piles, either.”
“Nothing ever happened in Spokane half as big as those FBI gong shows.”
Shepard ticked off a couple of Spokane Police scandals for me. I recognized them, but some were before my time. And I didn’t have anything to do with any of them.
“I wasn’t involved in any of those situations,” I said. “Not my problem.”
“Your badge is the same badge,” Shepard said. His gravelly voice carried an inflexible tone. “So it’s your problem, too.”
I didn’t argue. Let him think that, if he wanted to.
“Besides,” he said, “the front was set up by people from their Financial Crimes division. These guys use calculators more than guns. Office rats, my guess. And I’m thinking most of them probably feel a lot like you do about department screw ups.”
He had a point there. “All right. But even if the front holds up, this ups the ante with Anton and his bosses.”
“Which is a good thing.”
“I agree. It just gets more dangerous.”
I paused, thinking. Anton was a front man for a local cartel that had its fingers into everything. Dope, guns, stolen merchandise, and the sex trade. Thanks to ASTRO money, the sex trade was our toehold into their operation. Shepard said our crime analyst, Ryan Michaud, believed this local cartel was serving as a hub of operations for a much larger criminal group in Vancouver, British Columbia.
Our operation here was supposedly serving as a support operation for a joint task force between the United States and Canadian federal agencies. They were waiting for us to get to the point of serving search warrants and making arrests in our operation before they planned to move on the Vancouver organization.
All of this was happening well above my pay grade, but Shepard had felt it necessary to fill me in. I guess it was to impress upon me the importance of the work we were doing. My deals with Anton and his bosses were a lynchpin to this op, and by extension, to the Canadian one.
After a few moments of silence, I shared my big news with Shepard. “Anton said he thinks he can get me younger girls.”
Shepard nodded his approval. “How much younger?”
“Teens. But…”
“What?”
I sighed. “He didn’t balk at the idea of getting me girls even younger than that.”
Shepard frowned. “Shit.”
We both stewed on that for a little while. Getting girls under eighteen was important, for a lot of reasons. It was a crime with even greater sanctions, for one thing. And it provided the kind of moral outrage in the public that would make the monumental cost of this operation seem like an even more worthy expenditure.
It also got juvenile victims out of a terrible situation, which was the biggest reason to go for it.
Asking for girls even younger yet had the same positives. But Shepard and I remained quiet, not meeting each other’s eyes, because we both knew the danger of going down this particular road.
What if our request is what caused some child to be taken or sold into this trade? Even if we took that child out of the situation at the end of the day, she would still undergo horrors no kid should have to face. Taken from her parents, or sold by them. Then all of the perils of the journey between that moment and the point in time when I could buy her from Anton. The fear. The possibility of rape. It would be devastating.
And so far, all of the buy money in this operation has walked. So basically, we were temporarily funding their sex trade operation. This would be true until the moment of takedown. So if I asked for a ten year old girl, and Anton sent back an order for one, maybe we’d land a girl who was already in their criminal system. But what’s to say that his operation wouldn’t use the money from that purchase to go buy three more? They’d face all of those horrors, and there was no guarantee I could get my hands on all three, or even one, to save them.
Shepard and I both mulled over this dilemma for a few minutes longer. Instead of feeling good about pulling Sylvia, Natalia, and Katya out of the fire, I had a black feeling in my stomach at the prospect of what lay ahead for me.
Finally, Shepard said, “Let’s go with the juvenile girls angle first. We know they’ve got some already in the system. Let’s get them out. I’ll get back to you on the other thing.”
The other thing. Even my grizzled, tough, wise, seen-it-all lieutenant didn’t want to say it out loud.
I didn’t blame him.
“Sounds good,” I said. I motioned toward the three victims being processed. “You’ve got this?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’ll upload the intel to the secure site for you to review in the next day or two. When’s your next meet with Anton?”
“Undetermined. Next week maybe. Or two weeks. He couldn’t say for sure.”
“My bet is sooner rather than later,” Shepard said. “Now that you’re a bigger revenue stream for him.”
That actually made me smile slightly. I’d have to add that little nugget to the mix the next time Anton and I started talking Econ 101.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. If you don’t need me, I’m going to bail.”
He watched me for a full thirty seconds. “You write your report yet?”
“No. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“You should do it before you leave.”
“Christ, El-Tee. I gave you a verbal debrief. Nothing is going to change. The report is just a formality. I’ll cut the paper tomorrow.”
He continued to watch me, his eyes searching and inquisitive. I knew he was wondering how I was holding up. If I was holding up.
“I’m just exhausted,” I told him in answer to his unasked question. “That’s all.”
After a moment or two, he nodded. “All right. Get some rack time, then. But file your report in the morning. You know that with federal money attached to this project, the rules of operation are pretty strict. Especially where the paperwork is concerned.”
I did know. Leave it to the feds to be more concerned with paperwork than results. A lot can be forgiven if the paperwork was in order.
But I didn’t make that observation out loud. I just tipped Shepard a casual, two-fingered salute and left the room. I didn’t bother saying goodbye to any of the victims, either.
Down in the basement, I found the blue mini-van. I drove it straight to the office space we used, where I parked it in the lot. Then I switched over to my Lexus, and headed home to the nice apartment where Heather Williams lived on the South Hill, paid six months in advance in cash with federal funds.
On the
way, I stopped at a grocery store and bought some frozen dinners and a bottle of something harder. If I was going to stay Heather Williams and not Fergus MacIntyre, it was going to take a little bit of forty proof fuel to get me across the finish line.
In other words, I needed a drink.
FIVE
Bull
“What the hell do you mean you didn’t have her on curfew?” I slammed my mug onto the counter, close to smashing the cheery comic plastered ceramic. Tucking my chin, I arched my eyebrow at my baby brother who obviously needed a lesson on raising young women. Not that I’d ever done it.
“Well, what would you do? She’s a big girl, Bull.” Rick swiped under his swollen eyes. “You don’t even have children.”
Tears irritated me. They looked like all a person was capable of was crying instead of getting off their ass and doing something – anything! “What would I do? I sure as hell would make sure she understands that she checks in at regular intervals and then has her jail bait ass in at a decent hour.” I spun from the kitchen island and leaned on my straightened arms at the sink, glaring out the window at the innocence of the playground and trampoline set up in the backyard. “I don’t have kids, but I’d do a damned better job at keeping tabs, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Yeah, well, don’t think Marley and I don’t agree with you.” His murmur crept across the kitchen, making me turn toward his self-recrimination.
I crossed my arms, irritation at myself sprouting from the misplaced anger I’d thrown his way. “Marley’s blaming you, too?” Shit, the last thing I wanted to do was to agree with his wife. The bitch had made fun of my knitting skills a few years back and since I can’t kick a girl’s ass, my anger went into making a few hats – few meaning thirty – for the warming shelter in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho and fifteen blankets, too. Hadn’t been able to move past that. My anger issues had then become inconsolable when she’d taken sides with my ex-wife going after half of what I have. That pissed me off more.
When she’d hit on me a year later, any remaining respect I’d had for her had vanished almost as fast as her bra when she’d flashed her tits at me. I’m a tits-and-ass man, no question. But not my brother’s. That shit is just wrong.
Rick sighed. “Yeah, it’s no big deal. We’ve been having problems for a while. This is just… kind of like the cement, you know?”
“Yeah, I’ve been there, man. Not with kids, but marriage problems suck.” I moved toward him. Not enough to encourage more tears but closer in an act of comfort. “I just need to ask some questions. Get some more info to go on. You asked me to go after Tay, but I can’t just walk into the nearest gang and ask where she is. I need more to go on.”
He nodded, his movement slow. “You could ask her boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” I spluttered. “Damn it, Rick. She’s sixteen. Is she screwing him?”
Rick jumped from his seat. “How would I know that? She wasn’t allowed to go out until her birthday and even then we had a strict curfew on her. These last few weeks, we got a little more lenient with her because she’s done so well at school and she’s such a damn good kid. It’s not like we haven’t been parenting her, you know? She’s a good kid and this just happened. I didn’t…” He crossed his arms tight against his waist as if trying to hide the shaking his sobs caused. “Maybe I did. I don’t know.” He gasped, swiping his hand down his face and hunching his shoulders in defeat. “We fought before she left for the night. I said she was dressed like a tramp and Marley said she was fine. So I was the bad guy. I agreed she could go and then Marley changed her mind and said no.”
“Glad to know you still have your balls, man. What was she wearing?” Trampy to Marley was a tank top so the disagreement between her and Rick was very telling.
Rick motioned with his hands toward his torso. “It looked almost like a… what’s the word? Candy striper at the hospital? The shirt was white – just a white polo with shorter than normal sleeves. A skirt that was bright red.”
“Was the shirt see-through?”
He shook his head. “No. It was a nice shirt.”
“Was the skirt super short?”
“Not at all. It was past my finger test – reaches her fingertips on her thighs, so, it wasn’t that.” Doubt crossed his face with downturned lips and a darkening scowl.
“Can you tell me why it looked trampy?” I was at a loss. Maybe my brother forgot what loose women looked like.
“Damn it, Bull! She wasn’t wearing a bra and she had those thigh high tights on and heels. Heels! True, she’s not as big chested as her mother, but she has more than most girls her age and I’ve seen the way guys look at her.” He grabbed my arm. “She didn’t wear a jacket either.”
No bra. Thigh highs. “What kind of party was she going to?” Costume? Hell.
“I don’t want to tell you.” He scrunched up his nose.
“Don’t get squeamish now, bro.” I waited, tapping my finger on the counter.
He sighed. “A college party. Not too far from here.”
Something wasn’t right. His story didn’t feel solid enough. Most likely because Rick downplayed any family problems he had. If he said they argued, odds were World War III had occurred. I ignored the college party situation. His wife already gave him guilt. The longer Taylor was gone the lower the chances I would find her alive. Bullshitting around, second-guessing Rick’s feelings wouldn’t get me anywhere. “I need her friend, Becca’s, number.”
He flinched, like he expected me to hit him or something. He turned from me to the old-school Rolodex our mother had given them as a joke when they’d gotten married. I still didn’t get the joke. “I don’t think I have her number. Taylor’s cell phone never left her side.”
“Leaves. You said left.” Which pissed me off. Was I, or was I not, going after his daughter? Hopefully she was alive and I wasn’t chasing a girl who was…
Damn, I couldn’t even think the d-word.
Rick glanced over his shoulder and offered a slight shake of his head. “Right. Optimism.” He straightened up and passed over a small card with purple ink scribbles. “Here’s her address. Marley made her write it down the first time they’d ever hung out. She lives up Sullivan, almost to the end, in a big house with horses. You can’t miss it.”
He watched me study the writing and pocket the card. I ignored the lifted eyebrow. He didn’t need the card. He’d asked me to find his daughter. I’d do what I needed to do. “I’ll head that way. Listen, if you talk to the cops…” I wiggled my hand in the air. “It’s probably best not to tell them I’m looking for Taylor. I don’t know how welcome my search would be. Just between us, okay?”
“Sure. I didn’t even tell Marley yet. She doesn’t need to know.” A small smile suggested he looked forward to knowing something she didn’t.
I offered a tense hug to him before stepping out the door. Taylor first, then I’d confront my brother on his lax parenting and his ever-present pussy-footing around.
Rick hadn’t been joking when he’d said I couldn’t miss the house. Holy shit. I made money with my company but the house looked like its upkeep would bankrupt my business and me in less than a month.
Dropping the knocker onto the left panel of the oak double doors, I tried not to appear like the brick columns and over-sized awning on the face of the white Georgia-style home made me nervous. Who would put a Gone-with-the-Wind-wannabe home in the northwest? I half-expected to turn around and find some screaming peacocks and the hot-as-hell Scarlett O’Hara crossing the lawn.
I waited.
And waited.
The silence grew eerie. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
A click – exactly matching the cocking sound of a .357 Magnum – broke the silence inches from my right ear. I froze, but couldn’t hold back my excitement which erased the potential fear. “Is that the Smith and Wesson Special, Model 327? With the titanium alloy cylinder?” The damn thing had a high price tag. I only carried two in each store.
> The gun lowered from its position behind my ear. “What do you want?” The soft voice startled me. I’d expected a man to reply. I turned slowly.
Dressed in jeans, a white shirt under a baggy Seattle Seahawks hoody, the girl – most obviously Becca – pushed at her shaggy brown hair with her free hand. In the other, she held the Magnum wet dream steady.
I held out my hand. “Hello, Becca. I’m Bull… I mean, William Porter. Taylor’s —”
“Uncle. Yeah, she talked about you all the time.” She lifted her delicate chin, the movement shifting the piercing in her eyebrow to glint in the sun. “You’re bigger than I pictured.”
She would think so. The little girl defined petiteness.
“Where’d you learn to handle a gun like that?”
She lowered the pistol and uncocked the hammer. Looking over her shoulder, she returned a nervous look my way. “Do you mind if we go in the back? I’m not comfortable up here.”
“Sure.” The questions piled up. Nothing heated my protective side more than a small, damsel in distress.
The male-side of me couldn’t help but notice her tight thighs and the slope of her breast as she swung her arm when she turned. But I didn’t chase young ass. I preferred older, wiser women I wouldn’t go to jail for screwing.
We rounded the house, me pulling up the rear, checking behind us. Becca stopped in the shadows between a large pine tree and an even larger barn. She motioned me further into the dim area with her, never putting the gun away or even in a completely relaxed pose.
She shifted on her feet, peering behind me, around me, behind her. She didn’t stop moving and small wafts of perfume which smelled a lot like baby powder mixed with the strong scent of pine.
I reached out and grabbed her shoulders. “Stop. What’s going on? Does this have anything to do with Taylor?”
Tears started slow but sped up into a steady flow down her makeup-free cheeks. She tucked up against the wooden siding of the barn, pulling from my grasp and hugging herself, almost cringing. Her whisper carried along the foot or so separating us. “I saw them. The guys who took her.” She hiccupped, then covered her mouth, ducking her head. “This little Asian guy and a super skinny white guy grabbed her. They…” She motioned with her hand toward her mouth. “Gagged her when she tried to scream and the white guy hit her over the head. And she stopped moving.” She sobbed, arms tighter. “I think… they might have gone for me? But I’m not sure. I wasn’t in heels and I took off. I just looked back a couple times and saw.” She closed her eyes. “I should have done something.”