by Robin Caroll
The wind gusted, whipping around the roof. Roark motioned toward the roof access door. “Let’s get out of the wind.”
Brannon and the girls followed him. Silence hung heavy as they made their way into the car and steered toward the courthouse.
“Heard anything more on Lincoln?”
He didn’t miss the slight tremble of her chin. “He’s still in surgery. Total knee replacement.”
And he understood all too well what that implied. He reached over the console and grabbed her hand. “I’ll be praying for him to make a full recovery.”
Her hand inside his shook. He’d shocked her. Smiling to himself, he patted her hand, then returned his to the steering wheel.
In minutes he’d parked in the courthouse lot and ushered Brannon and the girls inside, past security, and into the marshals’ office. Demott met him in the main room. “Where have you been?”
“Had to pick up some important witnesses, sir.” He gestured to the two girls cowering behind Brannon.
Demott froze, his stare locked on the two young faces. “Are those—?”
“I haven’t had time to get any details. I brought them here.”
“Good.” Demott straightened and met Brannon’s concerned look. “Why don’t you take them into this room, Ms. Callahan?” He gestured to the larger interrogation room.
“Come on, girls. Let’s get out of these heavy coats.” She led them into the room, then eased the door shut behind them. Her soothing voice calmed even Roark’s excitement.
“What . . . where . . . how?”
Roark held up his hands, knowing how his boss felt. It was all coming together at once. The feelings rushed over him, overwhelming him. “All I know is Brannon brought them in. I don’t know anything else.”
“The FBI should be part of the interview. These girls could lead us to an operations site for this ring.”
“Sir, those kids are terrified. Of men. Did you notice the way they clung to Brannon?”
“What do you suggest, Holland?”
“I’d recommend the FBI bring in a female agent for the questioning. And let Brannon stay. They seem to trust her.”
Demott nodded. “Makes sense. If she rescued them, they view her as a savior.”
And in many ways Brannon had helped Roark back to his Savior. His throat tightened. “Right.”
“I’ll talk to the FBI. See how fast they can get a woman agent here.” Demott shifted toward the opposite end of the hall. “We’ll need to get Ms. Callahan’s statement while she’s here as well. Agents on-site will take the chief ranger’s statement.” He paused. “And her partner—how’s he?”
“Still in surgery on his knee.” Roark grabbed his boss’s arm. “Did you get anything more out of Betty?”
“She’s still not giving up details. The man Callahan killed has been identified as Frederick Noslen.”
“Her husband?”
“Yes. When we told her, hoping it’d get her to open up, she almost passed out.” Demott shook his head and stabbed his fingers through his hair. “We’re pulling records now. The FBI believes the Noslens brought the girls over from Thailand. Agents are searching their residence.”
Roark raked a hand over his face. “What’s the status with the books?”
“NSA finally broke the code. All the funds flip around multiple times before landing in seven different offshore accounts. The FBI’s securing warrants to obtain the names belonging to the numbered accounts. There’s a lot of money. This ring’s been operating for some time.” Demott flexed his hands, then shook his head. “To think it happened right here, under all of our noses.”
“How could one couple have brought over so many girls? The numbers seem staggering.”
Demott grimaced. “Fake adoption service.”
Sickening. Roark couldn’t comprehend people who possessed such malicious intent. And toward children. “Government involvement?”
“Almost has to be. Adoption services overseas require a government permit.”
“Could it have been forged?”
“Not likely. Not with TSA and Customs cracking down on regulations.”
One man’s image flashed before Roark’s eyes. Congressman McGovern. “Have we heard from the agents following McGovern?”
“Last I heard they reported he had a visitor who left shortly after arriving at the congressman’s house. Since then, no activity.”
McGovern was wrapped up in this mess—Roark just knew it. Now to find the evidence to prove it.
THIRTY-ONE
Wednesday, 11:30 p.m.
Congressman McGovern’s Home
Knoxville, Tennessee
HAD ZIMP GIVEN HIM the wrong number for Fred? Warren had called the number from his trash cell at least ten times since returning to the house. It went straight to voice mail. Wouldn’t that be just like Zimp to give him the wrong number? The kid always felt he was indispensable. Bet he didn’t think so now.
Warren swallowed the grin and moved to Zimp’s attaché case. More than likely, the laptop contained everyone’s phone numbers. Might as well see what the boy wonder saved.
He withdrew the laptop, set it on his desk, and opened the top. As he waited for the system to boot up, Warren stared into the darkness. Had he covered himself well enough? Those fools at NSA, CIA, and FBI hadn’t been able to break the code Wilks set up for the books. Would they? Even if they did, could they link the names to the accounts? Wilks had sworn there would be no paper trail. Had he been wrong?
The laptop hummed to life. Warren accessed the Documents folder, then scrolled through the file names. Zimp wasn’t overly intelligent so finding the phone numbers shouldn’t be too hard. Seriously, some of the file names were laughably naive—My Checking, My Savings, Passwords.
Letter to FBI.
Warren’s heart hiccupped. He double-clicked on the file and waited for the word processing program to open. It had to be a joke of some sort, although Zimp hadn’t seemed particularly witty.
The document opened. The more Warren read, the tighter his gut knotted. Zimp had outlined their operation in great detail. Listing names. Dates. Details. If he hadn’t already killed Zimp, he would now.
Warren studied the letter again. No date. When had Zimp written this? Had he already sent a copy to the FBI? He closed the file and hovered the mouse over the file name. Date of last save, this morning.
What had the moron done?
Warren scrolled through the rest of the documents and found nothing interesting. What had Zimp planned to do with the letter? Safety net? Maybe. But he’d been nervous when he’d arrived. If he intended to use the letter as insurance . . .
Warren accessed the e-mail program and scrolled through the Sent folder. Mostly benign e-mails, but one stuck out at Warren—Urgent. He checked the creation date. This morning. He clicked on the e-mail and waited for it to open.
All his careful planning . . . covering his tracks . . . was it all about to come undone because of one ignorant man?
The e-mail appeared on screen. Warren’s stomach flipped as he read.
Bucky,
In case you don’t hear from me by midnight tomorrow, print the attached letter and take it to the cops. Doesn’t matter if they’re local or not. They’ll know who to get it to.
Thanks,
Zimp
A headache pounded at Warren’s temples. He dropped his head into his hands, massaging his skull. The kid was smarter than Warren gave him credit for being. He’d realized their house of cards was crashing down around them and had taken safeguards.
Didn’t matter now if the girls were recovered or not. Warren glanced at the clock—less than thirty minutes until midnight. This Bucky character would take the letter to the authorities soon, and the gig would be up.
Time for
plan B. Time to leave.
Warren slammed the laptop shut and shoved it back into the attaché case. He only needed to grab the suitcase he kept packed in the closet. Like the Boy Scouts, always be prepared. He turned and headed toward the stairs.
Buzz. Buzz.
What in the—
A cell phone set to vibrate. Coming from his office. From Zimp’s attaché case.
Warren rushed back to the desk and opened the case. Three cell phones nestled in the outer pocket. He grabbed the one dancing on the crushed velvet. “Hello.”
“Zimp?”
“He’s not available right now. Who is this?”
“This is Bucky. Who’s this?”
Bucky. Warren’s pulse kicked up a notch. “This is Zimp’s friend. He’s been trying to get in touch with you.” He fought to keep his tone even. He could save everything.
“Really? I’m not showing any missed calls.”
Warren tightened his grip on the cell phone. He had to relate to this Bucky character on his level. “I don’t know about that.”
“Well, let me talk to him.”
“Like I said, he’s unavailable.”
“How’s that?”
Warren pressed his lips together. Think. He could contain the situation. Save himself. “He’s packing.”
“Packing for what?”
“Jamaica. Didn’t he tell you the plan?”
“Jamaica?!” Heavy breathing pulsed against Warren’s ear. “What plan?”
“He’s going to Jamaica. Said he needed to get away until things died down.” Warren needed to think carefully. He had to play this just right. “That’s why he’s been trying to get in touch with you. He wants you to go with him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Zimp told me if you called to give you the message to meet him at the McGhee Tyson Airport no later than two a.m. Oh, and he said to bring the letter.” Warren paused for effect. “Whatever that means.”
“Hmm.”
The guy wasn’t buying it. Warren almost sighed. He’d been so close. This one character, Bucky, would blow everything apart. “Well, that’s what Zimp said. I did what he asked. I’m taking him to the airport as soon as he packs things up.” He had to get this guy on board. “Should I tell him you’ll meet him at the airport?”
“I’ll see.” The connection broke.
What was it with the rudeness of people these days? Not even ending a conversation before hanging up. Warren tossed the cell into the attaché, then hurried up the stairs. Maybe he’d gotten through to Bucky, and he’d show up at the airport. At that hour it should be easy enough to take care of one more person. Get this Bucky out of the way, then it’d be smooth sailing.
But if he wasn’t lucky, he’d institute his backup plan and catch the next flight to Jamaica. After all, it was nice there.
Wednesday, 11:45 p.m.
US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse
Knoxville, Tennessee
“HELLO MS. CALLAHAN AND girls. I’m Krista Thomley with the FBI.” The lady slipped into the interrogation room with Roark, his boss, and two other FBI agents on her heels. “In order to continue our investigation, I need to ask you girls a few questions if that’s okay?” She made eye contact with Mai and Kanya as she eased into a chair across the table from them.
The girls pressed against Brannon to the point they almost fell into the chair with her. She gripped their small hands in hers and shot Roark a warning look.
He grasped her silent message as he guided the other men in the room to the shadows of the corner.
“Hi, Ms. Thomley.” Brannon infused her voice with a chipperness she didn’t feel. But if the girls picked up on her mood . . . “This is Mai and Kanya.” She nodded to each girl as she introduced them.
“Hello, Mai and Kanya.” The agent opened her notebook. “I’m here to ask a few questions. To get help for the other girls. Okay?”
Mai hesitated a moment before bobbing her head. Brannon squeezed her hand. Please, Lord, let this be easier on them.
“Where are you from?”
“Thailand.”
Ms. Thomley’s pen flowed across the paper. “Both of you?”
Kanya nodded.
“How did you get to the States?”
Neither girl moved. Brannon released Mai’s hand to stroke her hair. “It’s okay. Ms. Thomley just wants to help you.”
Mai ducked her head. “Poppy Fred and Aunt Betty.” Her words were muffled but understandable.
Brannon swallowed back anger. All these girls had been through . . .
Ms. Thomley made notes, then pressed her lips together. “But they aren’t relatives to you, are they?”
Mai shook her head.
Bit by bit, the FBI agent drew out the girls’ stories, just as Brannon had. Their parents selling them for adoption in order to survive, the girls having such high hopes and dreams for a new, better life, then having their dreams murdered. Brannon wanted to throw up hearing it all again.
Tears burned Brannon’s eyes as well. Suddenly she didn’t feel so guilty about killing Fred anymore. Forgive me, Father, but I’m not sorry. Not after hearing what this man did.
Silence fell over the room when Mai finished the details of how she’d been brought to the States and what had happened then. Finally Ms. Thomley set her pen down, tears visible in her eyes, and addressed the girls. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you. We’re going to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
The door to the interrogation room creaked open and an agent stuck his head inside. “Child Protective Services is here.”
One of the agents from the corner slipped out of the room.
“Now I need to ask you details about your escape,” Ms. Thomley continued. “You’ve told us how you got supplies and extra clothes. Can you tell us about the place you stayed?”
Mai shrugged.
Hopelessness washed over Brannon. If they were to find the other girls . . . No, she would not allow herself to think so dejectedly. She shifted in her seat to face Mai. “When you left, you said you went out the kitchen door. Was that in the back of the house?”
“Yes.”
Ms. Thomley caught on. “Did you run behind the house, or circle around and run away from the front of the house?”
“Back.”
“How long did you run before you made the camp where I found you?” Brannon grabbed a piece of paper from Ms. Thomley and jotted something down.
“I do not know.” Mai’s bottom lip trembled.
Brannon patted her hand. “It’s okay.” She slid the paper across the table to the FBI agent. “Here are the coordinates where I found them.”
The male agent returned. “Excuse me, but CPS said to let them know whenever you’re ready. They’ll take the girls to the hospital before being escorted to the safe house.”
Brannon glanced at the girls. Their lids were weighted down. She made eye contact with the lady agent. “They’ve had a long day and are exhausted. I don’t think you’ll get anything more from them right now.”
Ms. Thomley understood. “I think we’re done here anyway. Let CPS in.”
The agent slipped back outside. Ms. Thomley addressed the girls a final time. “Thank you both. One last question, if you can answer. About how many other girls are at the house?”
The agent returned, this time with two ladies wearing CPS badges.
Brannon stood and helped Mai and Kanya to their feet as the CPS ladies hovered over them, ushering them out.
Mai stopped at the door and faced Ms. Thomley. She held up her hands, separating her fingers.
Ms. Thomley gasped. “Ten?”
Mai shook her head. She closed her hands, then opened them. Once, twice.
Thirty other girl
s.
Wednesday, Midnight
US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse
Knoxville, Tennessee
“GET ME AN AREA map.” Roark cleared the table of the interrogation room as chaos erupted.
CPS escorted the girls from the courthouse. He didn’t worry about them—they’d be kept secure at a safe house. But their tearful separation from Brannon almost ripped Roark’s heart from his chest. He probably could have gotten her clearance to go with the girls, but he needed her here. She knew the area better than anyone in the building.
To save the other girls, time was of the essence. Thirty girls . . . right under their noses. He focused on one of the agents. “Take this info to Betty Noslen. See if she’ll break and give us the location of the brothel.”
The agent rushed from the room.
Roark spread out the map another FBI agent brought him, then glanced at Brannon. “Where’d you pick them up?”
She leaned over the table, her silky hair spilling over the side of her face. She pointed to a place on the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
Everyone hunched over the map.
Roark set his finger on the only town close enough for the girls to have run to the area Brannon indicated. “Townsend.”
One of the FBI agents lifted his cell phone. “We already have agents in the area. I’ll get them to check the outlying areas south of the city.”
“Get more teams in the area,” Ms. Thomley added.
Everyone milled about, talking into cell phones or radios. The FBI agents geared up for a full launch, flooding from the courthouse to their office blocks away to arm themselves.
Roark glanced at Brannon. “Guess we’ll have to wait to hear how it goes.”
She shot him one of those quirky smiles of hers. “Not really. I happen to have a helicopter close by, and I know the area.” She cocked her head. “Wanna come fly with me?”