Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  Gene’s call interrupted us. “Found him. Juan Jose Flores-Gurule. Twenty-nine. Native of Ranchos de Albuquerque. Single. Several arrests, mostly for drunk and disorderly, but the last one is interesting. On June 21, 2001, he and a companion, a Dominican named Florio Gaspard, were arrested on a complaint of kidnapping a nineteen-year-old man. They apparently held him in a motel room on the west side until he managed to escape. After filing the original complaint, the vic recanted, and the two were released. After that, Flores went off the grid.”

  “Probably across the border. Suarez said he thought the boy lived there for a while.”

  Gene cited the 59th Street address and a few other details. It looked as if we’d identified Jazz’s contact and confirmed our worst fears. By virtue of his last arrest, Flores appeared to be involved in human trafficking… specifically in sex trafficking.

  Armed with this new information, we all went to work checking databases for Flores and Gaspard. We searched Social Security, utilities, credit reports, criminal jurisdictions elsewhere in the state and in El Paso. Nothing.

  At wit’s end, I decided to bell the cat and message Flores’s—or rather Gonzalez’s—email address. But what to say? I was unwilling to alert the man we were on his trail, so it had to be a subtle approach. After discussing the idea, we decided to throw out some bait. Henry offered himself. He was sexy enough to capture attention, but Charlie rightly pointed out that at thirty-one, he was obviously older than the slavers wanted. Then he said the words I didn’t want to hear.

  “Paul’s the likeliest candidate. He’s midtwenties, but like Jazz Penrod, he doesn’t look his age.”

  I balked, but Paul jumped right into the middle of the pool, loudly declaring he would do it. He’d send a message right now with a photo, clothed or unclothed. It didn’t matter. After they convinced me this plan of attack presented little risk for Paul, I acquiesced. Gene, however, when I called him, figured it had disaster written all over it.

  “For crying out loud, BJ. We got detectives for that. Or uniforms. I got guys who look fifteen. Use one of them. They’re trained for it.”

  I couldn’t object, but Paul could. And did. I’d made the call on the speakerphone, and he spoke right up. “I know Jazz. More importantly, he knows me. I can tell this Juan or Jose that I got his email address from Jazz. Jazz sent me a photo. I was intrigued. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “And what if the guy checks with Jazz?” Gene asked.

  “That’s the advantage of him knowing me. He’ll recognize my name and associate it with Vince and know we’re looking for him. He’ll support my story.”

  “Yeah, right. If Penrod’s stoned on drugs, he’ll catch on right away. Besides, any of my detectives can make the same claim, and this Juan wouldn’t know any better.”

  I ignored his sarcasm and warmed to the idea. “Jazz is a sharp kid, Gene. Unless they keep him completely zonked, he might catch on. And if the contact’s successful, we can always substitute one of your detectives at that point.”

  “If you can find one that looks like me,” Paul said. “If not, I’ll make the meet with your guys backing me up.”

  “Keep me posted.” Gene’s voice held a note of fatalism.

  I PULLED a couple of photos of Paul off my phone that were taken shortly after I met him in the summer of ’06. He looked impossibly young and handsome, making him ideal bait for a trafficker. At the time Paul had been a UNM undergrad, a senior majoring in journalism. I was in the middle of a long dry spell at the end of a protracted recovery from a gunshot wound to the thigh received while I was an Albuquerque police detective. Paul, the lifeguard at the country club pool where I swam as therapy, casually asked about the puckered scar, showing no aversion to what I considered its ugliness. I lost my heart to him at that moment—and never recovered it. He still held it in his gentle hands.

  “These ought to do the job,” I said, holding them out to Charlie.

  He examined them briefly. “Never been inclined that way, but if anyone could bend me, it would be Paul.”

  “Stop that!” Hazel snapped. “He’s a human being, not an object. A perfectly nice human being.” She loved us both fiercely, but she still hadn’t figured out this man-on-man thing.

  “So how we gonna do this?”

  Before I could answer, Paul and Henry returned from the Courthouse Café where they went to fetch sandwiches for us. I waited until everything was sorted out, and we sat around the small conference table in the corner of my private office before addressing Charlie’s question.

  “The way I see it, we work with Gene at APD for Paul to make contact with this Juan fellow, so they can try to trace the location of his computer.”

  “Can they really do that, or is that just something you see on TV?” Henry asked.

  “They can trace locations, but it’s not as easy as the tube shows make it. Nor as precise.”

  “But what if we get it all set up, and the guy doesn’t answer back right away?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Not only possible but probable. Paul will have to contact him and try to get the guy to agree to a time certain for a follow-up contact.”

  “I can ask for a Skype sit-down. I noticed Jazz’s laptop has the app. As does mine.”

  “So you talk and see one another, huh?” Henry looked as if he had discovered something that might be of use to him in other circumstances. According to Jazz, his half brother sowed wild oats all over the Four Corners area.

  “Why not just make initial contact and ask for a meet?” Henry asked after polishing off a corned beef on rye with german potato salad and kosher dill pickle.

  “He’ll be more cautious than that,” I said. “Push hard, and you’ll scare him off. Paul needs to send an email saying he’s a friend of Jazz’s. Maybe he saw Juan’s picture on Jazz’s computer during a visit. Paul, tell him you’re trying to get in touch with Jazz and know he was considering coming to Albuquerque to meet Juan. If he did, it would be neat if you could all get together. Something like that.”

  “Do I have to coordinate it with Gene?”

  “We’ll take the initial step on our own and see how it goes.”

  While Paul composed his email, I got Gene on the telephone and told him of our plan. As usual, he told me why this was all wrong and then pledged to help however he could. Initially, there wasn’t anything for him to do. Paul needed to cast his net and snare his prey and progress to the point where they were going to do a scheduled Skype before Gene could be of any value to us.

  After hanging up, I turned and saw Henry sitting at my conference table amid the ruins of our lunch, looking as though he was about to explode. I needed to find something for him to do. Or send him home to the rez. I sat down beside him.

  “Why don’t you head back to the Four Corners and check on Riley? See if he’s come up with any leads.”

  “I can do that by phone. I’m gonna stay right here until we find my brother.” He took such a deep breath his impressive chest expanded as if it would burst. “There’s gotta be something I can do to help.”

  I asked a question Gene had already asked before putting out the BOLO. “You’re sure Jazz doesn’t have a GPS locator on the Jeep?”

  “Naw. I got one for my bike ’cause I go all over the rez. But Jazz stays pretty close to the towns or the chapter house. Didn’t feel like he needed one.” He ran an impatient hand through his hair. “Look, why don’t I take one of those photos and head out to East Central. I’ll walk the street, and when somebody tries to pick me up, I’ll ask if he knows this guy.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “In the first place, the odds are against you finding someone connected with this particular man. Jazz isn’t the kind they put out on the street to hustle, so chances are that’s not the way he works.”

  “Then how do they make money off him?”

  “Have you ever been to Las Vegas?” Henry shook his head. “You can find streetwalkers there, but
for marks with money, the hotels will set you up with an escort service. They’re usually fine-looking ladies with some class. Someone a man wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with. And they charge lots of dollars. Sometimes thousands.”

  “Shit!”

  “But if you go asking around about this guy, chances are someone will report it to his pimp, and that pimp might know Juan. Then all you’ve accomplished is to alert Juan we’re on to him. Let Paul make his pitch. If that fails, maybe we’ll all walk East Central.”

  Henry’s disappointment showed in the slope of his broad shoulders.

  “But it would help us if we could locate Jazz’s Jeep. If I give you a few places to look, could you do that for us?”

  “Ain’t Lieutenant Enriquez already doing that?”

  “A BOLO’s a general request. The cops will keep an eye out for the Jeep, but they’re not actively searching for it. You will be.”

  “Yeah, sure. Take me back to the house to pick up my bike, and I’ll head out.”

  “Use my car. If I need to go anywhere, Charlie or Paul can take me.”

  I wrote down a few neighborhoods where stolen vehicles occasionally showed up and the specific addresses of a couple of suspected chop shops and handed the information along with my keys to Henry. He asked a couple of questions to orient himself and headed out the door.

  After he was gone, the rest of us huddled over Paul’s email to the mysterious Juan and made a couple of small changes before he sent the message, including a fetching close-up of my lover as bait. That thought soured my stomach.

  Rather than just sit and wait, we needed to reach out to our respective contacts in search of a clue. Any clue as to the whereabouts of Jazz Penrod. And the email Paul was working on was the first such effort.

  Chapter 4

  THAT EVENING, Paul and Henry moped around our den at home while I tried to convince them any sex trafficker worth the name would be cautious about responding to an unsolicited email asking about a guy he’d just kidnapped. But I had faith my partner’s sexy picture would be something Juan couldn’t resist. Henry struck out in his search for Jazz’s Jeep, but I hadn’t expected positive results. That was just to keep him busy.

  Later that night while we were all staring at an episode of Breaking Bad without hearing or seeing much of it, Paul’s laptop beeped, signaling an email. As he led an active social media life, that wasn’t meaningful—he’d received a dozen messages that day, none of them from Juan. This time, it was. Henry and I hovered over Paul’s shoulder as he opened the message.

  Hey, man. How come you looking for Jazz? Ain’t seen him. But you a hunky-looking dude. Don’t need nobody else. You and me can get it smoking all by ourselves. Tell me more. Hell, show me more.

  Juanito

  After settling down from the excitement of a contact, I analyzed the message. Despite the street grammar, I had the feeling this Juan was reasonably well educated. All by ourselves was a giveaway for me. And while the email implied he knew Jazz, this Juanito denied seeing the missing man. Did it mean anything that he failed to send a photo of himself in return? Probably not. Paul’s original message acknowledged seeing a picture of him on Jazz’s machine.

  Henry was impatient for action. “Come on, man. What we waiting for? Send a message back and tell him let’s get it on.”

  I shook my head. “No. That’s pushing it. But we need something to speed up the process without spooking the guy. Paul, how far are you willing to go on this thing?” Bad question. Paul was always willing to help a lame dog.

  “Whatever it takes. Jazz is one of the good ones. And he needs help.”

  “Let me call Gene and see if he can cover what I have in mind. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I left the two of them in the den and reached Gene at home. After a long conversation, I returned to the den.

  “Okay, I want you to send a message along the lines of what I’ve written on this page. But put it in your own words.”

  Paul studied the paper I’d handed him for a minute and then typed out his message on the laptop, pausing before hitting the Send button so Henry and I could review it.

  Juanito,

  Lucky you caught me at home. I usually go to the C&W for a little line dancing on Tuesdays and Wednesdays but got lazy tonight. Probably make it tomorrow. Have a phony card that lets me slide in. Maybe I’ll see you there sometime, but in the meantime, here’s a selfie that shows a little more skin. Expect the same in return, okay? Keep in touch. And if you hear from Jazz, tell him I’m trying to get in touch with him. Going to Farmington at the end of the week and would like to see him. He’s pretty cool in addition to being prime beef.

  Paul

  The selfie he referred to was a shirtless shot he took of himself a few minutes earlier. The reference to the C&W, a big nightclub out on East Central that attracts cowboys and wannabees, would allow Juan or one of his associates to see the prospect in the flesh. The bit about a phony card to get in the bar hinted at an underage minnow. Gene was confident he could provide protection in such a public venue. Even so, I hesitated before telling him to send the message. This was the man I loved above all others offering himself as bait to human traffickers… sex traffickers.

  After the message went out, Paul came up with an idea. “We’ve got his Skype address. Why don’t we see if he’s online?

  “What are the risks?” I asked. “Can he see you’re online as well?”

  “Yes.”

  I dry-washed my face with a palm. “Don’t push it. We’ve got him on the line. We’ll reel him in slowly.”

  “Jazz might not have time for us to pussyfoot around,” Henry said. “He might be outa the country by now.”

  “If he is, there’s nothing we can do about that. But we need to penetrate the pipeline in order to follow him and bring him back. To do that, we have to be careful and let things take their course.”

  Paul’s laptop pinged. It was a message from Juan.

  Hey, dude, the C&W’s the wrong place for what you want. There’s a club on Jefferson that more your style. Nice pic. Hell, nice pecs. And everthing else for that matter. You and Jazz ever get it on? Like to see that.

  Juanito

  Paul looked up from the message and caught my eyes. “I heard of the club he’s talking about. Maybe I oughta agree to go there.”

  “I know it too,” I said. “And there’s no way Gene can provide protection there. Too many strange faces would spook the whole place. The gay community is still cop-averse. Decline the invitation.”

  Paul worked at the keyboard and came up with a new message.

  Juanito,

  Don’t know how to say this without just putting it out there. I’m not out of the closet, so I wouldn’t be comfortable in a place like you’re suggesting. Surprised I screwed up the courage to email you, and wouldn’t have except I know how careful Jazz is. Like I say, I’m shy—which means I’m hungry. But I just can’t see myself in a place like that. No, I’ll stick to the C&W where I can dance with girls and look at boys.

  To answer your question, Jazz and I never got together like you mean. Friends only. Might not always stay that way, but that’s the way it is right now.

  Your friend, Paul

  We heard nothing further from Juan and went to bed at the usual time. Around 2:00 a.m., I heard Henry moving around and went out to find him in the kitchen pouring a glass of milk.

  “Can’t sleep, huh?” I asked.

  “Naw. Every time I manage it, I dream about Jazz calling for help.”

  “Would it be better to go back home and be around people you’re comfortable with?”

  He shook his head. “I’m comfortable with you guys. At least here I can try to help, even if you send me off on wild goose chases.”

  “I’ll admit there is an element of that in chasing after Jazz’s vehicle. It’s likely parted out or down in Mexico by now. Just remember, 60 percent of what I do is boiling the ocean.”

  “Huh?”

  “A wast
e of time. But that has to be done to reach the 40 percent that matters. We’d all feel pretty dumb if we didn’t look and later discovered Jazz’s Jeep was parked out on West Central for the whole time.”

  “I guess so.”

  “What about your work? Are you still employed at the coal mine?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. “Got a leave of absence for a family emergency.”

  “You okay for money?”

  “Yeah. I’m good. Appreciate you letting me stay at the house. Saves on motel bills.”

  “Tell me something. Why didn’t you come straight to my office instead of waiting until I got home?”

  He shrugged. “Feeling my way. Some people get bent outa shape when they find out my brother’s gay. Knew you wouldn’t, but I don’t know the people in your office.”

  “They’d be okay with it. You want something to help you sleep?”

  “The milk oughta take care of it.”

  “Good, because we’re going to need to be on our toes tomorrow. You ever been to the C&W?”

  “Couple of times.”

  “Then you know how big it is. We’re gonna need all the eyes we can get to watch out for Paul. He’s putting it all on the line for Jazz, you know.”

  “Yeah. He’s aces.”

  After we both returned to our respective rooms, I had trouble taking my own advice. I lay beside a peacefully slumbering Paul for a long time before sleep stole in to claim me.

  THE NEXT day was a quiet one, devoted to searching databases and trying to find connections, a process that about drove Henry wild. He took off on his motorcycle on another search for Jazz’s Jeep even though he knew it was nothing more than “make-work.”