by Jax Colt
At just under five-foot-nine, April has curves to boot and honey blond hair. She is most short girls’ worst idea of a best friend, but right now, there’s no room for jealousy. All I feel is concern for her. It must be a message from some creepy guy. They can’t keep their hands to themselves around April, and she has had plenty of practice dealing with unwanted attention. The guys back in Cedar Rapids have been after her for as long as I can remember. It started with notes from Tommy Ross in grade school, and never stopped. She’s had a couple of boyfriends, but most of the time she’s learned to fend off those advances.
While we’ve both been getting attention tonight, I can’t help comparing my own curves and dark coloring to her classic beauty, not to mention her brains. April may be quiet, but she’s super smart. She is a veterinary nurse now, and is studying part time to become an equine specialist. Men have never mattered to April as much as they have to me. All she seems to focus on is studying, her family, horses and Benny, her Golden Retriever. I swear that dog has owned her heart since we were teens. None of her boyfriends or would-be love interests have ever gotten close.
I can see this is something different tonight. April’s face is almost frozen in the light of the phone. Whoever it is that’s texting her, they have totally killed the moment, and I feel a rush of anger at them for spoiling our night.
3
Blake
The coffee pot is dripping nicely now, and I start looking for a clean mug or a plastic cup. The wastebasket is overflowing with them, and as our staff cleaners won’t be here until five in the morning, I tidy up a bit as a token gesture. After wiping down the break table, I find some milk in the fridge. Order needs to be maintained in a busy station like this.
The bum is still mouthing off. The desk sergeant gives him a warning. He’s a rookie with not much clout yet, so the loser on the bench doesn’t even flinch or pause for a second. I wander over to booking with my cup of coffee and check out his paperwork. He’s in for a minor theft. It’s a misdemeanor compared to what I see every day, but I don’t like the way he’s grating on my nerves. All I do is look his way and give him a nod. Slumped and handcuffed in his seat, he sees I mean business and finally starts to quiet down.
The guy on desk duty looks at me. “Thanks, Detective Anderson.”
It’s nothing. I’ve always had an effect on the criminal element. Maybe they can see some similarities in my eyes. Whatever it is, it works. I give the desk sergeant my coffee, as if that was the point of my trek over here this whole time. I don’t want that bum to think I deserve more respect than the desk sergeant, or he’ll just pick up where he left off the second I leave. This rookie also needs building up if he’s going to get anywhere on this job.
With the calm restored somewhat, I head back to my desk and continue reviewing my case file again. The case I’m on involves three young teenage boys. These kids were taken from a middle school in Brooklyn, drugged and forced to service the local underworld. They were thirteen and fourteen years old. It makes me sick. When I took over this caseload I spoke to each of the mothers. They were angry that I called. The file had been open for years in one case. No doubt they’ve seen a long line of cops full of promises that were never delivered. If the one boy in the cold case was alive today he’d be off to the prom this year. He’s not, and it’s a shame we haven’t done more in all this time.
The first boy, Danny Lombardi, had scarring on his rectum, suggesting the abuse came in multiple daily doses. He was found in a dumpster with a ball gag still tied to his lipstick-smudged face. The kid was carrying every STD known to man, but his final wounds were a slit neck, a torn asshole and a cigarette burn to the forehead. This was their way of marking him as all used up. The second kid, Billy Frankton, had cut himself so badly to end the torture that his captors had to dump him. The medical examiner’s report says he used a broken light bulb to puncture his wrists, then dragged it up, making enough vertical cuts in one arm to bleed out without anyone’s help.
The third boy was a real mystery. Raymond Fisher was burnt so badly they needed his dental records to make the ID. He was found in a sack, ditched from the bridge like a dirty piece of trash. To his captors, this was a symbolic murder to tell the world the boy had passed his prime. He had probably been servicing a special brand of twisted pedophile Johns, where the younger and less experienced the boys are, the better. So for Raymond, his value had dropped enough to render him worthless.
The task force hasn’t been able to land a decent arrest with sticking power within Jessup Lee’s ring for years. Altogether, we’re a squad of fifty scattered in stations throughout the greater New York City area. We come together for weekly briefings, and this year we’re supposed to be expanding. I’ve been mostly fine with working alone, but the need for more help is urgent. We’re all swamped with our caseloads and human trafficking has been on the rise.
A decent pimp—a guy or woman who’s is at the lower end of the organized crime ladder—can make two hundred thousand dollars a year from one or two girls under his care. There’s a never ending demand and the pimps in this city see no reason to shut down such a lucrative endeavor, not by choice anyway. New York is one of the worst trafficking jurisdictions in the country. We see girls as young as thirteen being put out on the street to work.
Jessup Lee’s name tends to come up at every turn in these cases, but he’s careful. The bastard keeps at arm’s length, so he never gets caught red-handed, and never has girls of his own around him. The man knows how to maintain the ‘family man’ persona, and even owns a few legitimate businesses to keep his cover. No one on the task force has been able to figure out how to link him to the racket. We just know he’s been at the heart of it for years.
I pull up a recent picture of Jessup. It was taken at some charity gig. His face in the shot shows a nice haircut of brown hair framing his wide face and high forehead. There’s nothing that screams prostitution ring leader at all. Even his shirt and tie are classy. He has a mole on the side of his nose. I wonder if he cuts it shaving. I wonder what he says to his kids at the breakfast table.
I have to hand it to him. This guy has balls to be wining and dining in New York’s upper echelons of society. He makes out like he’s a pillar of the community. He donates to charity and schmoozes with all levels of government. He’s hiding in plain sight. The reality is his network extends right across New York, and well beyond state lines. Jessup has minions everywhere, doing his dirty work and running the day to day operation. This guy is really the scum of the earth, all shiny and fresh on the outside, and rotten all the way to his core.
His wife and family surround him, and in some ways, may not even know the extent of his illegal business. I’m pretty certain they would say nothing even if they do know. That’s the way it is. The wives and families have a sense that something is not right, or they may know it’s better not to ask. Most of our suspected organized crime leaders marry young, have kids, and then their wives become trapped. Even if they did want to leave, they can’t.
I look more closely at another one of the file pictures of Jessup and his wife, Donna. I can’t see any trace of resentment. They seem happy, but who knows what’s under the surface. I think back to those nights when my own father would get home late, stinking of booze. My mother would be up waiting to scream at him, trying to find out where he’d been and why he wouldn’t stop. My guess is Donna Lee doesn’t even bother to stay awake when Jessup is out late, managing the business. Three wise monkeys, and all that.
As far as this case, she’s been another dead-end. I chose early on to focus on his associates instead. If anything’s going to bring him down, it’s greed. No one is immune. All I have to do is catch one of his guys doing something, and then get them to talk under the threat of losing it all. Someone as deep in the organization as Lee must have an institutional ability to shut off and separate the compartments of his life. A denial this powerful is built over time, but the threat of loss gets them all. Lee and his men have a
n ability to normalize their atrocious acts under the label of business, and then they head home for dinner. So when we find the right underling, and we threaten to take it all away, they will usually fold.
My file shows that Jessup’s top guys in his organization are a mixture of white, black and Latino men, a ruthless line-up of murderers and pimps, all in their late twenties to early forties. These men are my way in. One of these faces will crack and spill the goods. All I have to do is get them at the right time and place. These are the men who do his dirty work.
The Italians won’t have a part in this because they’re entrenched in what’s kept their businesses profitable over the last century. Every other unit in town is connected to one of these men under Jessup. His crew seems to gravitate to the massage parlors or the boxing gyms. There’s a reason for this cliché, and these guys are it. White or black or Latino, they’re all over the gangster look. Chains and knuckle-dusters, caps and face tattoos, athletic suits and pimp jackets, it’s a fashion show of criminal-approved accessories. I start to wonder who Jessup trusts the most. I need to get inside his head. I need to think like he thinks in order to pull this off.
With a groan, I look again at the clock. It’s nearly four in the morning. It’s time to quit work and hit the weights. After shutting down my computer and locking the file cabinet, I grab my gym bag and head downstairs to change. The locker rooms are empty as my hours are ahead of the usual five a.m. time for shift changeover. It means I get the gym to myself on most early mornings.
I strip out of my jeans and dress shirt. Detectives do not wear uniforms except for special ceremonies and events, and I like it that way. Still, I make an effort to pull myself together. Brenda even irons my shirt some evenings. She’s always been a good sister. She’s generous with her time and a great mom. Ever since I had her move into my place with George to help them out, it’s been great to have her around. We didn’t have the sweetest childhood but I’m grateful we had each other.
I swing open the gym door. Like most mornings, I’m alone in here. A lot of the staff work out, but not many of them come in before their shifts. The gym is mine to try and forget the chaos of my caseload, and tonight, I need to get those three kids out of mind. It’ll be too easy to lose sleep if I don’t clear the slate and reboot before I leave work.
I head over to the treadmill to warm up. I start a tough course, put my head down, and within minutes I’m sweating. This is the release I need, so I increase the incline and speed, pushing my body to its limit. The steady pound of my feet falls in time with my heartbeat and soon I find my rhythm. Up to a few years ago I never worked out, but I can say that the gym changed my life. It led me to the force and it gave me some discipline. The structure keeps me together, and ensures I have no time to sit around, feel guilty or harbor any regret about my past.
My body is heating up now, so I take off my shirt and use it to wipe the sweat from the keypad. Seeing myself in the reflection of the doors, I feel some satisfaction. I’m in a good place. Life is good.
4
Carrie
I’m getting more frustrated by the minute. This was supposed to be a girls’ night out, on the first big city vacation of our lives. We badly need to forget about men and work. We have both been on a knife-edge this last year, and we’re past overdue for a night of letting loose.
On my end, my parents are still alive and well. Compared to April, I don’t have much to worry about. She not only works full-time, she studies. All I have to moan about is my job in all its torturous glory, and my control freak of a boss. I’m just a researcher right now for KCRG, the local network in Cedar Rapids. My boss is officially a soul sucker. He never assigns me with the work I want. It goes to everyone else on the team, and I end up as the pretty face doing the research on the community interest stories no one cares about. For a while I’ve been wondering whether this job is even right for me.
Journalism is my passion. Uncovering the truth and making that information available for the public is something I was born to do, but it’s hard to get a foothold with this network where I work. They keep sidelining me with boring research projects. It’s even harder to keep my cool when I see my classmates making solid headway into their careers. The uncertainty has a way of making me doubt myself sometimes, but I suspect it’s characteristic of the entire industry of journalism. People like me who enter the field start off with some grandiose idea of our abilities, and we all want to write the once in a lifetime award-winning piece that turns a topic on its side and makes people think for years to come. That happens for so few of us, we should be forced to sign some kind of reality check acknowledgement before we enter the field.
Right now though, it’s time to forget about work and focus on the here and now. I wish I knew what’s making my friend look so sick. I start to wonder if we’ve had too much to drink. April can hold her liquor, but how many have we actually had? We’ve been downing shots since midnight, so maybe that, plus the long day of sightseeing and the long night of partying have just been too much for her.
Come to think of it April didn’t want to come to Caliber. It’s her Uncle’s nightclub and I convinced her to come here because I wanted us to have a good time. On my researcher’s salary, I needed to take advantage of the free drinks. So now we’re here and it looks like it was not my best idea lately. April is wearing a tense mouth and a pale face, which can both be my doing. Caliber is still packed with drunken revelers this late on a Saturday night. I start to think maybe it’s all wearing April down. A sliver of guilt penetrates my tequila-fueled brain. I tell myself off sternly, Carrie James you are not being a good friend.
Grabbing April’s hand again, I leave the cute bartender and our forgotten drink orders behind and begin to lead us through the crowd toward the exit. There’s nothing better for tequila brain than fresh air, and it’s clear to me now that April needs to get out of here.
The hipster coat check girl waves to us as we head up the stairs from the happening lower level. The staff here are impressive, and not snobby at all, even though this place gets great reviews and they are well within the scope of exclusive when it comes to the New York scene. Jackets in hand, we make it to the top of the stairs, out the front door, and the security guy lifts the red rope for us to leave Caliber for the evening.
I pull April away from the noise. It must be three in the morning, and the Times Square area is still rocking. Yellow cabs and cars full of laughing people cruise past. Their blaring horns remind me to put my coat on. It’s cold, and I don’t like drawing attention to myself in public. As we walk, the hunger hits me. So setting aside how tight my dress already is on me, I’m ready to get my hands on a burger and shake right now. April could probably use some food too.
Despite our quick exit, April still looks tense. She’s silent as we make our way along the street so I decide to just be straight up.
“April, honey,” I tell her. “I can see something’s bothering you and I already know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m worried.”
“I’m fine,” she says. “It’s nothing. Just stupid family stuff.”
Something changes in her eyes, and my gut sets off alarm. Family stuff. That’s strange. Now I’m hoping she will tell me what’s going on. Her cryptic answer piqued my interest, and now that I know it’s more than just boy drama, I want to know more.
“Fresh hot dogs! Get ’em fresh!”
We’re interrupted by a vendor who’s out selling street meat way too late. April actually jumps at his grating call. She’s really nervous about something, and it probably doesn’t help that we’re out here on the street while she’s this jumpy. I need to get her back to our hotel.
“Well, you know my uncle?” she says. I nod, remembering the creepy man from the funeral who looked like a slimy version of April’s mom. “Ever since the accident, things have been weird with him.”
Now I’m listening.
“What do you mean by weird?” I ask, wondering why she never mention
ed it before.
“He just kept showing up in Cedar Rapids, coming to the house, acting like he’s responsible for me now. He even tried to give me money and buy me food and stuff.”
I only just hold back my scoff. Anyone else would be stoked to have a generous uncle, but of course April sound paranoid about his actions. I don’t get it. Sensing the dismissive reaction in my face, she doesn’t say anything further, and says nothing about the message on her phone. I nod and decide not to pry. I love her but I don’t want to think about drama while we’re on vacation.
“Carrie, can you hold this for me?” April passes me her purse as she reaches down to adjust the shoe strap which looks like it’s been rubbing against her heel in a bad way. It’s red as hell. I wince just imagining what it must feel like, considering we’ve been on our feet for hours already. Standing up again, she mutters, “It’s not like I don’t need the money, but Mom never wanted to have anything to do with Uncle Jessup.”
April lets out a nervous laugh. Her attempt at levity doesn’t fool me one bit. She’s afraid of him. I have to wonder why. April sees the serious look on my face and lapses into silence again. The sounds of the street fill our ears for a second. Then she adds, “It’s kind of why I didn’t want to come here tonight.”
Nodding my head, I realize this is a dead-end conversation. She’s not ready to open up to me, so I decide to change the subject. I’m convinced she’s hiding something, but who am I to stop her from having some privacy in her life? When she’s ready she’ll tell me everything. At least that’s how we were with each other for almost two decades.
April sways a bit on her heels. She’s good and tired, and although I want to ask more questions, now is not the time. We’re supposed to be having fun tonight, and I don’t want to bring either of us down any further. We may be two girls from Iowa, but we know how to party, and we’ve given it a good run tonight. Now it’s clearly time to go back to the hotel.