by Brian Shea
“I think that it would be best. On her good days we will bring her over to the other side to interact with the other residents,” Whitmore said.
“And on the bad ones?”
“She would be isolated from other patients.”
“This is not how I saw things going. I can’t help but feel responsible for this. For the current status of things.” Nick said this last part more to himself. He wasn’t looking to be consoled by the doctor.
“It was an eventuality no matter where your mother was placed. Even if she had remained in her home in Connecticut, this day would have come. No point in blaming yourself,” Whitmore said.
“Thank you.” Nick saw no point in arguing his guilt with the doctor, either. He then turned and asked, “Is she responsive at all right now?”
“The nurse was in with her a few minutes before your arrival and said she smiled but did not speak. I’ll give you some time with her. Come find me in my office when you’re done. It was the first door we passed when we entered the wing,” Whitmore said as he turned and exited the room.
Nick was left alone in the quiet. The only sound was the click of the wall clock, notifying him of each passing second. Each step toward his mother seemed like a marathon distance. His heart pounded, and his face flushed with the impending anxiety.
“Hey, Mom. How’re you feeling?” Nick asked softly, not sure if she was awake.
His mother’s eyes fluttered, “Patrick? Where have you been?” she asked, with a look of bewilderment.
Nick deflated. His brother, long-since dead, is still the first face she sees. Nick had no words. He couldn’t play the role today. His body went slack, and he slumped in the seat next to the bed. His hand found hers, colder and bonier than he’d remembered. He caressed the delicate hand of the woman that had raised him as his tears fell freely.
13
The sky had opened up suddenly. A heavy downpour of rain drenched her as she ran for the shelter provided by the overpass. The cold drops gave temporary relief from the afternoon sun but had stopped almost as soon as they began. The steam that rose up from the hot concrete of the sidewalk filled the air with a humid stickiness. Her wet clothes clung tightly to her.
Mouse had left the safety of Anaya Patel’s office bed a couple hours ago and had begun the task of navigating Austin’s landscape without any knowledge of where she was going, or more importantly, where she needed to go. She’d grabbed a map from the first gas station she’d passed as she traveled down Riverside Boulevard. The money she had taken from the two men from the box truck was sufficient to get her started but wouldn’t last long. Four hundred and eighty dollars would only go so far.
She wished she could have stayed with Anaya. They would send her back. She knew it. Many people from her city had made the trip, crossing over to America. And many of them had been sent back. Mouse learned that to survive, she must elude government officials, even kind-hearted ones. She also knew her return to Juarez would mean certain death. The people who had arranged her travel would learn of her escape. Juarez was no longer home. So, she kept moving through the unfamiliar streets of Austin in search of her new beginnings.
“Do you think it’s connected?” Anaya asked into the cellphone’s receiver.
Her supervisor called while she was out driving the area looking for Mouse. Running away from a CPS office was not unheard of, but running away from Anaya Patel was.
“I don’t know. Let me know when you get there and if you’re going to need some extra bodies to assist,” her supervisor said.
“Okay, but isn’t there someone else that could go? I’ve got to find this girl,” Anaya pleaded.
“She’ll turn up. I need you to take the lead on this other situation. Those kids are going to need you.” Anaya’s boss spoke with a gentle firmness, knowing that the words would resonate with her subordinate. She’d used the same line on her several times before.
“I’m on my way,” Anaya said, with a sigh.
She was torn but vowed to return to her search for Mouse as soon as the opportunity presented. But she was also a realist and knew deep down that, as time passed, the likelihood of finding that tough little girl would diminish. She drove to Austin Police Department’s headquarters.
“Anything?” Jones asked.
“Nothing. They’ve been sleeping for most of the time since they returned from the hospital. We’ve tried Spanish and English. Got nothing more than a couple glances in response,” said Gary Redding, Sergeant in charge of the Special Investigations Unit.
Jones’s boss gave his people the freedom and support to work a case, but more importantly, he stepped up for his guys. Redding had already battled with Homicide to ensure that the primary case stayed with Jones and Lawrence. He now had to keep Vice from getting involved. Vice typically handled the organized sex rings, but Redding wanted this one to stay with his unit. He got approval after much debate, with the caveat that Vice would become involved when things moved from investigative to operational. Meaning Vice wanted credit for the takedown when the time came.
“Anything from medical?” Jones asked.
“They completed rape kits and they’re being submitted to the lab as we speak. That will most likely yield some potential Johns, but only if the DNA is already in CODIS,” Redding responded, knowing that Jones was aware of this probability but saying it anyway out of routine.
“Who knows, maybe we can find another perv or two to interrogate,” Jones said, wishfully.
“True. Jones, you’re a true believer.” Redding laughed and then continued. “There was one thing that turned up during the girls’ physical exams that was unique about this group. They were branded. All of them. Same brand markings.”
“Branded?” Jones asked, knowing that some low-level pimps used tattoos on their girls as a way of claiming their property. It was uncommon in the international rings because they wanted to maintain a low profile. The girls were disposable. Used and thrown away.
“Yes. It’s on each of their hip lines. Looks like a snake or something. Hard to tell,” Redding explained.
“So, a tattoo?” Jones asked, seeking clarification.
“No. Branded.” Redding held up a photo for Jones to see.
The raised skin was evident of the burn. These girls were truly branded. Like cattle. The one in the photograph must have occurred recently because of the puffiness and pink coloring. A strange mix of anger and optimism filled the seasoned investigator. Jones looked up from the picture, walked directly to his cubicle and started rifling through the files scattered about. Jones had paraphrased Einstein when anyone commented on the disorder of his desk, stating that “a messy desk is a sign of genius.”
14
Nick entered the air-conditioned lobby of APD’s headquarters, flashed his credentials to the officer behind the bulletproof glass and signed in. He moved through the metal detector, setting off the buzzer and continuing to the elevators. He waited patiently as the elevator had already been called by the woman standing in front of him. The two entered as the doors parted. She had already pressed the button for floor number five.
“Same?” she asked, ensuring that Nick didn’t need to go to another floor.
“Yup,” Nick responded. The woman was attractive. Her long dark hair and light brown complexion reminded him of Izzy. Or maybe it was the smell of coconut that was quickly filling the small space of the elevator’s interior. Either way, he let his mind drift back to that night in the hotel room. I’ll call her as soon as I get a chance, he told himself. His mind was still reeling from the emotional release at Pine Woods. The ding of the elevator, announcing the arrival at the fifth floor, snapped him out of his momentary trance. The two exited and moved toward the sea of cubicles that made up Austin’s Special Investigations Unit, or SIU.
“I swear I’m not stalking you,” Nick said, with a chuckle.
“Never crossed my mind,” she said, shooting a playful wink back at him over her slender shoulder exposed by her slee
veless shirt.
Jones stood as he heard Nick approaching.
“Hi, Anaya. I’m glad you’re on this with us. I see you met Nick?” Jones gestured to him.
“Not formally. He’s just been following me around for the last five minutes or so,” Anaya jested.
“Anaya Patel of Child Protective Services meet Nicholas Lawrence of the FBI,” Jones announced.
The agent’s hand extended, “Just Nick.”
“Okay, Just Nick. It’s nice to meet you,” Anaya said.
Nick noticed Jones appeared to be sucking in his gut. A failed effort, but one he’d never seen him make before. Maybe there was a history between the two. Or maybe just wishful thinking by Jones.
“Where are we on this?” Anaya asked, switching the conversation back to the task at hand.
“The kits are done. The girls are sleeping. Digital has the John’s cell and Nick got some out of him during booking. Other than that, we’re flying blind. Well, except for this,” Jones said, holding up the photograph of the girl’s hip.
“Is that what I think it is?” Nick asked.
He noticed a barely perceptible shutter by Anaya as Jones presented the image.
“Yup. Sure is. Branded.” Jones gave the two a moment to process.
“My girl that just disappeared had the same thing. Medical said the burn was recent. Maybe done within the last two weeks,” Anaya said. A wave of panic washed over her, and she continued, “What is it? A snake?”
“Maybe. Maybe a seven. Maybe just some symbol. I’ve been pawin’ through my files,” Jones said. His drawl had returned.
“Anything?” Nick asked.
“Not yet.”
“I’ll send it to our guy and have him run it through the database,” Nick said, knowing the FBI’s image recognition software had an expansive collection of pictures for comparison and could yield a potential link.
“Sounds good. I know I’ve seen it before. I just have to find the case file,” Jones said.
“Good luck. Be careful. That pile could bury you alive,” Nick said. The joke never got old. “And I know, I know, it’s a sign of genius.”
“I’m going to see if any of the girls want to talk. And then I’m going back out to look for my girl. She may be in a lot more danger than I originally thought,” Anaya said, walking away from the two investigators.
“If anyone can get them to talk, then it will be her,” Jones said with unabashed adoration. Whether it was professional or personal, Nick had yet to determine.
15
“It’s time. Are you ready?” His voice was steady but tense. The adrenalin was hard to contain and spread rapidly throughout the man’s body.
“Born ready.” A laugh accompanied the cheesy line.
“On three. Call it.”
“Three… two… hit it,” the commander’s voice projected by the bone microphone reverberated through the team’s headsets.
The bang was loud from the street but would sound even louder to the men inside. The charges rigged to the glass shattered the facade. Two members of the unit swung long steel bars with hooked ends and raked out the remnants. Three flashbang grenades sailed through the air and into the now open storefront. They clanged across the cheap linoleum floor and slid to a stop against the wall of the ordering counter. The concussive explosion was deafening and sent a brilliant burst of light designed to overwhelm a target’s senses. A critical diversion when facing dangerous men.
Stacked along the rear alleyway of the building’s backside, the Hostage Rescue Team entry team listened as the noise from the flashbang filled the quiet. The initiation signal given, the team began moving toward the rear door. No words said. They’d rehearsed this operation in the weeks prior and could carry it out in their sleep.
The quick blasts from the breaching shotgun obliterated the hinges as the ram caved in the door. The team instantaneously filled the void where the door once stood. Another flashbang rolled ahead of the group and down into the dimly lit narrow hallway. The entry team briefly turned their backs away from the impending blast, shielding their eyes. The operators waited for the sound. The bang shook the walls, knocking off picture frames and rattling pans in the kitchen area.
Speed, surprise, and violence of action. These men knew the value of the mantra. They closed in on the only door in the hallway. The point man held up one finger. No words spoken as the thick body of the breacher ambled past the line of men in cumbersome body armor. The narrow space did not allow for him to manipulate the ram effectively. He realized the mockups had made the hallway appear wider, which meant the entry tool was useless. Instead, he improvised, leveling his massive shoulder into the doorframe at the nod of the team leader. The impact separated the cheaply-made door from its frame.
The breacher rolled back and out of the way as the door fell flat into the room’s small smoke-filled interior. Another flashbang immediately followed. The five members of the entry team poured in with weapons at the ready. A small round table overturned as the three men inside scrambled. Between the cigarette smoke and the remnants of the flashbang, visibility was minimal. A fat man was frantically moving across the floor on his hands and knees, cursing. It was a matter of seconds before the team had completely overwhelmed the room’s three occupants.
The fat man whimpered as a size thirteen boot stepped down on his back and pressed his wide frame to the floor. Thick zip ties were put to work, securing their hands. Satisfied, the operators righted the arrestees, using their knees to stabilize them into a seated position.
“Three in custody. All clear,” the entry team leader said. His voice was as calm as if he were ordering a coffee at a drive-thru.
One of the operators stepped out of the room and into the alleyway behind J’s Pizza. He pulled out his phone and pressed it to his ear, which was covered by his dry-fit balaclava. “You won’t believe where I’m standing.”
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Nick Lawrence. “Deck! Jesus your timing is impeccable. I was actually just about to call you.”
“J’s Pizza,” Declan Enright said.
“J’s Pizza? What are you talking about?”
“We got three more assholes. The Translator’s phone led us here. It took a while. You know how the Bureau is. Lots of surveillance before they let us make the hit. But slowly we’re picking apart the organization,” Declan said.
His calm voice couldn’t suppress all of the excitement in grabbing three members of the elusive group known only as The Seven. A terrorist organization that had plagued the country less than a year before.
“That’s awesome stuff! I wish I was there to celebrate with you,” Nick said.
“Me too, brother. Me too. But I bet you’d rather celebrate with someone else,” Declan chided. He knew the not-so-subtle reference to Izzy would not be lost on his friend.
“Seen her lately?” Nick asked, somewhat sheepishly.
“A few weeks back at an intel briefing, but aside from that, not much. We need to get the band back together one of these days.”
Declan didn’t allow himself to get too close to people, but he’d lowered his guard with Nick and Izzy. Past circumstances dictated that, and now he missed the connection of that kinship.
“I’d like that. Got any vacation time coming up?” Nick asked.
“What’s up, Nick? If you need me, all you have to do is ask. You know that,” Declan said, with no hint of his usual sarcasm.
“I’m working a bad one here. I’ll let you know. Not sure how this thing is going to play out, but I’ll keep you posted. Sorry to be so vague. I’m at the early stages and don’t know enough to be specific,” Nick said. His voice wavered and he cleared his throat. “Stay safe. Be in touch.”
“You say the word and I’m there. Whatever you need. Whenever you need it,” Declan said. Before hanging up, he followed with, “Give her a call, Nick.”
Nick ended his phone call with Declan and scrolled through his contacts, finding the name. Izzy
’s number stared back, taunting him. Nick sighed and put the phone away. He entered the black Jetta. Jones looked uncomfortable in the passenger seat of the German-designed compact sedan.
“Windows down and air on?” Jones questioned, raising an eyebrow in bewilderment.
“It’s all about acclimating to the environment,” Nick said, with a cocked smile.
“It feels more like you’re trying to kill me. AC is my friend,” Jones said, grabbing at the belly spilling over his belt.
The two laughed and drove off, heading toward CPS headquarters.
“I assume someone from your office will call if any of our girls from the motel wake up and are willing to talk. Many hands make light work. Anaya could use our help finding this missing girl. Who knows, maybe she will be the piece that helps us open this thing up?” Nick said over the wind blowing through the car, as he sped away from APD’s headquarters.
16
“I told you I would bring you in on this if I could,” Jones said, cracking a slight smile.
“I really appreciate the opportunity. I owe you,” Harrison said, as he whacked his sweat-encrusted baseball cap against his thigh.
“I hope this one has a better ending.”
Jones’s reference to the dead girl at Hope Park was received. Rusty’s eyes tightened at the mention of it. An intensity and focus seemed to take hold. Jones liked the K9 handler.
“I’ve just got to ask. Why are you so hell-bent on helping out with this case?” Jones asked.
Rusty sighed and busied himself in the trunk of his cruiser, gathering his gear for the upcoming track. “My sister.” Rusty said, barely audible over the idling engine of his Crown Victoria.
“Sister?” Jones asked, intrigued.
“Melanie,” Rusty said, closing the trunk and looking at the detective.