Silent is the Grave

by Candle Sutton

  Elly fell into step beside him as he turned toward his apartment.

  He looked over at her.

  Now that he was looking more closely, he could see the stiff limp hindering her movements. “You sure you should be walking around on that?”

  “It’s fine.”

  If she insisted. Still, once they got to his place, he’d take her…

  Crud. He couldn’t drive. Not like this.

  The last thing he needed was a DUI on his record.

  “How’re you planning to get home?” The words slurred from lips that felt made of cotton.

  “I’ll walk. It’s really not that far.”

  Over his dead body she’d walk. In this neighborhood at this time of night? Not happening.

  Since he couldn’t drive her, he’d call her a cab.

  She crossed her arms and rubbed vigorously. “That’s a brisk breeze we’re getting tonight.”

  “Looks like you oughta have a heavier sweater.” The lightweight fabric covering her arms was a joke. But it was better than the no fabric covering his. Short sleeves had seemed like a good idea earlier. “Thanks for checking on me.”

  “God said you were just a little lost tonight.” She paused. “He loves you very much.”

  Yeah, well if God loved him so much why had Jave died? Why had Laura cheated?

  He could do without that kind of love.

  Then again, God had sent a beautiful woman to help him. Maybe…

  As they rounded a corner, his apartment building came into view.

  He put his foot on the bottom step. “Come on up.”

  Elly smiled gently. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I’m gonna call you a cab. You shouldn’t walk alone in this neighborhood. Or walk on that leg.”

  Silence. Weighing him? Or listening for God? “I’ll just wait here.”

  Easing down, she settled on one of the middle steps with a small sigh.

  If he had to guess, he’d say that leg was bothering her more than she wanted him to know. He sat beside her and pulled out his phone.

  “Lemme just look up a cab company here…”

  His fingers punched in the numbers for his password.

  Incorrect.

  He focused and tried again. The numbers blurred before his vision. Was that a six? Or a five?

  Was he even putting in the right password?

  “May I?”

  He stared at Elly’s outstretched hand. Followed the curve of her arm up to her neck before resting on her face.

  Maybe he didn’t want to unlock the phone. Or call a cab.

  Maybe he just wanted her to stay. With him.

  He didn’t think. He just moved in, his lips covering hers.

  The phone slid from his fingers and his hand moved to her hair. His other hand cupped her neck.

  He felt her hand on his chest and he pressed in harder.

  Thoughts of Jave and the day evaporated. It was just Elly. All Elly.

  “Zander.”

  And she was saying his name. Why hadn’t he done this sooner?

  “Zander. Stop.”

  The words danced in his head but made no sense. Stop?

  Two hands braced against his chest. Her face twisted away.

  He opened his eyes to find her lavender eyes only inches away, panic widening them.

  Reality crashed in.

  Stop. She’d said stop.

  She twisted away and pushed to her feet. “I–I need to be going.” Breathlessness cloaked her words as she put a step between them.

  She went down another step. Then another. Until both her feet were on the sidewalk and she stood four steps away, barely out of arm’s reach.

  “Elly. Don’t–”

  “I’ll be okay.” She gave him a soft smile. “God’s with me.”

  She turned and limped down the block.

  He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, until she rounded a corner and disappeared from sight. He was an idiot. And he might’ve just lost the best person he’d ever met because of it.

  ₪ ₪ ₪

  The buzzing of his alarm pulled him from a swirl of dreams too jumbled to remember.

  He sat up. The room spun, his stomach churning like the spin cycle on his washing machine.

  Ugh. It was gonna be one of those days.

  He pushed to his feet and bolted to the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before his stomach lurched. Dropping to his knees beside the toilet, he wretched.

  When the nausea subsided, he staggered to the medicine cabinet.

  The drummer for a heavy-metal band pounded a frantic rhythm inside his head, adding to the unease in his gut. A trembling hand reached for a bottle of Tylenol. He palmed several and swallowed them dry, then sank down against the wall behind him.

  Why did he do this to himself?

  He cradled his throbbing head in his hands. How many drinks had he consumed last night?

  He didn’t know.

  In fact, he didn’t remember much about last night at all. He remembered puking before climbing into bed, but other than that it was a blur.

  Focus. Something had happened.

  Rafe. Rafe had been there. Had he told him anything important?

  He searched his memory, cursing himself. Why hadn’t he recorded the conversation? Or at least jotted down some notes?

  Sunlight filtered in through the small window above the toilet and he closed his eyes against it.

  The Tylenol would help. Maybe.

  Or maybe this was what he deserved. After all, he knew better. How many mornings did he have to go through this before he learned his lesson?

  Snippets of last night’s conversation with Rafe drifted through his mind.

  That’s right. Rafe hadn’t really known anything.

  But the idea that the hit was in-house was a good one. Definitely worth following up with some of the gang unit’s contacts.

  He wondered if Rafe had picked up that girl.

  Girl… Elly.

  He snapped his eyes open, only to squeeze them shut again as the sunlight battered him.

  Elly had been at the bar. She’d come to stop him from drinking.

  He’d kissed her. And would’ve taken things a lot further if she’d let him.

  A groan escaped him as he curled over his knees.

  He’d screwed up. Royally. What had he been thinking?

  Nothing. That was the problem. He hadn’t been thinking at all. Not about her, not about the consequences.

  And he’d have to face her again.

  There was no escaping that fact. She was a key component in this investigation.

  From somewhere in the apartment, his cell phone rang.

  He had neither the energy nor inclination to answer it. It took him another ten minutes to feel solid enough to head for the shower.

  The water cleared his head but did nothing to wash away the embarrassment of the previous evening.

  He’d made a complete fool of himself.

  All he could do was apologize and hope she was gracious enough to let it go. Even then, things would still be awkward. No denying that.

  At least once this investigation was over, he could put Elly and all this behind him.

  So why didn’t that thought bring any relief?

  ₪ ₪ ₪

  Monica.

  Ray scrolled through the text that had come through sometime during the night.

  The witness’ name was Monica. And she was being helped by a volunteer at the youth center, some chick named Elly.

  How his contact had gotten the information, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. The man had earned his keep today.

  Time to do some damage control.

  His spotless record now had a black mark on it. Two, if he counted the do-gooder volunteer.

  He’d track them. And when he did, neither woman would survive.

  Thirteen

  “You’re late.”

  Zander dropped into the chair at his desk and removed his
shades, squinting against the florescent lights as he looked at Morgan. “It’s Saturday.”

  Morgan ignored the reminder. “And you look like you belong on a slab in the morgue.”

  “Feel like it, too.” The drummer in his head had moved from a rock beat to a jungle rhythm. The coffee he’d downed on the drive in jostled in his empty stomach.

  “Look, kid, maybe you oughta get some help.”

  “I’m fine.” The words came out on a knife’s edge. “Yesterday was a rough day.”

  “Yeah, well you’ve had a lot of those lately.” Morgan rested his elbows on his desk. “You can’t keep goin’ like this. There’s no shame in askin’ for help.”

  What gave Morgan the right to lecture him? It wasn’t like he had everything all put together. “We get anywhere with that knife?”

  Morgan stared at him for a long moment before reaching for a file on his desk. “Found a few other cold cases with similar details. All have gang ties.”

  Taking the paper Morgan offered, he tried to focus on the text, but the letters all tangled together. “Vics were Alma Negra?”

  Like Jave. He kept the thought to himself.

  A decisive nod met his question. “All of them. No retaliatory action that I could see, either.”

  Rafe had mentioned in-house… “Think this is the work of an enforcer? Maybe taking care of guys who get out of line?”

  Morgan shrugged. “That would explain the lack of retaliation.”

  If that were true, then Jave might’ve been killed by the very people he’d trusted. But what could his brother have done to set them against him?

  “Excuse me.”

  Zander turned at the deep female voice behind him. A solidly built woman with skin the color of chocolate stood a few feet away. A riot of tiny black curls encircled her head like a helmet.

  The woman’s shirt looked like the result of a second grader with a paintbrush and no supervision. Wild strokes of red mingled with swirls of blue, yellow, and green in a kaleidoscope that made his head hurt.

  Or maybe it was just the residual effects of the hangover.

  A uniformed rookie stood a half step behind her, dwarfed by her size and the scope of her presence.

  “I’m lookin’ for the detectives coverin’ the murder at the youth center.”

  Even her voice commanded attention.

  “You found ‘em.” Morgan extended his hand. “Detective Morgan. My partner Salinas.”

  Zander nodded.

  “Tina Symonds. I’d like to see the girl you got in your morgue.”

  What? Was she crazy?

  The firm set to her lips and the rigid posture said determined, not crazy, but still. Wanting to see a body? What was wrong with her?

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Symonds. We can’t just let people see bodies. I’m sure you understand.” Morgan’s tone was one part smooth to two parts firm.

  “You’re the one who don’t understand.” Symonds blew out a short breath. “If that girl’s who I think she is, I might have somethin’ that could help you find her killer.”

  The rookie still hovered behind her. Morgan nodded at him. “We’ve got it from here.”

  As the rookie turned away, Zander focused in on Symonds.

  Morgan spoke first. “Ms. Symonds. Why don’t you have a seat.”

  He wheeled his chair over and waited for her to settle into it before perching on the edge of Zander’s desk. “You have information for us?”

  Symonds shifted the suitcase of a purse in her lap, her fingers playing with the strap still crisscrossing her chest. “I did what she said but when I couldn’t reach her, I knew somethin’ had gone wrong.”

  Did what who said? Jessie? Maybe it was the alcohol, but Zander wasn’t tracking at all.

  “How about you start at the beginning.” Morgan’s words confirmed that he wasn’t the only one.

  Symonds sighed. “I run Free the Humans. We’re a nonprofit committed to ending human trafficking.”

  The words rolled off her tongue like a well-rehearsed speech.

  Probably was. She likely explained her organization’s purpose often enough to have it memorized.

  “Well, last Friday, just as I’m gettin’ ready to lock up, this girl comes in. My first thought was that she was a refugee who managed to get away, but she didn’t have the look.”

  “The look?” Zander tried to envision what that might be.

  Symonds’ gaze flicked over to him. “When you’ve helped as many kids as I have, you come to recognize the look. It’s in the eyes. Can’t describe it any better ‘n that.”

  “Sorry. Please continue.”

  “Anyhow, like I said, she didn’t have the look. She also denied bein’ in that world and most kids lookin’ for help will own it. She tells me her name is Jessie and that she knows ‘bout some big operation right here in town.”

  Jessie.

  The name settled like a rock in his mind. Didn’t necessarily mean it was the same girl… but what were the chances it wasn’t?

  Slim.

  Zander stiffened as Symonds rifled through her monster-sized purse, relaxing slightly as she withdrew a manila envelope. The bulges evidenced that there was something more than a few sheets of paper inside.

  “Girl popped this on the counter, told me to check it out, then turned to go. I asked her how I could get in touch with her and she stopped movin’. I think she wanted to tell me I couldn’t contact her, but she finally told me to be at the sea lion viewing dock at Pier 39 at six on Tuesday night. Said she’d meet me there.”

  Symonds held up the envelope. “After spending the weekend going over this and verifying the information, I was anxious to talk to her. I showed up around five–thirty and waited until after seven. She never showed. That’s when I knew somethin’ was wrong.”

  “How do you know she didn’t just flake?”

  Symonds scowled. “That girl went to a lotta trouble to get all this and took a big risk comin’ to see me. She wouldn’t flake, not after all that.”

  Sure she wouldn’t.

  The girl had acted hesitant to get involved beyond dropping off the file so why wouldn’t she ditch the meet?

  Although being dead was a pretty good excuse not to show. Assuming the girl and their vic were one and the same.

  Well, one good way to find out.

  “Can you describe this girl?”

  Symonds turned to Zander. “She was probably late teens. White. I mean, really white. The kind that should get some sun but would probably just burn, you know? Blonde hair.”

  Sure could be Jessie.

  Morgan grabbed the file and dug out a photo, handing it to Symonds. “That her?”

  The photo, taken from the missing person’s report her parents had filed almost three years ago, still looked like Jessie, in spite of the time lapse.

  Symonds picked it up and stared at it for a second. “Yeah, that’s her. Younger than when I saw her, but it’s her.”

  So. Jessie had possessed information about a human trafficking ring.

  Good motive for murder.

  “So she’s dead then?”

  Morgan responded to Symonds’ question with a grim nod.

  Symonds’ fingers curled into a fist and pounded the envelope in her lap. “This got her killed. I know it did.”

  “May I?” Morgan extended his hand toward the envelope, which Symonds relinquished without a word.

  He dumped the contents. A stack of photos slid across the desk.

  Picking up the one closest to him, Zander studied it. A large building with gleaming mirrored windows dominated the frame. Lush foliage surrounded a curving driveway. A rocky waterfall feature nestled against the building near the front door. Off to the side, the driveway disappeared beneath the building, a roll-down gate covering the entrance. A large stone sign read “Tranquility Day Spa.”

  He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until Symonds snorted.

  “Day spa. Ha! That place is little more than a brothel fi
lled with undocumented immigrants and underage kids.”

  Zander looked at the picture more closely, searching for any sign of illegal activities, but it appeared to be nothing more than an elite spa for those who could afford it.

  The next few pictures showed various people, almost all men, coming and going. Most were well-dressed and more than a few drove vehicles that cost more than Zander made in a whole year.

  He kept going deeper in the stack. As he went on, he found pictures of guys in saggy jeans and black shirts. The orange bands around their arms identified them as Alma Negra members.

  So the place had gang ties, but did that make it a front for human trafficking?

  Morgan pulled a single sheet of paper from beneath the pictures and studied it before handing it to Zander.

  A list, written in a highly feminine scroll. He skimmed the names. All masculine, although a few, like Chris, could go either way.

  There were no notes or anything to indicate what the names were for. They could be gang members, witnesses, clients, or something else.

  It didn’t give them much to go on.

  “Do you know what this is?” Morgan broke the silence, nodding at the list still in Zander’s hand.

  Symonds shook her head. “I was gonna ask when I met with her.”

  “So you really don’t even know if anything illegal is going on at this place.”

  She speared Morgan with her eyes. “I can’t prove it, but I’m sure of it. We’ve watched the place a bit over the last few days and there’re a few things that are strange.”

  Holding up her hand, she ticked things off on her fingers. “First, traffic picks up at night. Men go in, but only the lobby is lit.”

  Morgan pointed at the windows in the picture on top of the stack. “With that mirrored coating on the windows you wouldn’t necessarily see light.”

  If she heard him, she chose to disregard the words. “Most of the people we saw going in were men. Now if it’s a spa, wouldn’t you expect at least as many women?”

  Actually, he’d expect the women to outnumber the men. If it was truly a spa.

  Symonds didn’t seem to expect a response. “Second, that building is way too big for the business they claim is there. I pulled public records and that building has ninety thousand square feet, five floors, plus a basement. Yet if you visit the company’s website, they claim to only take two clients at a time. There’s no record of any other business occupying that building. What’re they doing with all that extra space, huh?”