Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4)

by Dallas Gorham

  Her chest felt like a steel band was wrapped around it. Fear choked her throat. She fought back the tears, trying to overcome her feeling of helplessness. But I won’t be helpless much longer. I’ll either be free or dead.

  Tommy had told her to be good to the fat man. Supposedly this john was an ambassador from a Latin American country, the Republic of San Something-or-Other, but who knew? Tommy lies just for practice.

  She’d trembled when Tommy said the Ambassador was coming back. The creep had asked for her. For the entire night. Again.

  “Show him another good time, Liz,” the kidnapper had said, squeezing her breast so hard that it hurt.

  She had almost protested, then she remembered the fat man’s phone and kept quiet. Tommy kept her and the other girls away from cellphones for obvious reasons, but when the fat man visited, Tommy always let him keep his. The fat man must be a big man in more than size if Tommy lets him keep his cellphone. She wanted that phone. With that phone, I have a chance. If Tommy catches me, he’ll make the other girls watch while he kills me dead. And it won’t be quick. She shuddered. Free or dead.

  Tommy had kidnapped six women, addicted them to drugs, and now rented them out for sex with strangers. He called them Tommy’s Angels. Now there were only five. A week ago, they had watched Evelyn die by Tommy’s hand. “Angels, this is what happens when you try to escape,” he had taunted while he and three of his gang members repeatedly raped her and did other disgusting things which she couldn’t even think about now. “Don’t make the same mistake Evelyn did.”

  Ironically, Evelyn’s gruesome death was the spark that rekindled Liz’s burning desire for freedom. A desire that the drugs and the depravity had dulled to the brink of extinction during her captivity. Now she only pretended to swallow the pills Tommy gave her every day. When he turned his back or left, she spit them out and hid them under her mattress. She was accumulating enough pills to kill herself with an overdose if all else failed.

  Tommy called her an Angel, but she lived in Hell. Even a painful death was preferable to living like this. If she stayed, she’d die. If not from the daily drugs that Tommy thought he was forcing on her, then from some overzealous john with an S&M fetish. She had already had three close calls with sadistic johns in the eleven months she had been captive.

  There had been nothing “good” about any of the “good times” with the fat man. The Ambassador always provided drugs for them both, including one of those blue pills for him. He looked young enough not to need the chemical help, but maybe he liked to last extra long. The other girls had told her the first time that he liked to force himself on women, to simulate rape. So Liz had to resist and let the fat man slap her around. Then he would demand rough sex in revolting variations for an endless two hours. She hadn’t realized how gross he was the earlier times because of the drugs she had taken. Now that she had stopped taking the drugs, the reality of the Ambassador’s depravity was starkly evident the previous few hours. She almost wished she had swallowed the pill instead of palming it. At least it would have made the pain and humiliation more bearable. The fat weirdo always left her hurting for days.

  She shivered through the night, unable to sleep through the snores of the reeking, sweaty john. The fat man kept the air-conditioning set as cold as a meat locker, and his sweat still polluted the air. Without the drugs to dull her senses, this night seemed endless as she lay there wide awake, trapped in a nightmare from which she could not awaken. Don’t they use deodorant in San Whatever-the-hell-it-is? She lay in the chilly room, trying not to breath the stinking air, staring at the ceiling. She dreaded when he would wake up, take another blue pill, and force himself on her again and again. And in the morning, he always did.

  The morning would lead to more drugs and sordid perversions before he was through. She was ashamed of what the fat man did to her, even though she had no choice.

  He tipped her well, but no tip could be big enough to subject herself willingly to that kind of degradation. With her captivity and no place to spend the money, she devised an alternate plan. She stashed the tip money in a plastic bag hidden in the toilet tank. If she ever escaped this brothel—no, when she escaped—she would need money to get home—the more the better.

  After an eternity, the john’s breath slowed to a regular rhythm. His lips puffed a few ragged breaths. He rolled onto his side, and his bulky arm rasped like sandpaper across her skin. His long black hair draped across his face and he brushed it away in his sleep. The cheap mattress bounced like a bowl of Jello with his movement. Half an hour ago, the springs had screeched in protest when he banged her, the king-sized bed bouncing like a lifeboat in a hurricane.

  His hairy back rose and fell, red claw marks visible in the glow from the partially opened bathroom door. In accented English, he had insisted that she claw his back and scream Padre, Padre while he pounded away between her legs. The heavy musk from his after-shave mixed with the dirty socks smell of sweat and sex. She suppressed a gag.

  Tonight was her best chance to call for help in the week since she decided to escape or die. She scooched sideways away from the fat man. The bed moved ominously, but he didn’t notice. If he wakes up, I’ll tell him I have to use the toilet. The Ambassador would want to watch like he did before. That had turned him on and he’d demanded that she do more disgusting things. It had taken an hour before he’d gone back to sleep.

  The john snorted once and rolled over.

  She used his movement to disguise hers as she inched closer to the edge of the bed. She wiped sweat from her forehead, careful not to jiggle the bed with the movement of her arm. A few minutes later, the fat man squirmed onto his back, the springs sang, and she moved close enough to dangle one leg over the side of the bed. She felt the floor with her foot.

  The clock on the dresser across the room flicked over to 2:17.

  Do it now! Before you chicken out. She shifted more weight to the foot already on the floor and held her breath.

  As gently as a lava flow, she slid the other foot over the edge of the bed. Then her ankle, her calf. Bending her knee, she lowered her foot to the worn carpet, alert to the slightest change in the fat man’s sleep. Then came the trickiest part. She tried to sit up, but stopped in mid-motion, the springs vibrating from her effort. Her heart felt as though it would burst through her chest.

  His snores halted abruptly. She froze. The fat man wasn’t breathing. Sleep apnea. She’d read about it in high school. Don’t panic. He should start again in a few seconds.

  She felt pressure in her chest. Damn, I’m holding my breath too. She inhaled softly just as the fat man snorted and resumed snoring. Louder this time.

  She leaned forward and sat upright. Shifting more weight to her feet, she lifted her butt off the mattress. The springs remained silent, and she breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

  The john’s clothes were draped over a chair in the corner. She slid his phone from the holster clipped on his belt. She decided not to take it to the bathroom, fearing the light might wake him. The phone was a different brand from the one she used before Tommy imprisoned her. She fumbled with it, trying to turn it on, or at least wake it up. She pushed every button she could find in the dim light. Finally, the screen came to life. Please, God, let the password be right. She entered the password she had seen over the fat man’s shoulder when he checked his messages before going to sleep. The screen unlocked. She breathed a silent sigh of relief and pushed the messaging icon.

  Chapter 2

  The landline in my office rang. “McCrary Investigations. This is Chuck McCrary. How may I help you?”

  “Are you the guy I heard about on the news who gunned down that crooked cop?”

  “I prefer to think of it as rescuing the woman that the crooked cop had kidnapped,” I said modestly.

  Of course my office phone is listed, but I hoped this wasn’t another nut job calling to accuse me of murder. Such is the price of fame. Or is it notoriety? Fortunately, nut job calls are rare. Sometimes
the caller is a new client. Those are my favorite calls.

  “So you’re that guy?”

  “The one and only. How can I help?”

  “I’m Wallace Jenkins. My daughter has been kidnapped. I want you to find her.”

  “Have you contacted the police?” I always ask first. There’s no point wasting someone’s money to do a job that the cops or the FBI will do for free.

  “That’s the first call I made. They’re working the case mighty hard, but they ain’t got shit, excuse my French. Lieutenant Castellano, he said I should call you. He even give me your phone number. Then when you answered the phone, I remembered why your name sounded familiar-like. That Castellano fellow, he’s the police detective what you sprung from that murder charge, ain’t he?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “Maybe the lieutenant weren’t too proud of that murder charge, even if he did beat the rap.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “The main thing is, he said you might could find my daughter.”

  “Can you come to my office?”

  I stuck out my hand. “I’m Chuck McCrary.”

  Wallace Jenkins switched his faded John Deere hat to his huge left hand so he could shake with his right. “Wallace Jenkins. Friends call me Wally.”

  “And I’m Chuck.”

  Wally’s callused palm matched his sunburned face. With his worn blue jeans, faded cotton shirt, and scuffed work boots, he reminded me of my father. His forehead was white all the way to his thinning brown hair. He spent a lot of time in the sun in that hat or a similar one. Just like Dad.

  I got him coffee and led him to my conference room. “What did Lieutenant Castellano say?”

  “First, you oughta read these here texts that Lizzie sent me early Tuesday morning.” He handed me his phone.

  The first text was sent at 2:22 a.m. Daddy, held captive in Port City FL by white man named Tommy, five foot ten, thirty to forty years, medium build, tattoo of palm tree on left forearm, pierced left ear with diamond stud. Sex slave. DO NOT CALL OR REPLY TO THIS TEXT. HE WILL KILL ME IF HE LEARNS I USED THIS PHONE. It belongs to a john. Love, Binky

  I read the words sex slave and got a sinking feeling in my stomach. I’d read in the newspapers about sexual predators who befriended runaway girls, addicted them to drugs, and forced them into prostitution. That sort of thing happened to other people’s friends and family. I’d never known anyone with a personal exposure to it in their family. Now Wallace Jenkins had shown up, literally with hat in hand, to ask for my help. I couldn’t imagine how he must feel. I pushed the thought aside and continued reading.

  The second text was sent at 2:25 a.m. Four other girls held here too, maybe more. Sex slaves. Jill from Chicago, Tawnya from Philadelphia, Delores from Shawnee, and Morgan from Cleveland. Don’t know last names or any addresses. DO NOT CALL OR REPLY TO THIS TEXT. Binky

  The last one was sent at 2:30 a.m. Held in house with three stories, 30 feet wide 80 feet deep, on busy street with two lanes traffic and parking both sides. Sex slaves. Three gangsters. Scruffy, black, skinny, fifty. Vince, white, medium, forty. One big bald guy no name. DO NOT CALL OR REPLY TO THIS TEXT. Love, Binky.

  I swallowed hard and took a minute to compose myself. I looked at Wallace Jenkins. “What did the police say?”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute. First thing I want to know is, can you find her?”

  “Did she leave of her own free will, or do you think she was kidnapped?”

  His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Far as I know, she just up and left.” He dropped his head. “We wasn’t getting along too good, her and me. Ever since her Mom died.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  His eyes glistened. “A little over a year.”

  “Has she sent you any letters, emails, anything like that?”

  “Nope. Not a word.”

  “When she left, did she leave a note with an address or phone number where you could reach her? Maybe a friend’s name?”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his eyes. He shook his head.

  “Are these texts the only clues you have?”

  “Yep. Do you think you can find her?” Jenkins cleared his throat.

  He’s clasping tight to his emotions. There must be a long story behind his daughter’s disappearance, but this isn’t the time to pursue it. “The only thing I can guarantee is that I’ll do my best. With so little to go on, it won’t be easy.”

  Jenkins sat up straighter. “Mr. McCrary, I got me one of the biggest farms in Nebraska, and if Lizzie don’t come back, I got no one to leave it to and nothing to live for. Corn prices are real good right now; I can pay.”

  “I already figured that. I just don’t want to raise any false hope.”

  “I understand; no guarantees.” He stuck out his hand.

  I took it. “Then, of course I’ll help.”

  I looked at his phone again. “She signed the texts as Binky. What does that mean?”

  “I called her that when she was a little tyke. She used to carry around this old blanket she called Binky until she was maybe four years old.” He smiled a little as he gestured at the phone. “That signature—that’s her way to show me that she’s the one what sent the texts and not some kook. There’s been a ton of TV hype at home about my daughter’s disappearance. Last week was the anniversary of when I reported her missing. The TV station, they did something on the news about her still being gone and all.”

  “Have you received many crank calls?”

  “And emails and letters and you name it. Even heard from a psychic who swore she could do a reading of Lizzie’s bedroom and tell me where she was—for a thousand dollars.” He shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe the nuts who contact me.”

  He pressed his lips into a firm line.

  I made a mental note to check the Omaha news stories online. I reached for a notepad. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Elizabeth Eugenia Jenkins. Everybody calls her Liz.”

  “Date of birth?”

  He told me.

  Only nineteen. So young to be the victim of sex slavery. But, of course, any age is too young.

  “You have a recent picture?”

  He pulled two wallet-sized portraits from his shirt pocket and looked at them. “This here is her high school graduation picture. I took it last year.” He looked at one and handed me the other. “Keep it. I got plenty more.” His eyes glistened and he held the other one.

  “I suppose you showed these texts to Lieutenant Castellano.”

  He nodded. “When the first text come in, my phone whistled and that sorta woke me up a little. You know how you kinda hear something in your sleep, but it don’t, like, register all the way?”

  I nodded.

  “The second text, that little phone whistle, it woke me up all the way. I was just reading it when the third text come in. When I read it—” His voice broke. He put his palms over his eyes while he composed himself.

  I looked at Liz’s portrait, not wanting intrude on Wally’s emotional moment. Her face was what I imagined a corn-fed farm girl from Nebraska should look like. Sun-lightened hair down to her shoulders, light blue eyes, and a wide innocent smile that knew no fear and saw no evil anywhere in the world.

  Wally dropped his hands and wiped his eyes again. “I tell you, Chuck, I had to pray for strength not to call her back right then and there. I felt like she was so close...”

  I looked at Liz’s photo again to avoid watching his father weep. I wondered how that innocent girl saw the world now, a year later.

  “I stared at that phone for another half hour, just waiting to see if my Lizzie would send another text. I finally give up and I called the airline to get the first plane to Palm City. When I rented a car at the airport, I asked the clerk where the nearest police station was. That’s where I met Lieutenant Castellano. That was Tuesday afternoon late.”

  He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket
, unfolded it, and studied it. “The lieutenant, he ran the other girls’ names through the missing persons’ notices. There was nothing for that Jill girl or nobody named Tawnya, but that Delores girl, Lizzie probably misspelled her name. It’s not D-E-L; it’s D-O-L. She gotta be Dolores Cherry from Shawnee, Oklahoma. That girl Morgan, she gotta be Morgan Putnam from Cleveland. Their parents, they reported them both missing over a year ago, and they’re about Lizzie’s age. Lieutenant Castellano, he called the parents and the police in Shawnee and Cleveland. Took all day Wednesday to reach them.” He shook his head. “Nobody has no leads and the girls’ parents, they ain’t heard from them ever since they disappeared.”

  “The text mentions a man named Tommy. The lieutenant find anything about him?”

  “Over a hundred criminals named Tommy in the Port City area that fit his general description. The lieutenant, he assigned two detectives to check out all the criminals named Tommy, but it takes time. There are some pimps named Tommy and the cops said they’d check them first. Castellano says he’s feared that this Tommy, maybe he don’t have no criminal record.”

  I glanced at his phone again. “What about Scruffy and Vince?”

  “The lieutenant, he couldn’t find nobody named Scruffy, white or black, with a criminal record. He did find a folk singer on Google. But he’s white and seventy-three years old. Lives in Nashville. The lieutenant says he’s got two hundred crooks in South Florida named Vince. They still checking.” He slurped his coffee, now cold, and frowned.

  “I’ll call the receptionist for some fresh coffee.” I did. “Could the lieutenant do anything with the description of the house?”

  “His computer geek, he ran it every which way through the county property appraiser website and the Department of Transportation map database. He had the sergeants do a briefing in every precinct for all the patrol units Wednesday, Thursday, and this morning. Nothing yet.”

  “What did he find out about the phone that sent the text?”