TRAFFICKED: A Mex Anderson Novel

by Peg Brantley

  Mex thought maybe they’d get a direct link to the reason why Jayla was taken. “Porn?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “Like what then?”

  “Gambling.”

  Mex jabbed the button next to C WILLIAMS #306 on the apartment directory list, and waited.

  Darius looked through his notes. “Jayla made it sound in her journal like this guy was one of her best friends. How would he have anything to do with her abduction?”

  “Won’t know until we talk to him.” Mex’s finger hovered over the button. “If he had gambling debt, it could be how someone got to him.”

  “Okay, you know I’m all about the beauty of African-American women. But there’s nothing special about Jayla. Why would someone target her? And through a nerdy kid who’s taking night classes?”

  “Water flows downhill.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “There are people, like water, who want to take the easiest road, the low road. You get someone who wants a few bucks, tied to someone who has money and would like to make more, and what’s special or not special about a living, breathing, human being is no longer relative. It’s a transaction. Nothing more. No judgment. Just dollars for product.”

  Mex was about to hit the button again when the speaker buzzed to life. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, man. You worked on my boss’s computer and he wants to pay you something extra,” Mex said.

  “Just leave it.”

  “Don’t want to just leave this, man. It’ll be ripped off before you get down here. Come on, I made the trip. It’s a lot of cash. Don’t make me have to tell my boss you declined his appreciation.”

  There was a long silence during which Mex started trying to come up with another plan.

  Finally, the obnoxious buzz popped open the door.

  Mex and Darius walked into an elevator that was barely large enough to hold the two of them. Mex punched the third floor, and with a jerk, the elevator cranked upward. The grinding and whining of the cables was disconcerting.

  Darius looked at Mex. “We’re taking the stairs down.”

  “Yep.”

  The elevator lurched to a stop. An uncomfortable amount of time later, the doors shuddered open. Mex and Darius wasted no time exiting to the hallway.

  The cooking smells of a diverse community battled the air for superiority. Garlic, cumin, and curry fought for dominance, resulting in an intriguing aroma that made Mex make a mental note to combine these cultures into one dish the next time he felt an urge to create culinary art. He thought maybe cinnamon would tie them all together. Or maybe not.

  Mex and Darius approached apartment 306. They’d worked together enough that they didn’t need to go into detail.

  “If we go there, I’m bad,” Mex said.

  “Makes sense that I’d be good.”

  Mex knocked on the door, not bothering to stand back for the occupant to get a full picture through the peephole in the door. Getting into character Mex thought, Screw him. I’m bad.

  As the door opened, Mex felt Darius tug him backward. He whispered in Mex’s ear, “I’ve got this.”

  * * *

  “Are you Christopher Williams?” Darius asked.

  The young man nodded.

  “You’re the computer wizard? Mind if we come in?” Darius walked into the apartment. Mex followed and moved Chris aside to close the door.

  “Do you have cash for me?”

  “Well, Chris, we do have something for you, but it isn’t cash.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s sit down, shall we?”

  Darius and Mex moved into the tiny living room, shrinking the space.

  “Who are you?” Chris stood by the door, eyes darting between the two men. “What do you want? I don’t have anything.”

  “Like I said, we have something for you.” Darius gestured to the spot on the couch next to Mex. “Please. Sit.”

  Chris sat as far away from Mex as possible. The boy-barely-man looked like he was about to throw up.

  “Relax, son. Our intent here isn’t to harm you,” Mex said. “Unless it comes to that.”

  Darius popped out of his chair and placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Trust me. My partner isn’t going to do anything violent. Or stupid. We only want to talk.”

  “You said you had something for me. What is it?”

  Darius sat back down. “What we have for you, Chris, is advice.”

  Eyes squinting, Chris sat back in his tight corner and hitched a breath. “About what?”

  “About being forthcoming with us. About getting past your shame.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Tell us everything you know.”

  “About what?”

  Darius silently counted to a slow ten. He figured it must have felt like minutes for the scared young man in front of him. “It’s more of a who, Chris, and less of a what.” Darius folded his hands in front of him and leaned forward. “We need to know everything you can tell us about what’s happened to Jayla Thomas.”

  Watching Christopher Williams, it was like time stopped. Darius had seen this before when he’d interviewed people whose guilt had yet to come to light. They’d lived in such deep denial that when suddenly, unexpectedly, confronted with their wrongdoings they froze, unable to correlate the fiction they’ve constructed with reality.

  Mex turned to Chris and reached out to touch him. “Son, tell us what you know. It’s the only way you’ll ever be free.”

  “Tell us about Jayla,” Darius prompted.

  “She’s my friend.”

  “We know that. Have you seen her lately? In the last six months?”

  Chris looked down at the worn carpet. “I’ve been busy. You know… work and school.”

  “But isn’t that a long time not to talk to a friend?” Darius asked. “Surely you’ve at least texted.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So you’ve texted back and forth?”

  “Probably, yeah.”

  “Can we see your phone, Chris?”

  “Um, sure, but I wipe it clean every couple of months.”

  “Let’s check it, shall we? We really want to find out what’s happened to Jayla. Her mom is worried sick.”

  Chris’s shoulders began to shake.

  “You’ll feel better if you talk to us, son,” Mex said.

  An anguished sob raked the air in the tiny living room. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

  “What happened, Chris?”

  “It was… oh, God. Oh, God.” He had trouble catching a breath.

  Mex moved over and put an arm around the young man. “Take your time. Breathe. We’re not going anywhere. We’re here to help.”

  Chris’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It was supposed to be a joke. Just a joke.”

  “What was supposed to be a joke?” Darius asked. He leaned in closer.

  “A prank. We were supposed to laugh about it later.” Chris shook his head. “Only, I think I knew it wasn’t. I knew all along. I even convinced myself she was just pissed at me for right now. That’s why I hadn’t heard from her.” Sobs wracked his body. “Oh, God. What have I done?”

  Fifteen minutes later, exhausted and quiet, Chris looked at the two men through red and swollen eyes. “I screwed up.”

  “Do you have something to drink?” Mex asked.

  “Water?”

  “Stronger.” Mex and Darius said.

  “In the cupboard above the fridge.”

  Dishes were piled in the sink. Dirty or clean, hard to tell. A trashcan with empty takeout containers overflowed onto the floor. He looked in the refrigerator. Empty except for a covered plastic bowl that looked like a science experiment and two unopened Bud Lights. Mex checked the cupboard and brought out a bottle. He was lucky to find three clean glasses. He took the bottle and the glasses back to the living room.

  Drinks poured, they each took a swallow.

>   Darius produced his phone, swiped it and selected an app. “We’re gonna record this from now on so we can keep things straight. Okay with you, Chris?”

  A nod.

  “I need you to say you know it’s being recorded and you’re okay with that.”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “Good enough.”

  “Tell us what happened that night.”

  If you want to understand why girls who are sex-trafficked don’t run straight to the police, Withelma Ortiz, known as T, could tell you a thing or two. The 22-year-old has a pretty good grasp on the issue—having been first sold for sex at age 10.

  —Stockholm Syndrome in the Pimp-Victim Relationship, by Natalie Kitroeff,

  for The New York Times

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Maddy had the diary in front of her and was making notes on a separate pad. The television was on in the family room. Livvy had been gone for what felt like a million years and Maddy had thought of nothing else.

  What if she missed something important in Livvy’s diary? What if, in her desire to protect Livvy’s privacy, she neglected to make a note of the one thing that could save her?

  “Twelve-year old Olivia Campbell has been missing for over twenty-four hours,” the news reporter said.

  Maddy didn’t even bother to put down her pen as she rushed to sit in front of the television.

  “Here is her picture. She was last seen at Utah Park in Aurora. If you have any information that might be relative to her disappearance, you’re urged to contact the Aurora Police Department at 303-555-6050 or, if you prefer, you can contact Mex Anderson, a private investigator who is working to help find Olivia, at 970-555-9786. Again, that’s 970-555-9786.”

  Maddy inked the number on her arm. A few months ago she’d written the number of a boy on her palm and when she went to read it, it had been impossible. She’d cried for hours imagining the great romance she’d lost. Tonight she was happy she’d learned that lesson.

  Does a private investigator have to report everything he finds out to the police? Can they keep things secret? She thought about googling her questions but decided the best way to know was to ask him directly. She punched the numbers into her phone.

  Voicemail.

  Impatient, she tried again.

  Straight to voicemail.

  “Livvy is a friend of mine and I think I have something that might help. But I have a few questions to ask you first.” She left her number and hung up.

  How many people might be calling that number? How many concerned citizens who thought they’d seen something important?

  Maddy poured herself a glass of orange juice, took a sip, and couldn’t stand it any longer. She went back to her phone to call again when her vintage Frank Sinatra ringtone went off. She looked at the number on the screen and then the number on her arm, took a deep breath, and answered.

  “Hullo? Mr. Anderson?”

  “It is.” Maddy couldn’t quite decide if she liked the sound of his voice or if it scared her. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Um, my name is Madison. Madison Magnolia Montgomery. My friends call me Maddy. Is that more information than you wanted?”

  “You said that Livvy is a friend of yours?”

  Definitely scary.

  “Um, th-that’s not quite right.”

  “Look, young lady—”

  “Liv and I are BFFs. Best friends forever?”

  Silence.

  “What is it you have that might be helpful?” Nicer but still on the scary side.

  “I have some questions first.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Do you have to turn over all of your information to the police?”

  “That’s usually how I operate.”

  “But is there a law that says you have to? Couldn’t you keep some things secret?”

  “Not if it pertains to the case. Several heads are better than one.”

  “But how do you know something pertains to the case?”

  “Do you want to help your friend or not?”

  “This was a mistake. I’m sorry,” she choked. Maddy disconnected the call, tears streaming down her face.

  Less than a minute later her phone rang. She checked the number.

  Him again.

  She let it ring and a war dropped into her head. Scary people. Scary people who told the police everything. Scary people who could help find Liv. And then there was Liv. Just Liv.

  She answered. “I’m here.” She waited for the mean voice.

  “Hello, Maddy. My name is Acadia LeBlanc. I’m a partner of Mr. Anderson’s. Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  Definitely not scary.

  “Yes, Ms. LeBlanc.”

  “My friends call me Cade.”

  “Okay.” Maddy was feeling better.

  “Our main goal is to get Livvy home. Do you agree?”

  “Totally.”

  “And it doesn’t matter who does it or how it’s done. She should be home with her family. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “The police have to operate a certain way. They want Livvy back home, but they also want to arrest whoever took her, and anyone else involved, and make sure they go to jail. In order to do that their actions must remain unimpeachable under the law. Do you understand what that means?”

  Maddy’s heart sank. “We had it in civics. They have to do everything by the book?”

  “Exactly. But Maddy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mex and I are not the police. While we work very closely with them, we don’t work under the same constraints. Sometimes the police can do their jobs on one side of the problem while we work the other. We don’t do anything wrong, but we don’t have the same responsibility they have. Are you with me?”

  “You’re saying you’re not required to tell the police everything.”

  “That’s right.” Cade paused. “Now, do you have something you want to tell us?”

  “Liv met someone online. She wrote about him in her diary. And I have it.”

  “Online? The police checked the family computer. There wasn’t anything there.”

  “She used mine.”

  Maddy heard Cade suck in air.

  “Are you home right now? Do you have your computer?” Cade asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Would it be okay if me and one of my other partners, Darius Johnson, came by to see you? You and I could talk about the diary and Darius could take a look at your computer. It could mean bringing Livvy home sooner.”

  “Okay, sure. But can I ask one more thing?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Can you bring Mr. Anderson too? Right now I don’t think I like him very much. He scares me. But if you’re his partner, I’d like to change my mind, and I’d feel better about everything.”

  “We’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  Branding, whether by tattoo or intentional scarring, has become a disturbing characteristic of one particular subset of this thriving criminal operation. Pimp-led prostitution is widely considered one of the most brutal and violent of all forms of human trafficking found in the States.

  —I carried his name on my body for nine years’: the tattooed trafficking survivors reclaiming their past,

  The Guardian

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Mex, Cade and Darius drove up in front of the Montgomery home in Aurora. The homes were on the expensive side, well-maintained with professional-looking landscaping. A quiet, middle-class enclave of families who were trying to carve out the good life.

  Only it’s a family just like this one getting carved, Cade thought.

  Mex reached for the door handle.

  “Did you two listen to me while we drove here? Tell me you did,” Cade said. “Mex scared this young girl on the phone. We should go in soft. We’re going to have an easier time if Maddy is comfortable with us, not terrified or even leery. I need to lead us in.”

  “Seems like we’re following your lead a lot on
this one,” Mex said. “Are you sure you even need us?”

  “I need Darius for the technical stuff.”

  “And me?” Mex asked.

  “She asked for you.”

  “Were you going to tell me?”

  “Not unless you asked.”

  Mex did his best to hide a smile. “Since she’s a juvenile I know you talked to her mom,” he said. “Will she be here?”

  “She’s on her way home.” Cade hadn’t made the call until the three of them were almost to the Montgomery home. While Mex and Darius constantly battled over the fastest route and who was driving, Cade waited patiently in the backseat to call Livvy’s mom.

  “Should we wait here until she arrives?” Darius asked.

  “No,” Cade said. “Let’s go in now and do our best to reduce Maddy’s anxiety. When Mom gets here we’ll have an entirely new dynamic to work around. A few minutes of bonding will save us hours of trying to get through a protective parent.”

  “Let’s go then,” Mex said.

  Mex and Darius followed Cade up to the front door and stood behind her as she rang the bell. Before the chimes finished sounding, Cade was face-to-face with an adorable twelve-year old girl who looked frantic.

  “Help has arrived,” Cade announced softly.

  Maddy’s face pinched up like a raisin before she expelled a cry and fell into Cade’s open arms.

  Cade took a few seconds to calm the young girl while Mex and Darius stood uncomfortably in the doorway. The two men shuffled awkwardly.

  A final tight hug and Cade reached to smooth Maddy’s hair out of her eyes. “Are you ready for us to get to work?”

  Maddy sniffed. “Yeah. I don’t know what came over me.” She looked at Cade. “Thank you.”

  “I understand, sweet girl. It’s a stressful and overwhelming time. There’s a lot at stake.” Cade reached out and lifted Maddy’s chin. “And we’re here to help.” She made the introductions.

  Mex grunted.

  “Now, is there a place where we can all sit down and talk?” Cade asked.

  Maddy led them into the kitchen. “Will this be okay?”

  “Maybe the dining room would be better. That way if we’re still working and someone wants to use the kitchen we won’t be in the way,” Cade suggested. It also meant they’d have more privacy.