Before entering the room, Lippmann and the prosecuting counsel had hammered out the plea bargain details and interview terms acceptable to both Lippmann and the Crown.
Maddocks pressed the RECORD button, activating the camera and voice recorder. “Interview commencing with inmate known as Zina. Location, Vancouver Island Regional Correctional Centre. Time, 4:45 p.m., Wednesday, January three.” He held Zina’s gaze.
“For the record, can the inmate please state legal name?”
“Zaedeen Camus,” she said clearly, eyes unblinking.
Maddocks’s pulse quickened. They now had a name they could run.
“Nationality?”
“I’m from Algiers. My mother was Algerian. My father is a French national. I hold a French passport. My permanent residence is in Paris.”
Which explained her accent.
“And you call yourself Zina?” Maddocks said.
“I find the name more feminine. I prefer to identify as a female. I’m currently undergoing hormone therapy. Surgery will follow.”
Which sliced to the heart of the matter—the reason they were here. During the chaos of the Amanda Rose takedown, it had not been made clear to arresting officers that Zina, who was born with male characteristics, self-identified as female. She’d been incarcerated with the general male population at VIRECC. Sexually assaulted and badly beaten on her first night, she was now being kept in solitary for her own protection. Lippmann had filed various complaints, among them one with the human rights commission. And he’d demanded transfer to an exclusively female pretrial facility. However, safety concerns remained over the current regulations around transgender inmates and Zina’s potential transfer into a female population. Given Zina’s alleged involvement in possible kidnapping, sexual assault, trafficking, torturing, drugging, brainwashing, and forcibly confining underage females aboard the Amanda Rose, she was not going to get an easy ride in any prison population. But it was why their inmate was prepared to talk now.
“Where are your identity documents, your passport?” Maddocks said. “They weren’t found aboard the Amanda Rose.”
Zaedeen Camus glanced at her lawyer. Lippmann gave a small nod.
“Madame Vee instructed me to bag my documents along with hers and to seal the bag, weight it down, and cast it overboard.”
“When did she instruct you to do this?”
“As the SWAT teams swarmed the vessel.”
“How did you cast them overboard?” said Maddocks. “Out of the window? Of her office?”
“Correct, out of the porthole in her office.”
“Describe the bag.”
“A sealable dry bag. Black. Watertight. A small orange logo on the side.”
“How big?”
“Holds five liters.”
“Why overboard?”
“Madame Vee felt that silence and anonymity was the safest policy if we were to undergo interrogation. She also wanted the documents protected in the event we might be able to retrieve them with a diver later.”
“Anything else in the bag aside from identification documents for you and Madame Vee?”
Her eyes flickered. Lippmann moved his hand over his notepad—a sign.
“Yes.”
“What else was in the bag?”
“Some other papers—only things pertaining to our personal identification.”
Maddocks made note of this and of the bag’s description. They needed to get police divers down below the Amanda Rose.
“And what is the legal name and nationality of Madame Vee?” Maddocks said, after having eased round to the big question.
Zaedeen Camus stiffened—the first overt sign of stress in the prisoner. Maddocks held her gaze. And yes, in her flat-colored eyes he could read the stirrings of fear. The female pimp still wielded power over Zina, possibly over her other employees, too. So far the mysterious madam in her sixties had given police nothing. And neither her prints nor Camus’s were in the system. Nailing down her identity would be a quantum step forward.
“Go ahead,” Lippmann urged quietly.
“Her name is Veronique Sabbonnier,” Camus said.
“Nationality?”
“Also French.”
“Where did you meet Veronique Sabbonnier?” Maddocks said.
She swallowed. “We met in Paris. She frequented a hotel where I was the manager.”
“When was this?”
“Maybe five years ago.”
“Was Veronique Sabbonnier working as a pimp at this time?”
Lippmann cleared his throat and said, “That question is outside the parameters of our interview agreement.”
Maddocks met the lawyer’s dark eyes, allowed a beat of silence, then redirected. “When did you first begin working for Sabbonnier?”
“I encountered her again two years ago at a hotel in Marseilles to which I had been transferred. She had docked with the Amanda Rose in a local port. She spent four months in Marseilles. I got to know her well during this period, and she invited me aboard the yacht and then offered me a job with her club.”
“The Bacchanalian Club?”
“Yes. I sailed with the Amanda Rose at the end of what Madame Vee referred to as her Marseilles season.”
“In what capacity did Sabbonnier hire you?”
Camus glanced at her lawyer. Another curt nod from Lippmann.
“Personal assistant. Bouncer for the Bacchanalian Club.”
“Which was operating as a high-end sex club?”
Silence.
Maddocks opted for a side swipe. “Did Sabbonnier ask you to dispose of Faith Hocking’s body after Hocking died during a sex act aboard the Amanda Rose?”
Lippmann leaned sharply forward. “That question is way outside the parameters of our arrangement, Detective.”
Maddocks inhaled deeply, allowing for another gap of silence, for pressure to build in the overly warm room. According to the two young johns being charged with Hocking’s strangulation during an erotic asphyxiation act gone awry, it had been Camus who Sabbonnier had called in to clean up and remove the body. Camus had allegedly wrapped Hocking’s naked body in a thick polyethylene tarp, the same kind of tarp Ginny had later been wrapped in. Sabbonnier had then allegedly tasked yacht carpenter and deck hand Spencer Addams to take Hocking’s body out in a boat that night, where he was to dump it at sea. Addams, however, had kept Hocking’s body for his own necrophilic uses for a week before finally throwing her out to sea. She’d washed up in the Gorge, becoming Maddocks’s first call on his new job with MVPD homicide.
Maddocks tried coming in from yet another angle. “Was Spencer Addams, the carpenter, already working aboard the Amanda Rose when you were hired in Marseilles?”
“He was hired shortly after. He worked on the yacht during the Mediterranean seasons and during the following seasons in Victoria, Vancouver, Portland, San Francisco, and the Caribbean.”
“And from where did Sabbonnier procure sex workers for all those ‘seasons’?”
“Some of the sex workers were supplied by local clubs or pimps in the cities where we docked—Sabbonnier has … arrangements in various cities. The women would work for the season the yacht was in port. Some would return for several seasons. Of their own volition.”
“But some of the women were held full-time on the ship against their will?”
Silence.
“Okay,” Maddocks said, “let’s get right to the barcoded girls, shall we? There were six young women found aboard the Amanda Rose where it was docked at the Uplands Marina. All of them have barcodes tattooed onto the backs of their necks. All appear underage and foreign. Where do they come from?”
“Prague.”
Maddocks locked his gaze onto Camus. “Just ‘Prague’?”
Her Adam’s apple moved. She moistened her perfectly sculpted lips. “Prague is a staging area. That’s all I know.”
Maddocks doubted it was all she knew, but he could come at it again later when they drilled down in further int
errogations with both Camus and Sabbonnier, ideally leveraging one off the other with this new information.
“Is Prague where this so-called ‘merchandise’ was tattooed with barcodes?”
“From what I understand, yes.”
“What do these tattoos denote? Expiry date? Ownership?”
“Ownership. The origin and age of the merchandise. And the date a girl was first put into service. The tattoos have been scanned into a computerized database for tracking. The girls go out for a fee, generally for a period of two years. They can be returned for new ones after that period, if so desired, at additional costs. Madame Vee was testing this new line of … merchandise, as she calls it.”
Bile rose up the back of Maddocks’s throat. “And who owns this barcoded merchandise?”
“A Russian organization.”
“What organization?”
“I don’t know. The Russians have fully taken over the sex trade in Prague from the Albanians. They’re supplying the UK market now. And the North and South American markets. That’s all I know.”
“Right. I’m sure that’s all you know. And where did the six barcoded women found aboard the Amanda Rose enter this country?”
“Port of Vancouver. On a container ship out of Korea. Vancouver Hells Angels members and their affiliates who work as longshoremen at the port facilitated their entry.”
Maddocks’s pulse spiked. He kept his face impassive and his body still. “And then, once the ‘merchandise’ had come into port?”
“Then the barcoded girls were taken to a holding house somewhere in BC—I don’t know where. Maybe Vancouver. After that, the six came to us.”
“How long were they at this holding place?”
“I don’t know. Awhile—maybe a month.”
“Why were they held there?”
Camus hesitated. Her lawyer nodded. “They were being … conditioned.”
“Which means?”
Swallowing, Camus said, “Fattened up a little, maybe. Brought back to full health while buyers were sought from clubs, that kind of thing.”
“So they suffered in the shipping container. How long were they at sea?”
Lippmann moved in his chair, causing the plastic to squeak. “My client has no more knowledge of the girls’ transportation into the country than she has offered.”
Inhaling deeply, Maddocks said, “So the Vancouver Hells Angels are cooperating with a Russian organized crime ring based out of Europe?”
“She’s told all that she knows,” Lippmann repeated.
“Or all that she will?”
“I reiterate,” Lippmann said, “we have a prior legal agreement as to what shall be revealed.” He paused, dark eyes lasering Maddocks’s. “At this stage.”
Machiavellian opportunist, thought Maddocks, steadfastly returning the lawyer’s gaze. Lippmann was keeping cards to play later at the expense of six abused and terrified underage women. “What about the girls’ passports?” Maddocks said, continuing to push at the boundaries of their arrangement. “We found documents for the six barcoded girls on board the Amanda Rose—three Israeli passports, two Estonian, and one Latvian. These girls are not Israeli, Estonian, or Latvian.” In truth the MVPD had no idea what nationality the six girls were, but Maddocks was winging it. “We’ve also had these passports examined by forensic document experts—they’re forged.”
Silence.
He leaned forward. “What I’m thinking is that these young women were given passports from these countries because these particular nations—Israel, Estonia, Latvia—are among those that did not require any entry visa to Canada, until the recent changes. Now all they need is an ETA, an electronic travel authorization, which can be obtained online for a couple of dollars. Why is there no record of these passport numbers having entered this country?”
“I don’t know,” Camus said.
“Because they were for future use, weren’t they? For when you and Sabbonnier traveled with the girls aboard the Amanda Rose for all those ‘seasons’ in the ports of different countries?”
Silence.
“Where were the forgeries made?”
“Don’t know.”
“How about you try and guess?”
“Maybe they’re forged in Tel Aviv, by Russians there.”
A hot rush of adrenaline dumped through Maddocks’s blood. Slowly, quietly, he said, “So, we have Russian organized crime in Tel Aviv working in concert with Russian organized crime in Prague to traffic women internationally. And this human trafficking ring is connected to the Hells Angels on a local level?”
Silence. Lippmann was edgy now.
Maddocks said, “After the six girls had been nursed back to health in this holding place, did Vancouver Hells Angels members bring them directly to you and Veronique Sabbonnier? For a middleman cut? Or did someone else handle the financial transaction and sell and deliver the girls to you?”
Red spots seeped into the oddly colored skin along Camus’s sharp cheekbones. Maddocks’s blood beat faster at the tell. His own skin grew hot. A Russian international trafficking ring connected to a high-profile local biker gang? If he could get proof, this was huge. Hells Angels were notoriously tough to nail. He needed to get in touch with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s organized crime units on the Lower Mainland. Interpol and other international human trafficking agencies would also need to be looped in. His case may well be intersecting with other investigations already under way.
Camus swayed suddenly in her chair. Apart from the hot spots, the rest of the blood in her face appeared to have drained completely, leaving her a hue of gray.
“Okay, that’s enough, Sergeant Maddocks,” Lippmann said, lurching to his feet and signaling the guard behind them. “We’re done here. My client needs medical attention, rest. We’ll sign any written statements when you’re ready with them.”
Maddocks remained seated while the guard unlocked the interview room door and led Lippmann and his client out.
As the door shut behind them, he blew out a long, controlled breath—this was just getting started. And now he really had the taste of the hunt in his mouth.
Maddocks exited the prison with Holgersen, copies of Zaedeen Camus’s signed statement in his hand. Outside it was dark. Cold. A fine mist rained down.
Holgersen halted under the portico cover beside one of the twin stone lions guarding the entrance to the prison. He fished a squashed pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Now there’s a freaking thing,” he said, battling to extract a cigarette from the packet, “if we can prove a Hells Angels and longshoremen’s union connection to the Ruskie mob.”
“Yeah.” Maddocks nodded to Holgersen’s smoke. “You going to be long with that?”
“Just a few quick drags, boss. Since I can’t smoke in your vee-hickle and all.” He lit his cigarette, blew a stream of smoke into the night.
Maddocks looked out at the rain, agitated with his partner’s delay. “Flint is checking with organized crime divisions on the mainland as we speak. He’s putting out feelers to see if anyone else has run across barcoded sex workers.”
“Good thing we kept them tattoos details outta the press after the Amanda Rose takedown.” Holgersen took a long drag and spoke around the smoke as he exhaled. “Still, my bet is on those Angels and Ruskies having already shut down whatever shipping channel they was using now that news is out about the Amanda Rose busts. Even with those details withheld, they’ll know that we had to have found their girls, and they’ll just take their next shipment of barcoded merch down some other fucking rabbit hole.”
Tension balled in Maddocks’s stomach. He checked his watch. 6:30 p.m. His date with Angie at the King’s Head was set for 7:30 p.m. He and Holgersen still had to drive all the way back down the Saanich Peninsula to the MVPD station in Victoria, where his superior, Inspector Martin Flint, was awaiting the statement.
“So I heard the Vancouver port has this giant X-ray machine they use to screen those shipping containers coming i
n daily,” Holgersen said, flicking his ash onto the ground. “But they scan only like three to four percent of thems that are deemed high risk. Apparently the customs guys decide which ones to scan from intel they get before them ships come in—they only target ships for inspection reported to have had unusual activity on board. How do they gets that intel, I ask you? Shit gets through those ports every day.” He glanced up at the prison’s castle-style turrets and crenelated battlements and nodded toward the facade of the historic prison. “Looks like a medieval castle, don’tcha think? Would never say so from the insides. Correctional officer told me they calls this place ‘Wilkie’ because it’s on Wilkinson Road. Been in operation over one hundred years. Was the Colquitz Provincial Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane once.” He waggled his fingers near his temple. “Madhouse.”
“Look, do me a favor,” Maddocks said, reaching the limits of his patience. He dug into his own pocket and pulled out his keys. He held them out to Holgersen. “Go ahead to the vehicle. You can drive. I’ll meet you there—just need to make a personal call. And no smoking in the car.”
Holgersen glanced at the keys, then back up into Maddocks’s eyes. “Pallorino?”
“What part about ‘personal’ didn’t you hear, Holgersen?”
He gave a half shrug and stole another quick drag before stubbing out his cigarette on the heel of his shoe. He dropped the butt into a baggie that came out of his pocket. “So when’s the IIO decision coming down?” he said, sealing the bag and repocketing it.
“No idea.”
“Pallorino knows nothing yet?”
“Not that I know of. Now go,” Maddocks said.
Holgersen observed Maddocks for another moment. Then he snagged the keys and skittered down the stairs, his big feet surprisingly agile. He flipped up the collar of his dull-gray jacket, dug his hands deep into the pockets, and slouched off into the rain. When he was out of earshot, Maddocks dialed Angie.
He swore softly as he once more got her voicemail—he’d tried calling her before the interview with Camus. He left a message.
The Lullaby Girl (Angie Pallorino Book 2) Page 7