Driving in Traffick: The Victim's Story (Margret Malone Book 2)

by Nancy Cupp

22

  A Book by Its Cover

  It was early morning when Joyce’s phone woke her up. She reached over her head to turn off the alarm, then she realized she wasn’t in the truck. She fumbled around on the night stand next to her bed until she located the phone.

  “Uh—hello?”

  “Sorry to wake you. Is this Joyce?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’m not awake yet. Who’s this?”

  “Martian Malone.”

  “Who?”

  “Malone, Margret’s father.”

  “Oh—Margret. What can I do for you Mr. Malone? Keep in mind I haven't had coffee yet.”

  “Sorry about the early morning. I’ve been sitting on this all night. I tried to call the police but of course the guy on the case isn’t working at midnight.”

  “Uh—huh. I reported the guy I saw by the fuel island. He had a ’98 Malibu.”

  “Good, but this is something else. Joyce, did Margret have a book called The Collected Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway in the truck with her?”

  “Shoot, I don’t know. But the truck’s gone, I don’t think you’re getting your book back.”

  “No, no—I don’t care about the book—but I got a weird call late last night. A lady called me from California. She said she found a book with my name and phone number in it at a rest area. I loan out a lot of books, one of my students could have borrowed that one for the summer, but maybe Margret had it.”

  “Well she had a bunch of books…”

  “This one was real thick, it had a dust jacket on it, brown and tan I think.”

  “She did have some big, thick, monster of a book. But we weren’t in California.”

  “I know, but I think Margret was. She wouldn’t have lost a book—unless she left it there on purpose. It’s a shot in the dark—but I think she’s in California.”

  “But Mr. Malone? She wasn’t a very good driver. I can’t imagine she drove all the way from Kansas. There’s mountains and the DOT would have stopped the truck. They put out an alert for the truck. Numbers and electronic tracking devices are all over it.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I was just hoping…”

  “Well, call it in anyway. Who knows, maybe she learned more than I thought. Maybe somebody was helping her.”

  “Maybe she was kidnapped. Someone else is driving and holding her captive, the guy with the car maybe.”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t know how they’d get past the DOT that many times—unless they disguised the truck somehow. Where in California?”

  “She said at a rest area on I-8, wherever that is.”

  “Oh…”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Malone, I-8 is right on the border between Mexico and the United States. I think the truck is in Mexico by now.”

  “Oh my God. Wouldn’t the border patrol stop a big truck?”

  “They stop them going from Mexico to the US, but not so much the other way. Mexico buys a lot of used trucks from companies here. They’re going over the border all the time. Most of them stay in Mexico, only a select few travel back and forth with freight.”

  “Margret doesn’t speak Spanish, she wouldn’t have connections in Mexico. Why wouldn’t she turn up by now? A truck thief wouldn’t have a use for her.”

  Joyce hesitated for a moment, “We need to talk to the FBI right away. There’s a very lucrative trade in sex-trafficking.” She could hear Margret’s father softly crying. “At least we have a lead…”

  “I’ll—call them now. Will you meet me at the station to make an official statement?”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help. I’m sorry Mr. Malone, up until now I was blaming her…”

  ☙

  Joyce was waiting in the lobby of the Government Center in downtown Minneapolis.

  “Are you Joyce?” An older, male version, of Margret extended his hand in her direction.

  “Yes, you must be Mr. Malone.” She shook his hand.

  “Call me Martian. You don’t look like I imagined a lady truck driver to look. But then Margret doesn't look like a truck driver either.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” said Joyce.

  “Thanks for meeting me here. They didn’t sound very excited about the information I gave them.”

  They had an appointment for eleven o’clock with Detective Rob Bradly. A receptionist ushered them into a small office with no windows. A long formica topped table and a dozen folding chairs sat in the middle of the room. “Detective Bradly will be with you in a few minutes,” said the receptionist, closing the door on her way out.

  Joyce and Mr. Malone sat on opposite sides of the long table. The awkward silence was starting to get uncomfortable when an officer carrying a thin folder came in. He plopped the folder down on the table and took a seat on the short end of the table between them.

  “I’ve been told you have more information about this stolen truck. Something about a book?”

  They discussed the information they had, and in about five minutes Detective Bradly made motions as if to dismiss them.

  “Wait a minute,” said Joyce. “How about if you tell us what you have on this case. It doesn’t seem like anything is happening here.”

  The Detective reluctantly opened the file.

  “There was a full DOT inspection done on Hometown Carriers truck 352409 on July 23rd, near Youngstown, Ohio. Clean inspection, Margret Malone driving.”

  “I was still with her then,” said Joyce.

  “The truck passed through a closed weigh station near McFarland, Kansas at approximately 01:28 on July 24th. It was reported missing on July 24th at 03:41 by Joyce Hart. The Zonar device was located on I-70, near Salina, Kansas, on July 28th. It wasn’t operational.”

  “What’s a Zonar device?” Mr. Malone asked.

  “It’s our computer system. It tracks the truck, among other things,” said Joyce.

  “Ms. Hart, why did it take you so long to report the truck missing?”

  “My phone was in the truck. I had a hard time getting ahold of you guys,” said Joyce.

  “Both Ms. Hart and Ms. Malone’s cell phones were found near the area where the Zonar was found.”

  “You found my phone? Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  “The phones are evidence. Neither of them are operational,” said Detective Bradly.

  “What else have you found? Surely the truck has gone through another DOT station between Kansas and California,” said Mr. Malone.

  “It’s all we have. We can’t be sure the truck was in California, there’s no record, and a book with your name on it isn’t much of a lead.”

  “Nothing?”

  “We can’t go through all the records in all the states looking for a traffic stop on one woman,” said the detective.

  “Why not? Don’t you guys have computers?”

  “Frankly, this isn’t a real high priority case.”

  “Sir, my daughter may have been kidnapped. I think she was close to the Mexican border. I think she’s in danger. This needs to be a high priority case!”

  “Sit down Mr. Malone. Your daughter is the prime suspect in a cargo theft of over a million dollars.”

  “She’s the suspect? She’s never done anything illegal in her life!”

  “Wasn’t she involved in a murder case last fall? In California?”

  Joyce’s mouth hung open, “What?”

  “My daughter wasn’t involved. She only stumbled on some evidence, the murder has been solved.”

  “But she was in California. She had ties to some people there,” said Detective Bradly.

  “Why didn’t I know about this? Don’t they screen anybody before they send ‘em out with an unsuspecting trainer?”

  “She was just on vacation at Yosemite National Park. She talked to some rangers and police investigating the case. She doesn’t have ties with anybody.”

  “She had something to do with the murder in Yosemite? I heard about it on the radio. Wasn’t there an art theft too? I call
ed in and reported a guy selling stuff near there,” said Joyce.

  “Now you think she may be crossing the Mexican border with a stolen truck?” asked the detective.

  Both Joyce and Mr. Malone looked at the detective, “No,” they said in unison.

  “I think the truck was hijacked. Margret was sleeping in the bunk when I went in the store. Somebody drove off with it and she was discovered later,” said Joyce. “Don’t you guys know about truck thefts in the Kansas area? What about the guy I reported who was hanging around the fuel island? I called the Kansas City police about it.”

  “What guy? We haven't updated with the Kansas City folks for a while on this,” said Detective Bradly while shuffling through his papers.

  “Detective Bradly, I highly suggest you contact Kansas City and California and all the states in between. I want you to put out an alert on all the border crossings into Mexico. Someone has seen something and I expect you to find out about it,” Martian banged his fist on the table for emphasis causing Joyce to jump.

  ☙

  A day after they had talked to him, Detective Bradly called Martian Malone. “Mr. Malone, this isn’t much, but I wanted to update you on our investigation. I wanted to thank you and Ms. Hart…”

  “Yes, yes, what is it? What have you found?”

  “The Kansas City police department traced a gold ’98 Malibu that was seen near the truck stop where the truck was reported stolen, to Clara Lade. She is deceased, but her son Bruce had access to the car. The car was found, but a homeless woman is using it.”

  “So there’s a dead-end.”

  “Well,—no. They were able to trace to another son, Arnold. The boys both have a commercial driver’s license and had a Kansas City address listed. Neither of them are at that address anymore. Bruce was stopped at a weigh station on the Arizona-Utah State line for a routine log book check. Your daughter was with him.”

  “That’s fantastic! So she’s been found. I’m so…”

  “No, wait. That was a few days ago. They’re long gone. The officer on duty didn’t remember anything specific about the stop, apparently there were no violations. All they have is, they were south-bound, driving an International.”

  “I see. They’re in a different truck, that’s why no one stopped them.”

  “Mr. Malone, does your daughter know Bruce or Arnold Lade?”

  “No. I’ve never heard of either of them.”

  “We’ll update you if we find anything else.”

  23

  Slots

  Margret coaxed the Mack up the long grade out of Death Valley. It was still a sultry ninety-two degrees, but the night air was a welcome change from the relentless desert sun. Inky darkness swallowed up miles of sandy waste land on either side of the highway. Only a thin line of headlights marked the road.

  She had to downshift four times on the grade, losing more speed with each gear, until they were rumbling along at a top getaway speed of thirty-five miles per hour. “Don’t try to push it any faster, I think this truck is strong, just not fast,” said Bruce.

  They were both glad to see the red closed sign glowing by the weigh station. Margret wasn’t ready to complicate things further. The highway leveled off as they sailed over the California line into Nevada. “Can we quit looking for cops in the mirrors now? I think I’ve successfully gotten away with my first crime,” said Margret.

  Her relief didn’t last long. The Las Vegas station pulled them in. She eased onto the scale worried that the twelve year old Mack with Mexican identification would trigger an inspection. They waited, tense, for the DOT to decide if they wanted to mess with them. It seemed to Margret they were taking their sweet time about it. Did they already know about the stolen tire?

  The light flashed green and Bruce broke out laughing, “Let’s get outta here before they change their minds.”

  Margret was so intent on not making any mistakes, she forgot to select the low range of gears with the splitter. The truck shuttered as she tried to start out in seventh gear. Cursing a little, she quickly realized her mistake and tried again. “Come on Rover, don’t get fussy now,” she muttered.

  Once they were clear, Bruce patted the dash board. “This old dog ain’t too bad. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

  The brilliant lights of Vegas were dazzling as Margret tried to concentrate on traffic among all the billboard sized video screens promising ecstasy at the casinos. Three times local police screamed by with lights flashing. The cops were busy on another mission, but her palms were sweaty as she switched lanes to avoid notice. Now I’m ducking the cops, she thought. How’d I get on the criminal side of this thing?

  Bruce craned his neck to take in the glitz and flash. “Maybe we should try our luck with the few bucks I have left, I could double my money.”

  “We’re getting low on fuel already,” she reminded him.

  “Damn, pull into the truck stop on the edge of town. I bet they have slots right there.”

  “You want me to fill up first?”

  “Yeah, but I’m gonna save out some cash for slots. I’m feeling lucky.”

  Margret turned into the huge parking lot. The hotel, casino, and truck-stop blended together in a conspiracy to suck everyone off the highway. Seductive lighting and manicured landscaping made it difficult to distinguish truck-stop from casino.

  After fueling, Bruce told her to park. At that hour, Margret expected a full lot. Hundreds of trucks already idled there, but Vegas made sure truckers could lose their wages too. They had plenty of parking.

  Bells and flashing lights added excitement once they entered the lush establishment. The truck-stop had provided two complimentary tokens, just to make sure they’d try their luck. Bruce dropped the first one in a slot machine and lost it. He gave the other one to Margret, “You try one. Maybe we’ll make enough for a good dinner.”

  “I’ve never done this before, what do I do?”

  “Just drop it in the slot and push the button. Or, you can pull the lever, if that floats yer canoe.”

  She dropped in the token, the machine whirred and dropped a few coins. Margret stepped back, not sure what had happened.

  “Awesome! We’re gonna get some dinner yet,” said Bruce. He picked up the coins and deposited all but one of them back into a machine. He grumbled when there was no pay-out. “Okay pick a machine. You get the last one,” he said ,handing her the coin.

  “Good thing we got fuel first. I see how this place works,” she said, selecting a machine at random. She dropped in the coin and the machine ejected a bucket full of silver dollars into the tray.

  “Hot damn! Let’s go get a steak,” said Bruce. He led the way to the restaurant, smells of beef and buttery garlic toast beckoned. Neither of them had eaten a decent meal for days. They loaded up trays with baked potatoes, salad, and a glistening, juicy, T-bone steak.

  Margret savored every bite. She hadn’t noticed how hungry she was until she smelled all the delicious food. After she’d eaten everything on her tray, and was quite full, she didn’t hesitate when Bruce mentioned dessert. She selected a slice of dark-chocolate layer cake, smothered in rich, chocolate frosting. Bruce had apple pie with a giant scoop of vanilla ice cream.

  They sat for a while, resting after their big meal. Bruce’s eyes danced with anticipation of another big win. Margret was thinking about a long nap.

  “Drop one more coin in a slot. If you win, we stay for a while. If you lose, we take what we got and get back on the road,” he said.

  Margret chose a machine with an Elvis theme. She dropped the coin and pulled the leaver. Both of them watched the tray anticipating the clatter of coins, but nothing happened.

  “Auuggh,” said Bruce. “Maybe I’ll drop one in.” He tried, but had the same result as Margret. “All right, I said we would go, so we’ll go. At least we got to eat, and I’ve still got a few bucks left.”

  A half-mile out of town they were back in the dark. The scintillating Vegas lights were already an o
therworld experience.

  It was early morning, but the sun hadn’t yet appeared when Bruce crossed the Utah State line. The weigh station was dark. Margret slept while the truck labored uphill through the Virgin River canyon.

  Bruce was getting sleepy when he stopped at a rest area in the shadow of a towering red cliff. House-size boulders were scattered along the steep slope leading to the parking area. It looked as though they’d tumbled only days ago, though it had been centuries since anything that big had moved.

  Margret yawned and stretched, stopping short when she felt the painfully stiff neck she’d developed. The sun warmed a cloudless, sapphire sky. She supported her sore neck with one hand while marveling at the scenery.

  “This is amazing isn’t it,” said Bruce.

  “Sure is, makes you want to climb up there—ouch.”

  “Ouch?”

  “Stiff neck. You’ll get yours when you try to sleep, makes you appreciate the bunk in the other truck.”

  When they were ready to leave, Bruce allowed Margret to do a pre-trip inspection. She found a tail-light out on the trailer. Bruce tinkered with the loose wire and got it to light again. He hated to admit it, but she was right about avoiding trouble by finding small problems and fixing them before they became big ones.

  Once moving Bruce said, “I never knew there was so much to see out here. My father spent his life driving all over but he never talked about this. He was all business, talked about shippers and loads, stuff like that.” He fought sleep, but his eyes kept closing. “Be sure to take I-70 east, it should be just a few miles.”

  The road wound between high mesas capped with a thick layer of yellow stone. Tourist traps with Indian motifs did their best to draw traffic. Margret would’ve lost herself in the shops under different circumstances. One place advertising Chief Yellow Horse had a rock wall with a deep over hang behind it. A shop was tucked under the natural roof now, but it was easy to imagine a community of early dwellers living there.

  The highway gradually gained elevation through dips and hills. Margret confidently coaxed Rover up grades and trusted the Jake-brake to control their decent.

  A billboard came into view advertising adult entertainment. Margret shuddered, the sultry young woman was pictured ten feet tall in a compromising position.