Quicksilver

by Elise Noble

  Mid-morning, Jodie went to use the bathroom and came back grinning.

  “What are you so happy about?” I asked.

  “I got my period. Five days off.”

  I laughed. I had to, really. This had to be the only place on earth where a woman looked forward to bleeding for five days straight.

  “Didn’t they give you a shot?”

  “Last time, I came out in hives, and they had to call the doctor.”

  Lucky her—I’d never had an allergic reaction in my life. But I couldn’t dwell on my disadvantage because I needed to start digging.

  “Do you get many Colombian girls here?” I asked Hallie and Paloma.

  “A few,” Hallie said. “One every month, one every two months, something like that. I lose track of the days. On the outside, I used to be such a stickler for timekeeping, and now I barely know what year it is. Funny how the stuff that was so important doesn’t seem to matter anymore, isn’t it?”

  No, it was funny how all the little stuff became even more important. Eating food with a knife and fork. Making a cup of coffee. Buying groceries. Opening the window to smell the world outside, even if it was the pollution-filled streets of Medellín.

  “I really miss home. If Colombian girls come over regularly, why are there only two of us left?”

  “They get moved to the other houses,” Paloma said, rolling her eyes. “Apparently, we’re exotic.”

  Just when I thought my queasiness had subsided, it came back with a vengeance.

  “How come you’re still here?”

  Hallie answered for her. “Because Radcliffe likes her.”

  “Radcliffe? Seriously?”

  I still hadn’t met him, but from what I’d heard, he was a rather dull man who hated untidiness—hence all the cleaning—and insisted the fruit be organic. Because pesticides were totally the worst thing in our lives right now.

  “Yeah, once a week or so,” Paloma said. “Okay, sometimes more.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Straight missionary, and he grunts a bit. Could be worse. He’s easier to deal with than most of the clients.”

  “Whereabouts in Colombia are you from?”

  “Cartagena. You?”

  “Medellín.”

  “The last girl was from Medellín too.”

  My chest tightened. Izzy? I didn’t dare to ask, and Paloma continued.

  “Did you meet a guy named Roscoe?” she asked.

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “Because so did I, and the last girl too. Isabella.”

  Whoosh. All the air left my body, along with the last little bit of fear that this whole nightmare had been a wild goose chase. Izzy had been here, and I bumped Roscoe up the list of men whose testicles I wanted to skewer with an ice pick, right to the very top.

  But the cleaner was still dusting, and I wasn’t sure where her loyalties lay, so I couldn’t ask too many more questions.

  “Do you know where she went?”

  Paloma shook her head. “We just came downstairs one morning and she’d gone.”

  “That’s how it always happens,” Hallie said. “Nobody ever tells us anything.”

  “Roscoe’s such an asshole. He took me out to all these fancy restaurants, and then he said a friend of his had a hotel in Barranquilla where we could get a discount for a dirty weekend, and like a fool, I went. I mean, I should have smelled a rat when he talked about sitting on the beach, because who would go to Barranquilla when they could go to Cartagena?”

  “Or even La Guajira or Cabo San Juan.”

  “Exactly. Anyhow, he said another friend had a boat, only when we got to the marina, I felt really sleepy, and then I woke up in some nasty warehouse with a bunch of weird Italian men. Two weeks, I stayed there, and it didn’t even have a shower.”

  “I was only there a few days. The police raided the place.”

  Both girls’ jaws dropped.

  “Are you serious?” Hallie asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t think they were there for the kidnap victims. They seemed more interested in all the boxes, but then the whole place exploded in flames and the guards brought me here.”

  “Freaking hell. I wonder what they’ll do if any new girls arrive? Take them straight to the houses?”

  “Garrett told me they like to assess each girl before they decide on the best place to take her,” Paloma said. “And if they’re trouble, they offload them to a pimp.”

  How could they do that to a living, breathing person? “That’s crazy.”

  Hallie gave a lopsided smile. “It’s like the TJ Maxx model, except for women.”

  An ape strode towards us, and our conversation fizzled out. Now what?

  “You have to go to your rooms for a while. Someone’s coming to measure for new drapes downstairs.”

  Paloma huffed at the inconvenience, and I almost smacked the wall in frustration. Just when I was getting some information, my plan got foiled. And who knew when I’d be able to steer the conversation back around to Izzy?

  With nothing else to do, I shuffled back upstairs and buried myself under the covers. At least I could dream. Of home and family and happier times and freedom.

  That evening, I thought I’d got a respite. The hours passed, and I nibbled on canapés while men came and girls went. According to Paloma, there was a booking system in place—clients reserved a slot for the evening, although the girls were first-come, first-served. None of us had more than one client in a day unless they wanted to share, something else that turned my stomach.

  “Radcliffe says it’s all about the quality,” she told me. “Nobody wants sloppy seconds.”

  Except for the apes, it seemed. They weren’t that bothered, but thanks to being the new girl and somewhat of a novelty among the clients, I’d got away without being chosen for after-hours action.

  Until tonight.

  Tonight, I ate fancy food and picked at my dress for two or three hours, plotting a way to find Izzy while I waited, then looked up to see Chad walking towards me.

  Oh, mierda. He was the guy the others had warned me about, and the gleam in his eye made my stomach plummet. My mouth went dry, but then a voice came from behind me.

  “Join me tonight.”

  Leandro.

  I didn’t want to go with him either, and apparently he hadn’t touched any of the girls since he arrived, so I had no idea what he was like. But when it came to the choice between a guy who got off on violence and an unknown quantity, I’d take the latter option.

  “Okay.”

  I stood on shaky legs and followed, averting my eyes from Chad’s pissed-off gaze as we passed. Where were we going? The basement, it turned out.

  “This is where you sleep?” I asked.

  “Our rooms aren’t as nice as yours.”

  Doors opened off both sides of the narrow hallway, five on each side, and Leandro led me right to the far end.

  “Here.”

  He unlocked the door on the left, revealing a small space with a single bed, a narrow closet, and a desk covered in junk-food wrappers, used coffee mugs, and a stray pair of socks.

  “Sorry about the mess.”

  He was about to rape me, and he was apologising for his cleaning habits?

  A doorway with no actual door led to a minuscule bathroom, and his chair looked as if it moved across the concrete floor, which made me oddly envious. But overall, the tiny room was dark and oppressive, and I shuddered involuntarily as I hugged myself. Now what? Did he expect me to take off my clothes? Or did he want to go through the ridiculous charade some of the clients did, the one where they stroked our hair and told us we were pretty as they undressed us?

  “Get some rest,” he said, pointing at the bed.

  Before his words sank in, he’d left, locking the door behind him.

  Huh?

  What just happened?

  I kept an ear out for footsteps as I quickly searched his room, but as well as being untidy, Leandro was the most bo
ring man on earth. The closet contained a spare pair of jeans, a suit, a couple of shirts, socks, and boxer shorts. The desk drawers yielded a single paperback—a memoir of someone I’d never heard of—and a family-size bag of Fritos. The only electronic thing in the room was his shaver.

  Time passed, but the minutes distorted in my head so I wasn’t sure how long, and the room didn’t have a window. Did I want him to come back or not? Of course I didn’t want to get molested by him, but being left alone like that freaked me out a little. Finally, when I got sick of pacing, I lay down on the bed, on top of the covers rather than underneath them because that would have been weird.

  The click of the lock woke me up. How long had I been asleep? There was no way for me to tell, but I felt tired. Leandro closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “You can go back to your room now.”

  “What?” My brain was still fuzzy. “Aren’t you going to…?”

  He shook his head. “I saw Chad heading in your direction, and he’s bad news.”

  Leandro had brought me to his room to help me?

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Chad’s asleep now.”

  “What time is it?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Three thirty. And I need my bed back because this floor doesn’t look too comfortable.”

  “Sorry.”

  One of my shoes had fallen off, and he retrieved it from under the chair before sliding it back onto my foot.

  “Here.”

  He offered me a hand, and I hesitated a moment before taking it. Leandro was the enemy, but I couldn’t afford to alienate him, not if I wanted him to save me from Chad again. Besides, he let go as soon as I was on my feet and opened the door for me.

  “I’ll walk you up.”

  It wasn’t a courtesy—we both knew I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere by myself—but he still managed to make the gesture sound more kind than creepy. The occasional lamp lit our way as we crept through the silent house, and before long, I was back in my cell.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  He didn’t answer, just locked the door and left for the second time that night.

  CHAPTER 25 - BLACK

  BLACK STOOD ON the covered terrace outside the master bedroom of the Florida mansion they’d spent the last twenty-four hours turning into a temporary base of operations. Despite owning the place, he’d never visited before, though he vaguely recalled his real-estate manager talking him through the pros and cons of the purchase several years ago. Mostly cons. The estate had been neglected for years while two sets of half-siblings argued over who would inherit it. But Black had liked the location and the layout, and his team had done a great job with the renovations. The previous tenants—an elderly couple—had moved to be closer to their children, and right now, it was up for rental. But perhaps he should keep it for a while and take a vacation when this was done?

  He laughed softly to himself. A vacation? He’d only taken one proper break in the last decade. But yes, he probably owed Emmy more than a few snatched days in the sun here and there.

  Ana and Sofia were sharing the twin room next door, Rafael had claimed another, and Nate could bunk in with Cruz from the Miami office when he arrived. The other two bedrooms would undoubtedly fill up soon unless they got a lucky break on the case, so it made sense to double up now rather than move later. So far, they hadn’t found much. The aftermath of the warehouse fire had been chaotic, and Black had spent most of yesterday explaining how Quenby Broitzman, hapless psychologist, had been found wandering by the side of the road in Greenacres with absolutely no memory of how she got there, and another hour discussing how Blackwood’s burglary case, which didn’t even exist, might tie into the Fort Lauderdale PD’s manhunt for a murder suspect. Black still had to come up with a way to clear Rafael of the crime he committed, but he’d do that later. The only good thing was that a lot of the evidence got burned.

  For once in his life, Black was tired of lying. Perhaps he’d try telling the truth for a day and see how that went.

  Emmy snuck up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  “Still mad at me?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m sorry I stole Rafael.”

  “Much as I hate to admit it, that was a clever move. I just wish you hadn’t cut me out of the loop.”

  “I was going for plausible deniability.”

  “No, you knew I’d try and stop you.”

  “That too.”

  Black kissed Emmy’s hair and then her lips. Although she drove him crazy, he could never be angry at her for doing precisely what he’d taught her to do. Being a renegade. Thinking outside the box.

  “Rafael’s interesting,” she said. “Don’t you reckon?”

  “At the moment, I’m not sure what to think. My priority is to find these missing girls, then I can stand back and take stock of everything.”

  “And meet your mother.”

  “Yes. And meet my mother. Fuck. I don’t know what to do. For the first time ever, I don’t know what to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How can I just walk into her life? She doesn’t know me from Adam. What if she’s disappointed?”

  “Disappointed? Chuck, you’re a billionaire.”

  Black had given up chastising her for calling him Chuck. At first, she’d done so because he hated it, but now it was more of an endearing habit. Though if anyone else tried giving him a nickname, they’d lose their teeth.

  “Yes, but my life hasn’t exactly been conventional.”

  “Neither has hers by all accounts. Besides, you’ve got a few weeks to think about what to say. Rafael said he wouldn’t tell her for now, right?”

  “Yes. He called her earlier and told her there’s no news yet.”

  Emmy reached up to squeeze his shoulders. “Then relax. This’ll all get sorted out. Just be patient—isn’t that what you always say to me?”

  “I hate being patient.”

  She dug in with her thumbs, and a little of Black’s tension dissipated. But the relief was short lived when a voice called up the stairs.

  “Honey, I’m home.”

  Nate.

  “On my way.”

  “Alaric’s here too, but Bradley stopped off at a mall on his way from the airport.”

  Bradley? Black had asked him to send clothes for Rafael, not bring them personally. A long groan escaped his lips.

  “He only wants to help,” Emmy said. “Plus we need groceries. Come on, I’ll keep him under control.”

  Downstairs in the dining room, Nate already had his laptop open, and Alaric walked in a minute later with a cup of coffee. Rafael appeared and took a seat opposite Nate, half-interested and half-wary.

  “Is the coffee pot on?” Emmy asked Alaric.

  “Just filled it.”

  “Legend.”

  She disappeared in search of caffeine, but Black was more interested in Alaric’s news.

  “Well?”

  “You haven’t grown any more polite in your old age, have you?”

  “Wasted words are wasted time. And you’re only three years younger than me.”

  Alaric laughed, and then infuriatingly, he blew on his coffee and took a sip before speaking.

  “Merrick Childs works out of the Florida field office, but as of a year ago, he was seconded to Task Force Atlantis.”

  “Which is what?”

  “A multi-agency federal task force charged with tracking and disrupting the flows of dirty money. The proceeds of organised crime, terrorist funding, money laundering. They’ve got people from the FBI, ICE, the DEA, the IRS, the ATF, the DOJ, and the secret service.”

  “Sounds like a battle of the acronyms.”

  “Undoubtedly. And knowing Childs, it’s a battle he’s determined to win. Cooperation isn’t in his vocabulary, and he doesn’t understand the meaning of teamwork. His MO is to say all the right things then stab you in the back so he can take the
glory.”

  “You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.”

  “We both started out in the New York office. When we went up for the same promotion, he arrested one of my informants on some bullshit charge and blew my biggest case.”

  Black smiled inside, because if Alaric had skin in this game, he’d put more effort into assisting.

  “And what was Task Force Atlantis’s interest in that warehouse?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ve got people looking into it. Word on the street says the warehouse belonged to La Cosa Nostra, but the girls weren’t part of their operation.”

  “Then why were they there?”

  “If I had to guess? LCN had the space, and they rented it out to an associate. Or maybe the other way around. LCN hasn’t got a big foothold in Florida, but with the recent crackdowns on organised crime in New York and Chicago, they’ve started expanding into new territories. Survival of the fittest. They cooperate with other outfits in return for favours, much like you do.”

  “Does La Cosa Nostra often traffic girls like my sister?” Rafael asked.

  “Historically, the Mafia always respected women, but lately, it’s become all about the money. I’ve got one source who might be able to help, but she’s not answering her messages.”

  “Is she still alive?” Black asked.

  “Probably. She’s never been the most reliable, but when she does provide information, it’s usually good.”

  “Are you still planning to work elsewhere tomorrow?”

  “I have to. It’s a recurring undercover role, and one I actually quite enjoy. But I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

  Speaking of calls, Black’s phone rang, and his spine stiffened reflexively when he looked at the screen.

  Marisol da Silva.

  “It’s for you.” He held the phone out to Rafael.

  It was kind of nice, the way she called her grandson. Audrey Black had liked to check up on Black too, especially after he blew up the summerhouse when he was thirteen.