Bad Traffick: A Leine Basso Thriller

by D. V. Berkom

  Ellison stopped the video and answered the phone. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I was on the other line with our friend,” the voice replied. “He says he's close and needs more time. I told him that was fine, but that the other option had been put into place. Everything's working as planned, Stone. I promise to have you back up and running within the week.”

  “I'd better be. You know the consequences if it doesn't happen.” Ellison disconnected and gazed out the window, absentmindedly twisting the gold ring on his pinkie finger. He could envision her eyes; those beautiful, haunting eyes. He sensed victory. Sweet, heavenly victory.

  Soon, my angel. Soon.

  ***

  Leine placed her purse on the chair next to her and sat down. A poster of a young girl with wide, innocent eyes and the words “For Sale” printed in bold red across the bottom stared at her from a wall of the small office. On the other side, hundreds of push pins pierced holes through a large map of the world, with several countries a riot of color. She watched her old friend Lou Stokes across the desk as he worked his magic on the computer in front of him.

  Previously a weapons and explosives expert at the Agency, Lou was currently head of SHEN—Stop Human Enslavement Now, an international non-profit organization working to end modern-day slavery. In his mid-sixties with a slight paunch that affirmed his love of fine wine and rich food, Lou had a no-nonsense vibe and practical approach that Leine trusted. What you saw was what you got with Lou.

  He peered through his bifocals and tapped the screen in front of him. “Here's what I wanted to show you. Take a gander at the statistics.” He turned the monitor so Leine could see what he was talking about.

  “It says between two and four million children a year as young as four are commonly kidnapped and sold into the sex trade.” Leine glanced at Lou for verification.

  He nodded. “It's worse than that. That's the best estimate. The use of children as sex slaves has grown exponentially, especially with the spread of HIV, hepatitis and other communicable diseases. In some countries, it's thought a virgin will actually cure an HIV infection.” Lou leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, the toll of the job evident in his weary expression. “When you bring one ring of traffickers down, three pop up in its place. It ain't a job for the faint hearted.”

  “Which is more prevalent—labor or sex slavery?” Leine asked.

  Lou sighed. “Depends. It runs the gamut—anywhere from domestic servants for the rich to agricultural workers, to running prostitutes; all held against their will without access to identification or money. Victims often can't speak the language of the country where they've been trafficked and many of them suffer horrific violence at the hands of the traffickers.” He stared at the computer screen as though it held answers. “And we thought slavery was abolished with the Civil War. I'll tell you, Leine, it's more insidious than ever. Sex trafficking alone brings in tens of billions annually in developed countries. With money like that, I don't see it going away anytime soon.”

  “What kinds of resources are in place for the victims?”

  Lou leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. “There's a national hotline, staffed twenty-four-seven. Larger law enforcement agencies have taken the lead and created specialized task forces to deal with this issue, especially those with ports. Laws have been passed in all but a handful of states, and we're working on those. Then there's us, the Polaris Project, Human Trafficking Network, Truckers Against Trafficking and several other non-profits. There's been a huge push to integrate data and resources within the FBI, ICE and local police and sheriff departments.” Lou cocked his head to the side. “You got a dog in this race?”

  “In a way. I met a woman who's convinced her daughter was kidnapped by traffickers. I've spoken with her at length to try to get a sense of what she knows and what she doesn't.”

  “How old's the daughter?”

  “Twelve.”

  “The average age of children sold into prostitution is twelve. Have you contacted LAPD? They've got a good Human Trafficking Unit.”

  Leine shook her head. “The woman is terrified of going to the authorities with this. Says the kidnappers told her they've got connections and will know if she talks to anyone, that they'll sell the kid to the highest bidder and she'll never see her again.”

  “She never will see her again if something isn't done. At least give me a description of the girl. I'll keep an eye out in case something comes across my desk.”

  Leine removed a copy of the picture Jean gave her and handed it to Lou. “I'm pretty sure I saw her a couple of days ago in West Hollywood, near Grauman's.”

  “They already turned her out?”

  Leine shook her head. “I think she escaped. There were a couple of men who looked like they might be after her, but they took off when they realized I'd seen them.”

  Lou nodded. “One of them was probably her pimp. Could be she escaped, but if they were that close it won't last. What's her name?” he asked, looking at the print.

  “Mara. The mother thinks the kidnappers are Russian.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She said one of them had an accent like Putin.”

  Lou sighed. “That narrows things down, but not by much. The Russian mafia's heavy into the trade, but their victims are usually from Eastern Europe, not American kids. It's not unheard of, though. I'll check around, work some of my contacts, see if I can find any leads.” He paused and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he snapped forward, eyes open and started to type, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

  “What?” Leine asked.

  “One of the homeless shelters downtown put in a report a little while ago about an unaccompanied minor who I think matches the picture. The guy who filed the report mentioned unusual eyes.” He leaned toward the monitor while he waited for the data to populate the screen. A couple of seconds later, he snapped his fingers.

  “Looks like your Mara escaped and is on her own in downtown L.A. At least, she was the day this report was filed.” He read a little further. Lou glanced at Leine, his expression grave. “It also mentions two men stopped at the shelter with her picture. They claimed she was a niece and were quite concerned that they find her.”

  “The traffickers. Is there a description?” Leine asked.

  Lou nodded. “Says here the one who claimed to be her uncle had an Eastern European accent and a bandage on his face.”

  “Bingo.” Leine's heart rate kicked up a notch as things fell into place. One of the men she'd noticed that day wore a bandage across his nose.

  “We have to find her before they do.” Leine grabbed her car keys off the desk and stood to leave.

  “I'll put out the word. We've got people working the street, looking for runaways. The more eyes the better.” Lou slid a handful of business cards across the desk toward her. “Here's my personal cell. The twenty-four hour hotline is listed, too. Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks, Lou.”

  Leine returned to her car, deep in thought, imagining how afraid Mara must be, alone and lost in a huge city like L.A. Not only did she have that seemingly insurmountable barrier, but there were some pretty evil people looking for her. She thought of April, and pulled out her phone. April answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, mom. What's up?”

  “Hey.” Leine cleared her throat. “Just wanted to check in with you, see how things are going.” Ever since she and April had reunited after years of estrangement, each conversation with her daughter had the emotional effect of a cannon ball hitting her in the solar plexus. In a good way.

  “Things are great. Just like they were last night when you called me,” April teased. She waited a beat before continuing. “What's wrong? You don't usually call with nothing to talk about.”

  “It's nothing. I…I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  April's gentle chuckle floated through the phone. “Baloney. What's the real reason? Did you see an adorable pup
py and think of me or something?”

  Leine laughed. “No. It's just that you're so important to me and I wanted you to know. I recently found out about a twelve-year-old girl who is alone in L.A. and very, very scared. The girl's mother is looking for her and it made me think of what I would have done if the situation were reversed and I was looking for you.” She cleared her throat again, emotion rising to the surface. “That's all.”

  “That's all? That's a lot, mom. Especially after what we went through. So who's the girl and how did you find out about her?”

  “A woman claiming to be Miles Fournier's sister is looking for her. At first we thought traffickers had her, but it appears she escaped and is on her own.”

  April inhaled audibly. “In L.A.? That's gotta be stupid scary for her. What can we do?”

  “I'm working on it. I just had a conversation with an old friend of mine and he's putting the word out on her.”

  “Can't you do anything more?” April asked.

  “Like I said, I'm working on it.”

  “I have faith in you, mom. If anyone can find her, it's you.”

  Leine hoped she was right.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “HEY HONEY, YOU LOST?”

  “No.” Mara shook her head as she studied the sidewalk and tried to avoid direct eye contact with the woman in the short skirt and five-inch stilettos.

  The lady followed behind her, a lit cigarette between her bright, fuchsia-colored lips. “You sure, baby? You look lost.”

  “No, I'm fine. I need to go home. I…I just took the wrong bus.”

  “I'll say. You ain't in Kansas anymore.” The prostitute laughed at her own joke. “Listen,” she continued. “Big brother Bobby over there will take care of you. Protect your skinny white ass, cause it's gonna need protectin' you stay around here long, you feel me?”

  Mara stepped up the pace and told herself to stay calm. She turned to see how close the lady was and stifled a scream when she caught sight of Bobby not far behind her with a determined look on his face.

  Mara broke into a run. Bobby swore and started after her, his shoes slapping the pavement as he ran. Terror welled up in Mara's throat, making it hard to scream.

  “Come here, now. I ain't gonna hurt you.”

  From the sound of Bobby's breathing, he was close. Mara willed herself to run faster. Fear coursed through her. Her chest felt like it was going to split open. Not seeing it in time, she ran full-throttle into a dirty metal garbage can but managed to right herself before she fell. The can tumbled over, spilling its contents onto the sidewalk. Bobby self-corrected too late and he tripped, taking a header over the can and onto the cement. Mara kept running, the sound of the prostitute's laughter fading with every step.

  Several blocks later, Mara slowed to a walk and looked over her shoulder to make sure Bobby or the prostitute hadn't followed. No one came. She bent over and put her hands on her knees to catch her breath as tears welled in her eyes.

  Stop it, Mara. You have to take care of yourself. There's nobody else to do it for you. She was used to taking care of the other foster kids back home. They were younger and looked up to her, like she was their big sister. Just once, Mara would've liked to have someone take care of her.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her arm and took a deep breath. The neighborhood looked less seedy than the one she'd just left. A couple of shops had colorful, pretty dresses in the window and she could smell spicy food cooking. She didn't notice any prostitutes hanging around and there were some nice older homes down the block with tidy yards. Mara walked into one of the dress shops, intending to ask for directions to the restaurant Keith told her about. She stood by the front counter and waited for the young woman to finish with her customer.

  Mara liked the way the shop smelled; kind of sweet and smoky. A brass dish sat on the counter by the cash register with some dried leaves tied with pretty purple thread. A peace sign sticker in red and yellow and green had been affixed to the counter. She entertained herself by looking through the contents of another brass dish filled with beaded barrettes and hair ties.

  The sales lady rang up the other woman's purchases and turned her attention to Mara.

  “And what can I do for you, cher?” she said with a smile. Her accent had a lilting sound that Mara warmed to immediately.

  “I think I'm lost. Can you please tell me where the Briar Cliff restaurant is? I'm supposed to meet somebody there and I got on the wrong bus.” Mara hoped her little white lie was okay. She didn’t want to go to hell, like her foster mother told her would happen.

  “You surely did. The Briar Cliff is on the other side of town, near the beach.” The woman arched her eyebrows. “Well, now, it looks like it's your lucky day, cher. I'm just about to close up shop and can drive you. Dis is no place for a little girl to be wanderin' around.”

  Mara's relief must have been evident, because the woman laughed as she opened the drawer to the register. “Would you do me a favor? See that sign in the window?” She pointed at a window by the entrance. “Can you turn it around so it says 'closed' to everybody outside?”

  “Sure.” Mara walked over to the door and turned the sign around. “Can I do anything else?”

  “Look around the shop while I get tings in order.” She glanced at Mara's filthy sundress. “Why don't you go and pick out someting from the clothes hangin' over there?” She indicated a sales rack on the far side of the shop. “We'll be ready to go before you know it.”

  “Anything?” Mara couldn't believe her good fortune when the woman nodded her head yes. She walked over to the rack and started to look through the clothes, picking out a sweater, a soft tee shirt and a pair of jeans. The jeans were a size too big for her, but she didn’t care. Mara stepped into the changing room and pulled the heavy curtain closed.

  The woman finished counting the till and started to shut off lights. “Are you coming, then?” She stood in the doorway leading to the back of the shop and waited.

  “Yes.” Mara got up from where she'd been sitting near the window and walked over to her, gripping the waistband of the jeans to keep them from sliding down her hips.

  The woman leaned over and placed a thin leather belt in her hands. “I think you might need this.” She straightened and smiled as she smoothed Mara's hair back. “You gonna be just fine, cher.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MILES AND JEAN WERE OUT BY the pool when Leine returned from her visit with Lou. She sent the temporary security guard on his way and walked out to join them. Jean appeared more relaxed than she had earlier. That in itself hit Leine as odd. Wouldn't a mother whose daughter was abducted be stressed out, pacing the floor, on the internet, searching for clues to her whereabouts? A pitcher of Miles' infamous tequila slushies rested on the table between them. Maybe she'd had a few too many. Leine hoped not. She didn't want to babysit the woman if she experienced a blackout. They both looked up as she approached.

  Miles picked up the nearly empty pitcher to top off his glass. “Hey, Leine. You're back.” He poured some in Jean's glass and set it on the table. “Jean and me were just talking about what we'll do when we get Mara back. I want them both to move in here. That way they'll always have a home, and I'll have a family.”

  Was he kidding? That boy was way too trusting. She'd have to deal with him later. “That's great, Miles. I need to speak to you, Jean.” Leine took a seat next to her, noting her eyes had a wary look to them, like she'd heard it all before and disappointment tended to be the dominant outcome in her life.

  Leine hesitated before continuing, unsure how she would react to what she was about to tell her. She looked directly into her eyes. “I just spoke with a friend of mine who works at a non-profit to end human trafficking.”

  Jean gripped her napkin and looked away, as if refusing to acknowledge what might come next. Leine reached over and touched her hand. She drew her gaze back to Leine's.

  “He recently received information your daughter has run away from the traff
ickers and is out on the streets,” Leine said.

  Jean sat motionless for a moment, then rose from her chair and began to tear the napkin in her hand into little pieces. Leine watched as it floated to the ground like confetti.

  “That's good news, right? We have to find her.” Jean turned and looked at Leine, panic filling her eyes. “She can't be out there alone. So much could happen to her…” Jean sat down in her chair, then stood, as though unsure what to do next. “We have to go and get her…”

  Leine reached out and laid her hand on Jean's, hoping her touch would calm her down. “Since Mara's no longer with the traffickers, we have a better chance of finding her, now. My friend sent word to his people on the street, so they're looking for her, but he suggested you contact the police. That could work, as long as she remains out of the trafficker's hands.”

  “Do you think the kidnappers know where she is?” Miles asked.

  “Two men have been looking for her. One of them claims to be her uncle. He had an Eastern European accent,” Leine said.

  Jean closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging. “I can't go to the police. They told me I'd never see her again if I did.” She sank into the chaise lounge and covered her face with her hands.

  “They can't send her away if they don't physically have her, Jean. We need to find her first. The LAPD can help us with that.” Leine wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, tell her to wake the hell up, but held back. There was no sense in upsetting her more.

  Jean raised her head and looked at Leine, her eyes hardening. “No. I won't do that. What if they get to her first and know I talked to the cops? They'll send her away forever.”