Chaser_A Jinx Ballou Novel

by Dharma Kelleher

  When he flipped over the opposite wall, the Chihuahua turned its attention to me. I breezed past the dog as I heard a loud splash. I cleared the wall and landed on a narrow strip of ground between the wall and a kidney-shaped pool. A tangle of green garden hose extended to the water’s edge. My quarry splashed desperately in the pool, crying out for help.

  I was tempted to let him drown, but if he knew where Holly was, I couldn’t risk losing him. I extended a ten-foot leaf skimmer. He grabbed hold of it, and I pulled him to the edge of the pool.

  “Jinx?” he sputtered as his braids floated in the water behind him. “Why you chasing me?”

  “Why you running, Jessup?”

  Before he could answer, a man came out of the house, pointing a double-barrel shotgun at the two of us. He was bald except for a wisp of white encircling his pale head. His plaid shorts were pulled up to his armpits. “What the hell you hooligans doing in my backyard?”

  I raised my hands in surrender. “Hold your fire, mister. I’m a bail enforcement agent. Just fishing this guy out of your pool. Put down the gun, and we’ll be on our way.”

  He looked from me to the man in the pool but didn’t lower the shotgun. “Y’all get on outta here b’fore I exercise my Second Amendment rights.”

  I pulled Jessup out of the pool and led him out the front gate, dripping water along the front driveway to the street. “How’s the water?” I asked, keeping a grip on his arm.

  “I ain’t done nothing, and you know it.”

  “Then how come you ran? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a guilty conscience.”

  “It’s a nice day. Thought I’d get some exercise.”

  “Running in a hundred degree weather, followed by a dip in a pool? You training for a triathlon?”

  “It’s a free country. Besides, you ain’t got no warrant on me.”

  “Actually, I’m looking for a missing girl. Rumor is she was taken by a light-skinned black man with long hair and a tattoo on his arm.” Though I had to admit, the ink on Jessup’s arm wasn’t a wing but more a Samoan tribal design.

  “You talking ’bout Holly, ain’t ya?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you think I took her? Shit, Jinx. I sling a little dope now and then, but I ain’t never took nobody. You know I ain’t like that. ’Specially that poor child.”

  I had to admit, for all the times I’d gone after Jessup for jumping bail, it was always for nonviolent drug-related offenses. Still, junkies and dealers weren’t above learning new tricks. “Where were you a month ago?”

  “Month ago? Oh, I remember.” A smile spread across his face. “Vegas, baby! Wanna see pics?”

  “Show me.”

  He pulled his phone from his back pocket. “Shore hope it didn’t get fried from me skinny-dipping.” He tapped the screen a few times. “Hey, hey! Looka here!”

  I took the phone and flipped through a series of photos of him posing with a couple of showgirls. The time stamp matched the date that Holly went missing. “You win anything?”

  “I was up about two grand, then I lost it all and them some. House always wins, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Any idea who might’ve taken Holly?”

  He stared at the ground as he wrung the water out of his Sean John plaid shirt. “Past few months, I heard word that someone’s snatching girls off the street. Young ones, mostly. In a black van.”

  “I heard about the two. Feds are investigating it.”

  “Way I hear it, closer to ten I know about. Cops don’t like to say. Don’t wanna spook folks ’round here. But we know what’s going down.”

  “You see that black van driving around? Or in front of Holly’s house?”

  “Possible. Not really sure.” He looked up at me. “You gonna throw that girl in jail ’cause of her mama got kilt? Don’t seem right.”

  I sighed. “Jessup, I got orders to pick her up. If she’s in danger now, hopefully I can find her, return her to custody so her aunt can bail her back out. Maybe once they see she was kidnapped, they’ll drop the charges.”

  “But you gotta do what you gotta do, huh?”

  “’Fraid so, man.”

  He nodded. “I got your number from the last time. I hear anything, I call you, a’ight?”

  “’Preciate, my friend.”

  He walked away and took off his shirt. The sunlight gleamed off his wet, dark skin.

  I turned to stroll back toward the Schwartz house when he called out again. “Yo, Jinx! Just remembered something Holly say to me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “’Round Christmastime, we was all over at her mom’s place. Holly say to me her daddy was gonna take her away to live in his mansion. Like he Daddy Warbucks or something.”

  “Her father? You sure?”

  “What she said. ’Course she was a little loopy from the medication she was on. Maybe she made it up.”

  I stood there pondering. “She say his name or what he looked like?”

  “Naw, nothing like that.”

  “Thanks. I’ll catch ya later.”

  He flipped me a bird but was grinning while he did it. Then he passed between two houses into a vacant lot.

  I met Conor driving his Charger coming from the other direction. “Ya lose him, love? I tried to intercept him with the car. Must’ve missed him.”

  “Wasn’t our guy. Just Jessup.”

  “Shite! Get in. I’ll drive ya back to the Ghost.”

  19

  On the drive to Grumpy’s, I called Detective Hardin again. Judging from his tone when he answered, his mood hadn’t improved with the day. Then again, neither had mine.

  “Hey, when you interviewed the Schwartzes’ neighbors, d’you talk to a gal calling herself Shartroose?”

  “The meth junkie? All I got from her was a lot of nonsense.”

  “She told me she saw a black van in front of the Schwartzes’ house shortly before the murder. Driver matched Holly’s description of the man who attacked her mother. African-American. Long hair. Orange shirt. Black creeper van. I think Holly’s story may be legit.” I chose not to mention the stalker letter or the money-counting machine. Reading other people’s mail was a federal crime. And my breaking into the house when I had no reason to believe she was there was also frowned upon.

  “You think suddenly after nineteen years I forgot how to do my job, Ballou? I got the ME telling me one thing. A junkie whore telling me something different. Who you think I’m gonna believe?”

  “Just wondering if you overlooked something. How else is a girl in a wheelchair going to suddenly disappear? Maybe human traffickers. I hear there’ve been a lot more missing girls than you let on.”

  “Ballou, I’m exhausted and don’t have time to listen to you play armchair quarterback. You wanna solve homicide cases? Rejoin the force. Otherwise, do your speculating on your own time.”

  “This girl could be enduring God knows what.”

  “Goodbye, Ballou.”

  “Don’t hang up on me, Hardin. Hello? Goddammit.”

  Grumpy’s parking lot was already full by the time I got there. I parked the Gray Ghost on a nearby side street. Conor pulled in behind me. As we walked the half block to the restaurant, I filled Conor in on my conversations with Hardin and Jessup, as well as the creepy letter I found at Holly’s house.

  “I don’t get it,” I said as we walked across Grumpy’s parking lot. “Hardin’s absolutely convinced that this seventeen-year-old girl is guilty, even when most of the evidence points to someone else.”

  “Why da ya care what he thinks, love? We got to find the girl. Let the courts sort out her guilt or innocence.”

  “I know, but it pisses me off. I hate how people get railroaded when cops are too stubborn to look at evidence that contradicts their theory of the case.” I pulled open the door. The air inside was cooler, but I still felt as if I were melting. Conor and I grabbed seats at the bar.

  “Uh-oh! Here comes trouble!” Grumpy breezed past
carrying a couple of plates of food, made less appetizing by that damned cigar dangling from his mouth.

  “Don’t start with me, Grumpy.” I put my hair up into a ponytail to get it off my neck. “Could you crank up the AC, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I could, kitten, but then I’d have to double my prices. ’Lectricity ain’t cheap.” He handed the plates off to a server. “You want your usual?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  He set down a couple of beers in front of Conor and me, then waltzed back into the kitchen. I pressed the bottle to my temple and gasped. The ice-cold glass against my sun-scorched skin was equally painful and orgasmic.

  “Let’s say ya find the girl,” Conor said after a long pull on his beer. “Whatcha gonna do with your cut of the bounty?”

  “Honestly, haven’t thought much about it. You?”

  “Pay off my second mortgage,” he said. “I owe a lot on those renovations I did a while back.”

  “You’re so damn practical. I think I’d like to buy a motorcycle.”

  “Ha! You’d look bloody deadly on a Harley.”

  “Fuck Harley. There’s a shop north of the valley that sells custom motorcycles for women. I’ve seen the website. Amazing shit. And fast too.”

  “You’d look hot no matter what ya rode.” He winked at me. “Now all we got to do is find where the little lass is hiding.”

  I pulled out the stalker letter I’d picked up at the Schwartzes’. “Look at this. He talks about adding her to his harem. Begs her to send him photos of her naked but warns her not to tell her mom. The girl’s seventeen, for Christ’s sake. Ugh!”

  Conor took the letter and the envelope. His lips drew back in a snarl. “What a bloody gobshite! What kind of filth writes such a thing to a teenage girl?”

  “I wonder if the author of this letter is the one who tried to grab Holly and killed her mother,” I said.

  “Could be. Maybe also connected to these kidnappings in Maryvale.” He took a long pull on his beer. “But if it is the same bloke, why take the girl months later? From her aunt’s house, no less?”

  “To keep her from testifying? Who knows? But it’s looking more and more like she was kidnapped. I have no idea where to look.” I thought about it for a moment. “But I know someone who might.”

  I pulled out my phone. I still had Hensley’s phone number from when we were arranging the interviews.

  “Where would I find those sex traffickers you interviewed a while back?” I asked when he picked up the call.

  “Who is this?”

  “Jinx Ballou. Now answer the question,” I growled.

  “You trying to get me killed? Is that what this is?”

  “No, I’m trying to save the life of a seventeen-year-old girl. Now where do I find these guys?”

  “Like I told you before, I don’t divulge my sources. Normally, it’s for professional standards. But these human traffickers are sociopaths. They kill anyone considered a threat. They’ve murdered cops, judges, feds, you name it. I’m not putting my life at risk so you can collect a bounty.”

  “Hensley, either you can tell me, or I can find them myself, and when I do, I’ll tell them you blabbed. Or you can tell me for real and I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’m just trying to rescue someone they’ve taken.”

  “You’re looking for Holly Schwartz, aren’t you? I heard she missed a court hearing. You think she got kidnapped?”

  “It’s highly likely.”

  The line was silent for a moment, except for his breathing. I liked that he was sweating over this.

  “Okay, here’s what I know. There’s a guy named Volkov. Used to run strip clubs down in Tucson, then a few years ago, he expanded up here. But the strip clubs are a cover. He’s been running a human trafficking empire for the better part of two decades. His family runs a major crime syndicate in Chechnya.

  “He drove out all his competition in Arizona and several surrounding states. Most of the coyotes running girls from Central America and Mexico work for him. But they also grab local girls too. They send them to drop houses all over the western US, where they’re forced into domestic work if they’re lucky. Sex work if they’re not.”

  “Where do I find this Volkov?”

  “He’s got an office in downtown Phoenix. But it’s just the corporate office for his strip clubs. He keeps the girls in an old warehouse elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. They blindfolded me.”

  “You’ve been there? And you didn’t do anything to save those women?”

  “What was I going to do? I’m a reporter, not a cop. I was unarmed. They had automatic weapons.”

  “And you have no idea where he keeps these women? East Valley? West Valley?”

  “West, I think. Past Goodyear, if I had to guess. Could be the other side of the White Tanks for all I know.”

  “You’re really useless, Hensley.”

  “Look, if you promise not to mention my name, I can put you in touch with someone who knows more than I do.”

  “Well, fuck, why didn’t you say so before?”

  “If word got out that I shared this, it could ruin me.”

  “After the crap you’ve put me through, you think I’m worried? You are at the top of my shit list, buddy. And so is whoever ratted me out to you.”

  “For your information, no one ratted you out. I figured it out. You were enrolled at one school as a boy. Then months later you show up at a new middle school as a girl. It wasn’t rocket science. As for my Volkov source, I’m not telling you his name if you’re going to betray my trust.”

  “Fine, I won’t tell. Just give me the name.”

  “He’s a concierge at the Harrington Arms Hotel.”

  “Seriously? The Harrington Arms?” It was a hotel built in downtown Phoenix the year Arizona became a state. A century later, its posh amenities and five-star service still attracted elite guests from around the world. I’d never even been in the lobby, much less stayed in a room.

  “What’s this concierge’s name?”

  “Ricky.”

  “Ricky who?”

  Conor perked up at the name. “Ricky the concierge? I know that little wanker.”

  “Never mind,” I told Hensley. “So they really allow sex slaves at the Harrington Arms?”

  “It’s very hush-hush. But apparently some of their guests are willing to pay handsomely to have certain less-than-savory urges satisfied,” Hensley explained. “Ricky contacts someone in Volkov’s organization to take care of them. A defenseless celebrity like Holly Schwartz would fetch a high price.”

  “How come you never mentioned the Harrington in your newspaper?”

  “Because Volkov made me promise not to, and I’m rather attached to my head. ”

  “So you’re getting paid while women are being exploited. Congratulations, you’re a douchebag.”

  “Hey, I’ve shared what I know with the FBI, okay?”

  “Oh, you’re a real humanitarian.”

  “How long has Holly been missing?” Hensley asked.

  “About a month. Why?”

  “He likes to move around the girls every few weeks or so. Chances of her still being in Phoenix are slim, I’m afraid.”

  “Let’s hope for your sake she’s still in town.”

  “What’s that mean? If this gets back to me—”

  “Quit your whining, Hensley, you little bitch. If I can’t get my career back on track with this job, Volkov’ll be the least of your worries.” I hung up before he could protest further and turned to Conor. “So you know this Ricky fellow?”

  “Aye, I’ve squeezed him for info a few times. Skinny little weasel with a pompadour. Like some little rockabilly wannabe. Not surprised he’s mixed up with the likes of Volkov.”

  “His last name isn’t Delgado by chance, is it? There was a Richard Delgado on one of the Schwartzes’ call logs.”

  “Naw, his last name’s Harris.” He picked at the label on his beer. “So y
a think Volkov has your girl, eh?”

  “About the only lead I got at this point.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Why? What do you know?”

  “Guy’s a fuckin’ psychopath. I’ve heard stories of what he does to girls who try to escape. Carves them up slowly like a Thanksgiving turkey while forcing the other girls to watch. ’Course, no one can prove it. Every once in a while, the feds raid his clubs, hoping someone’ll talk. No one does.”

  I finished off my beer and slapped him on the back. “Well, that’s why they pay us the big money. To go after psychos and bring our fugitives to justice.”

  “You’re bloody serious?”

  “As a fucking heart attack. I got everything riding on this case. No punk-ass Chechen gangster’s getting in my way.”

  He finished his beer and pounded the bar. “All right then, love. Let’s go talk to Ricky the dodgy concierge and get our girl.”

  20

  We dropped off Conor’s car at his place and drove to the Harrington Arms in the Gray Ghost. It was going on six o’clock, and most of the traffic was heading away from downtown. We rode the elevator from the underground garage up to the cavernous lobby.

  My jaw dropped. I felt as if I’d walked into a cross between Buckingham Palace and a neo-Gothic cathedral. The place shimmered with gold. Towering columns rose forty feet from the marble floors to support the elaborate vaulted ceiling, lit with crystal chandeliers the size of my truck.

  A grand staircase flowed from the second floor, spreading out at the bottom like a river delta. Twenty-foot-tall Art Deco paintings depicting the Phoenix of yesteryear hung from the walls above arched doorways. In the center of it all was a lounge area decorated with luxurious rugs and couches. People from all corners of the globe milled about, speaking languages I could only guess at.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, is this Arizona or Renaissance Italy?” I whispered as I followed Conor, trying not to gawk like a tourist. “Where’s the concierge?”

  “Follow me.”

  To the left of the sprawling mahogany registration desk, a guy in his midtwenties stood behind a podium with a Mac laptop. He was dressed in a burgundy suit and wore his hair in the pompadour Conor had mentioned.