Proportionate Response

by Dave Buschi

  “What is it?” Marks said.

  74

  KIDS were afraid. That’s what he was seeing. For a brief moment Marks almost thought the Grim Reaper was standing over his shoulder.

  “Please don’t call the cops,” Cassie said.

  The others started to speak, as well. Marks listened. Situation just became more complicated. As for the plan? That just went out the window.

  He couldn’t radio this in. Kids didn’t want the cops or firemen. They were illegals. Their parents had overstayed their Visas, didn’t have Green Cards, had hopped the fence—it was all the same story. To bring the authorities, meant to bring the INS. That sort of heat meant deportation. Looking at them, you’d almost think that fate was as bad as the cages. To further complicate matters, between the six of them they lived in four different states. Couldn’t just drive them home, either.

  What we have here is a convoluted situation. Phrase was a favorite of his old CO. It fit like shit in a diaper. He ushered them upstairs.

  Heat and dryness of the dungeon was making it hard to think. Better cogitating was promised when he saw the lightening sky. Sun was about to come up. Sky was pink. Pretty as a portrait. Air felt crisp too. Tasted good.

  Maybe Lip could figure out this pickle. On the loading dock, Marks tapped his ear mike. “Lip, we have a problem.” He explained the situation briefly. A minute later, Lip walked over. So much for their fancy plans to keep themselves from being identified.

  Marks did the introductions. Kept it simple. No name. Just, this is my buddy.

  “Hey guys,” Lip said.

  The kids looked at Lip with a mix of curiosity and caution. Lip knew the best way to break the ice; he copped a page straight from the G.I. playbook. He’d come with provisions.

  “You look thirsty.” Lip passed out bottled water and energy bars. He asked their names. Kids shyly told him. Maria, Owen, Alyson, Cassie, Kim, and Ivana.

  “You guys like jokes?” Lip said.

  Here we go. Marks should have known. Lip had a captive audience—no way was he passing up on that opportunity. The kids were quaffing their water greedily and chewing their energy bars. Lip kept it G rated. He rattled off a few zingers. Each of which fell flat as a pancake.

  Tough crew. Marks smirked. Lip didn’t give up. Had to give him credit. The kids were appraising him now with conflicted expressions. Expressions Marks had seen before on young teens. Is this guy for real?

  Most of Lip’s jokes were terrible. But he plowed on, didn’t resort to any pull my finger ones. Lip, surprisingly, could keep it clean every now and then. In this case, just so long as you overlooked the fact that his polka dot boxers were showing.

  The kids seemed to be thawing. A smile broke. A giggle was elicited.

  “What’s the Disney Virus?” Lip said, rattling off another one.

  The kids shrugged.

  “It’s when your computer goes goofy. What’s the Mike Tyson virus? Don’t know, huh? Quits after one byte. Byte spelled B, Y, T, E. Get it? No? Yeah, I had to explain it. Okay, I promise, this is a good one. What’s brown and sticky?”

  “Poopie,” said Alyson. She was the youngest one. It was the first time she’d spoken, aside from saying her name.

  “No silly,” Lip said. “A stick… Okay, here’s another one. Why does Tigger always smell bad?”

  Maria smiled. “Because he hangs out with pooh?”

  Lip made a face. “That’s disgusting.”

  Marks waited till he was done. He didn’t want to stop his partner when he was on a roll. It was surreal to see—after what these kids had probably gone through—to see them smile and actually giggle.

  Pretty damn cool.

  A few minutes later, Lip excused himself, “I’m coming back now. I’m not done. But I need to talk with this guy.” He lowered his voice and put his hand up to shield his mouth. “I don’t think he knows he hasn’t washed his face.”

  The kids giggled. Lip walked over wearing a sheepish grin. Man was on a high. Couldn’t blame him. Marks felt it too. But play time had to be put on hold. It was time for the talk.

  “Why can’t we drive them home?” Lip said, after Marks said his piece. “We’ll put ‘em in the Suburban. Bus ‘em home. It’ll be fun.”

  Marks looked at the kids. They were looking at them expectantly. Tore his friggin’ heart strings.

  “Are you kidding? We can’t do that,” Marks said.

  “Why not?”

  “I can think of thirteen good reasons,” Marks said. “But I’ll give you three. One, those thirteen we just iced. Two, we got weapons in the vehicle that tie us to this deal. Three, what’s to stop these kids’s parents from having the authorities run us down once we drop them off? We’ll be driving on the highway in a freakin’ bus. Not exactly incognito. And what happens if we get pulled over for something else? We’re talking fourteen hours on the highways, at least. Not to mention bathroom stops, having to get food. Too many things could happen. Two guys like us with six kids? C’mon. At every pit stop, we’ll be drawing looks.”

  “That was five reasons, but who’s counting? They don’t want the cops,” Lip said. “And there are things called drive thrus, in case you forgot.” He lowered his voice. “Is this about something else?”

  “Like what?”

  Lip’s brow knit. “Like the fact they’re illegals?”

  Marks frowned. “Why would you say that?”

  “I’m just thinking of a phrase you once said: Just put up a damn wall and be done with it.”

  “Who said that?” Marks said.

  “You did.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did to.”

  “Even if I did… that was different,” Marks said.

  “How?”

  “Just was.”

  Lip shook his head and gave him a look. Marks got annoyed. He’d seen that look before. It was Lip’s smug look when he was convinced he’d just won an argument. Lip mouthed the word “O b a m a.”

  “Not fuckin’ funny, Mr. Polka Dot.”

  Lip smirked. “You’re just sore. You know I’m right.” His face got serious. “Alright, I’ll concede to you on the bus thing.”

  Lip took off his glasses and strap and pinched the bridge of his nose. He seemed to think for a moment. “There may be another solution to this.”

  75

  COUNT on Lip to think out of the box. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was a plan. Better than their other two options, Lousy and Lousier.

  Marks wiped the paint from his face, while Lip and the kids saddled up. Suburban was almost like a bus. They had elbow room to spare. Marks, last one in, took the passenger seat.

  En route, Lip and he debriefed the kids. They had an hour plus drive to do it. Rush hour started early in the Baltimore-Washington Metropolitan Area, and they were heading into the thick of it. Georgetown.

  Surprisingly, the kids were onboard. No vetoes. Nods and yeses from all of them. They were apprehensive, but that was to be expected.

  They didn’t speak much at first, but towards the end of the ride they opened up some. Marks and Lip didn’t want to pry, but they needed all the info they could get. Seems these kids’ parents—in some cases there was just a dad or a mom—were asked to pay ransoms. The girl that spoke Russian, Ivana, had overheard the men speaking. She had the most to share.

  Didn’t take much to glean the picture beneath the picture. None of these kids came from money—not from these kids’ comments. They all seemed concerned, worried about their parents. Money was tight. They couldn’t pay what was asked. But according to Ivana, some of their parents had found a way. The men had laughed. Ransom was paid, but it seemed there were other plans for the kids. Men had no intention of returning them to their parents. Ivana mentioned the needles. “There were two vials. I don’t know what they were for. One of them was poison.” She began to get choked up.

  “It’s okay,” Lip said.

  Partner was all heart, and of course he wanted to set every wrong right.
“Pass that out, will ya?” Lip said to Marks. It was the three stacks. Twenty-two thousand.

  Marks split them into six piles, trying to make them equal. He didn’t care about the fact they were doling it out and not keeping it for themselves. Easy come, easy go. He just didn’t want these kids to get the wrong idea. Money couldn’t make up for what happened to them. Nothing would ever make up for that. Only time would help.

  But Lip had a point. You fix what you can. This was an easy one. Lip found a pen and asked the kids to write down their full names and addresses. He handed Maria a disposable cell phone, which he’d pulled beforehand from his duffel. He’d already programmed a number into it.

  “Call this and type in 71. I’ll call you right back. Any problem at all. Call it.”

  The ride was almost over. They drove over the Key Bridge. Mist was coming off the Potomac below. Marks saw a rowing shell gracefully skimming over the water.

  “I’m serious now,” Lip said. “Just call on that phone, if you need to. I’ll be happy to call back and talk to her. She loves my jokes. Honest.”

  Her. Britney Landers Childress. She was a woman with many hats; an insider in the insular world that was the inner beltway. Heir to a billion dollar family fortune. Washingtonian Socialite. Wife of the former Ambassador to Great Britain. She was on a first name basis with two former Presidents, numerous senators and congressman, past and current. As an influence darling, she had few peers. Brains and looks to boot.

  And that was just the abbreviated list. Wouldn’t be complete without one more notable mention. Britney Landers Childress. A woman who at one time had been betrothed to Thomas Lipkin.

  76

  BRITNEY Landers Childress awoke at her normal hour. Seven o’clock, every morning, on the dot. If anything, she was punctual.

  She removed her aromatherapy sleep mask from her eyes and put it on her bedside table. Harold was traveling this week, so she woke up alone. She hated to admit it, but she secretly preferred sleeping by herself. Harold snored. Had terrible sleep apnea. She always seemed to awaken in the middle of the night when he was sleeping next to her. When he was traveling, however, she slept like a baby; woke refreshed, energized, and ready to tackle the day.

  She went to the bathroom and did her daily ablutions. She was meticulous about it, and it took a while. Brushing her teeth, face wash, ointments… a whole routine.

  The bathroom was the size of some studio lofts you’d find in Georgetown. She considered it her sanctuary. The Parisian marble tile with its intricate inlay was modeled after a flat in Neuilly-sur-Seine. She’d had it shipped over from the same exact quarry as the flat’s. That had taken some doing, as the flat was over three hundred years old, and the quarry had long ago been decommissioned. But what Britney wanted, Britney usually figured a way to get.

  The tile always made her feel like she was barefoot in Paris. It was radiant heated, of course, so that detail was slightly different than those memories of hers, studying abroad, living there in that gorgeous flat.

  In the spacious sea of tile was a clawfoot tub that she used every Sunday. Punctual and a creature of habit. That was her. To a tee.

  She patted her face down with an Egyptian cotton towel, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her age was showing. It was not the same twenty-year-old face that used to look back at her in Gay Paree. The one with the shining eyes, pixyish grin and baby-soft cheeks. Twenty years can do that. Lines were now showing in spots she could do nothing about. ‘Laugh lines’ is what her dermatologist called them. Smiling too much. What next, she wondered? Even smiling was now bad for her.

  She pulled her wavy auburn hair back and used a clip. It was still lustrous; her hair was one of her better features. She found her robe and slipped into it. She was slender and thin boned. Too skinny everyone said. She agreed. Some of those girlie curves she used to have were no longer so curvy. She needed to eat; put some meat on her bones. She could do that…

  Two pieces of unbuttered toast and one egg, sunny side up. Another ritual of hers. Hopefully, Yolanda already had it prepared.

  She put her slippers on. Clasped her diamond-studded timepiece. Far off, she heard the sound of the bell. It was the bell for the front door.

  She glanced at her watch. 7:37. Now who could be visiting at this hour?

  77

  THEY waited down the street and made sure that the kids were invited inside. They had a good view with their side-view mirrors.

  “Looks good,” Marks said.

  Lip put his Blackberry and laptop away; he’d taken care of every security camera that would have captured the drop off. He put their vehicle in Drive and pulled away from the curb. A moment later, they turned onto Kalorama Road and drove past the French Embassy. Britney Landers Childress lived in a very exclusive area of Washington. A stone’s throw from Adams Morgan and right next to G-town. The residents of these brownstones and freestanding stately homes were some of the most powerful and influential people you’d find in the entire Capital City; some would argue in the entire country.

  “How long you give it?” Lip said.

  “Seven minutes.”

  “I give eleven.”

  Marks was off. Lip was right on the money. Ten minutes and forty-two seconds later, while stuck in traffic, the phone beeped. ‘71’ popped up on the digital screen. Lip picked up the other disposable phone he had and hit speed dial. It routed through another line and waited for Lip to input the destination number. It was an old habit; use two relays. He put it on speaker.

  “Hello?”

  “Tomás… is that you?” The voice was female and familiar. That was what she called him: Tomás. Lip and Britney had met in Spain. For some reason she always preferred calling him by that affected name.

  “Hey Brit.”

  “Is this some sort of sick joke?” she said.

  Lip turned onto Massachusetts and proceeded forward at a crawl. “Did they tell you everything?”

  “Yes.” Her voice faltered.

  “Can you help them?” Lip said. “If they explained it, you know why I can’t be involved.”

  “So it’s true?” Britney’s voice wavered. “It’s horrible.”

  “I know. They need you, Brit. They’re good kids. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  A minute later, after a few more words, they clicked off. Lip tossed the phone in the back. He’d dispose of it shortly.

  “Kids are good,” Lip said.

  Marks smiled. “Nice work, but you do realize you just fully incriminated yourself, if this ever goes south.”

  “Won’t. She’ll get them home, probably in limos, or in a private plane, who knows. Besides, what did I really say? I didn’t admit to anything. I don’t know what the kids told her.”

  Lip turned onto K street. “Plausible deniability, partner. Plausible deniability.”

  BRITNEY Landers Childress. Lip knew all the details, past and current.

  He’d stayed abreast of her life. He knew—in addition to all the other causes she supported—that she was heavily involved with The Innocence Lost National Initiative. She was one of their principal private donors.

  The ILNI. Not even a byline in the papers and rarely profiled. But Lip knew the particulars. ILNI was a joint FBI and Justice Department operation that received funding from various undisclosed sources. The operation specialized in finding runaways and cracking down on child prostitution. They went after the pimps and lowlifes that preyed on children. It was a great cause. Just a few minutes ago, Lip had pulled up the most current info. Since 2003, ILNI had saved 1,480 kids.

  Make that 1,486. Britney’s association with the cause allowed six more to be chalked in the win column. Unofficially, of course.

  Britney, Lip knew, had a soft spot for kids. It was one of the dozens of reasons he’d fallen for her. Man, it had been nice to hear her voice.

  Marks looked over. “Thinking of what ifs?”

  Lip shrugged. “Never would have worked. Me? Come on. Beauty and the Beast, bro
ther. I was out of my league from day one.”

  Marks looked at him. “Hell you were, buddy.”

  They drove in silence. Next stop was what they should have done first. Pay a visit to Johnny Two-cakes’s house. Not that either of them were complaining about the order in the queue. Sometimes getting from A to B means you take a number.

  1,486.

  ‘Nuff said.

  78

  WOULD have been nice to drop off their gear and hit the showers, but logistics made hitting Johnny Two-cakes’s house the better call. It was close. Address was North Arlington. Just a stone’s throw from where they were. Back over Key Bridge, short hop on Route 66, and take an exit.

  “You remember the address?” Marks said.

  Lip tapped his head. “Like a vault, baby.”

  Marks pictured the Fed Ex envelope Marion had given them back in the beginning. Basic rule: don’t leave a stone unturned. They needed to exploit what they could. JTC’s crib might have the goods.

  Couldn’t get worse. Right now all they had was a bunch of random pieces. They needed something to glue them together.

  Those Russian goons had some sick operation going. Ransoming kids, filming them, then doing something else with them? Selling them? Who the hell to? What the hell for? And what was with the operating table, the coolers, the ice? Looked like another operation altogether—like some organ harvesting deal? The body parts in the buckets, which no doubt were intended to be chucked in the furnace? Kind of explained those other buckets he’d seen that had been cleaned out with bleach.

  Child prostitution. Organ harvesting. Half-assed theories, overshadowed with more questions: What was with the rats, that medieval-looking table? How did Marion fit into this? Something to do with Costa Rica and Johnny Two-cakes? What had he been doing down there?