“Shit,” he said. “A key. Bolt cutters. Anything.”
“Watch out.” Windermere pushed him aside, raised her Glock. Stevens ducked away, heard the gunshot, the splinter of steel. “Boom,” Windermere said, reholstering her gun. “Who needs keys?”
They cleared the shards of lock free and unlatched the door. Then they looked at each other. “Ready, partner?” Windermere said.
“Hurry,” Stevens told her. “For God’s sake.”
She pulled the latch clear and swung open the door. A dark passage. A basement stairwell. Bingo, Stevens thought. Here’s the mother lode.
The stairs were creaky. They were creepy. The basement smelled of must and mildew and stale urine and worse. Stevens took the steps slow, kept his hand at his holster. Hit the bottom and stopped cold.
“Holy,” he said. “Holy shit.”
A low ceiling. Dim lighting. More boxes. And girls everywhere.
Teenagers, all of them, every girl in a short dress and heels, heavy makeup. They huddled together beneath bare lightbulbs, the last of the Dragon’s human cargo. Stevens stared at them, couldn’t move at first, couldn’t help them. Just stood there and thought about his daughter, and felt suddenly, overwhelmingly, tired.
156
CATALINA DIDN’T HUG her big sister the moment they were reunited. She slapped her.
“You are a stupid cow,” she said, flailing against Irina’s upturned arms. “A stupid, gullible, selfish cow.”
The FBI agent held her arms. Pulled her away. “You nearly got us killed,” Catalina told her sister. “Mother and father, too. And for what? So you could be famous in this stupid country?”
Irina lowered her arms. Said nothing, just looked at her sister, skinny and anxious and exhausted, and Catalina instantly felt guilty. Ashamed. She relaxed her body, felt the FBI agent release his grip on her. “I’m sorry,” she said.
It had been two long days since the FBI agents had pulled her away from Volovoi’s body. Catalina had spent them in an FBI building somewhere in New York City, though she hadn’t gone willingly.
She’d argued with the police for hours and hours. Forced the translator, Dr. Fidatov, to harass the cops for her, until he was sick and tired and refused to relay one more demand. So she kicked him out, demanded a new translator. Fidatov had stuck around, though. He moaned and cursed and muttered under his breath, but he didn’t leave her.
And why would he? He knew the situation was dire. Thirty girls abandoned in the Dragon’s warehouse, and the FBI wanted to feed her milk and cookies and talk about her feelings? Madness. She’d refused them. Hadn’t talked. Had shaken off all but one of their cookies, until a tired-looking FBI agent came into the room and told her the girls were alive.
“All of them,” Fidatov translated. “The FBI found the warehouse in the East Village.”
“And they’re alive,” Catalina said. “Dorina is alive?”
“They’re all alive. Every one of them. The FBI tracked them all down, thanks to you. So now you can cooperate, yes?”
Catalina felt like a chunk of concrete had been lifted from her chest. The girls were safe. Dorina was safe. Her parents, the FBI assured her, were safe. Even Irina was fine.
Fidatov watched her. The FBI agent stood at the door, an eyebrow raised. They wanted her cooperation. But Catalina wasn’t ready to give it.
“No,” she told the translator. “I want my sister.”
> > >
IT TOOK ANOTHER DAY for the FBI to fly Irina to New York. By this point, Catalina had given up her hunger strike, but she had no time, still, for the army of analysts who paraded through her room, asking how she felt and how afraid she’d been, whether she’d had any dreams.
“My sister,” she told them all. “I want to see my sister.”
She’d waited, impatient. She dreamed of Irina, not of the bearded devil. He was dead, and so was his flat-faced friend. She knew it. She’d seen it. They couldn’t hurt her anymore.
So, no, she wasn’t afraid. She just missed her sister.
And then, the next day, the door to her little interview room opened, and the FBI agent ushered Irina in. She was pretty as ever, far prettier than Catalina, and she appeared far less pale, far less hungry than Catalina felt.
And suddenly, Catalina felt mad.
It was Irina who had done this, who had wanted so badly to be famous in America. It was concern for Irina and her stupid dreams that had brought Catalina to this country in the first place, to the box, to the brink of death. And now she was here, well-fed and tanned, and Catalina wanted to slap her.
So she did.
She slapped her sister until she felt stupid. Then she slunk back and caught her breath, aware of the FBI agent’s eyes on her. She looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Then she said it again, because Irina was crying. And she’d wriggled free of the FBI agent, and then she really was hugging her sister, and feeling awful for being such a cow.
Irina hugged her back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m the one who’s sorry, Catya.”
And Catalina felt her defenses crumble, and then she was crying, too. Like a useless emotional little girl.
Shut up. You can cry now. After all of this, you’re allowed to cry.
So they cried. They cried until they were out of tears, and then they pulled themselves apart and dried their eyes, and Catalina told Irina about Bogdan and Nikolai, Andrei Volovoi and the Dragon, and Irina told Catalina about Mathers and Nancy Stevens and Maria. And when Irina was finished, she regarded the small interview room and made a face.
“I don’t know why I believed them,” she said. “The men in Bucharest. This is not paradise.”
“This?” Catalina said, gesturing to the room. “No, it certainly is not.”
“Not just here,” Irina said. “America. What’s so special? I miss Mother and Father. I want to go home.”
Catalina hugged her again. “I want to go with you.”
157
MATHERS WAS WAITING in the arrivals area at Minneapolis–Saint Paul International. Windermere glanced at Stevens and sighed. “Until next time, partner.”
Stevens followed her eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Back to reality. You going to be okay?”
“’Course I will,” she told him. “I’d rather go home to my crummy love life than to your daughter’s rampant hormones.”
“Christ.” Stevens made a face. “What am I going to do, Carla?”
“Talk to her,” she said. “She’s a smart girl. You make sure she’s making good decisions, and then you get out of her way. You can’t postpone the inevitable.”
“I can try.”
“You’ll fail.” She hugged him. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Harris wants us in bright and early, start cleaning up the rest of the Dragon’s buyers. Maybe working with Interpol to chase down that Mike bastard.”
Stevens hugged her back. “Sure,” he said. “Bright and early.”
“Gonna be another needle-and-haystack gig. Get some rest.”
Stevens shook Mathers’s hand, shot a wave to them both. Shouldered his carry-on and disappeared into the crowd of passengers walking out of the terminal. Windermere watched him go. Then she turned back to Mathers. “Hey.”
Mathers gave her a half-smile. “Hey.”
She looked around the terminal, avoiding his eyes. She’d been thinking about this moment for days now, half dreading it, the other half counting down the minutes. Now she was here, he was here, and she didn’t know what to say.
“So you tracked down Irina,” she said finally. “Someone said you even learned some Romanian.”
Mathers grinned. “They tell me my accent’s atrocious,” he said. “Listen.” He said something unintelligible.
“Sounded okay to me,” she said, shrugging.
He reached for her bag. “
Just the carry-on?”
“Yeah,” she said. Let him lift it and carry it toward the exit.
> > >
SHE LET HIM DRIVE HER HOME. Let him park in a visitor stall and carry her bag up to her condo. She unlocked the door and let him follow her in, let him crack a beer for her, let him pour it, let him bring her the glass in the living room. Then he sat, not beside her on the couch, but in the easy chair she never used, the chair she figured would be good for socializing if she ever grew up and got any real friends.
“So?” he said, leaning forward, hands clasped.
“So.” She drank her beer. “So, I don’t know, Mathers.”
“I’m sorry I fucked up your case,” he said.
She nodded. “I know.”
“And I’m sorry I made everything complicated, with work and stuff. I know it’s the last thing you need.”
She drank some more beer. “I know.”
“And—” He stood and walked to the window, rubbing his hands together. “I’m sorry about all of this. The emotional stuff. You said you don’t want a boyfriend, I should have listened. Not fair that I pushed you into something you don’t want.”
She could feel his eyes on her. Knew he’d been saving this up, rehearsing it probably. Knew it wasn’t easy to say.
But she couldn’t look at him. She wanted to, but she just couldn’t. “I know,” she said. She drank again. “It’s fine, Derek.”
“‘Fine.’” Mathers stared at her a moment. “Okay,” he said finally. “So I’ll just go.”
Windermere closed her eyes. Contemplated the thought of her empty apartment, night falling, nobody to talk to. The thought of Mathers somewhere far away, pulling some badge bunny out of a bar. Contemplated him happy with somebody else, and her alone and empty in this soulless apartment.
She heard Mathers sigh again, heard his footsteps cross the living room toward the door. And now she wasn’t seeing herself in her mind anymore, or Mathers. She was seeing the terrified teenage girls climbing out of the basement in Alphabet City, the dark-eyed women in the box on the freighter, in the brothels in Billings and Duluth.
She was seeing Irina Milosovici, Catalina, their thin faces, their haunted eyes. And she knew she didn’t want to be alone.
“Don’t go,” she said without opening her eyes. “Mathers. Please.”
There was a pause from the door. Windermere waited, could feel his eyes on her. Could almost read the thoughts running through his head.
The pause stretched for miles. She felt her heart pounding. Then the floorboards creaked and Mathers was beside her. She opened her eyes and let him hold her.
158
STEVENS CAUGHT A CAB back to Saint Paul. Sat in the backseat with the window down, the sun and the wind on his face, and realized he was glad to be home.
The cabbie let him off behind his red Cherokee, still dirty with road dust from the trip to lake country. The passenger seats were littered with candy bar wrappers, old comic books—the kids still hadn’t cleaned up from the drive.
Nancy’s Taurus wasn’t around. At work, he figured. Give him a chance to clean up a little, shave, get some dinner going and surprise her when she came home.
He was thinking about it, trying to plan a decent meal, as he walked up the front steps and unlocked the door, as he kicked off his shoes, said hi to the dog, and walked into the kitchen, where Andrea sat on the counter, drinking a soda and talking to Calvin, who stood by the back door.
Stevens thought the kid was going to make a run for it. His eyes went wide, and he turned to Andrea, searching for a lifeline. Andrea gave her dad a look like a popped balloon. She slid down from the counter. “Okay, Dad,” she said. “Calvin’s just leaving.”
She tried to slip past him. Stevens held out his hand. “Hold up,” he said. “I just got home. You haven’t seen me in days. This is how you say hello?”
She rolled her eyes. “Hi, Dad. Can we go now?”
Stevens let her pass. Watched her disappear through the front hall with Calvin. This is not how this is supposed to be, he thought. He straightened. “Calvin.”
A pause. Then reluctant footsteps. The kid poked his head through the doorway. “Mr. S.?”
“Come in here a second,” he said. Andrea appeared at the doorway, and he shook his head. “Not you, daughter. Just Calvin.”
Calvin glanced back at Andrea once. Then, slowly, he shuffled into the room. “Yeah?”
Stevens ran through every mean-dad cliché he could think of. Wondered which one fit the current scenario. Calvin stood waiting, hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts, eyes downcast. “Look,” Stevens said, “I don’t like this any more than you do, but it’s gotta be done, understand?”
Calvin nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want to be a hard-ass. Not here. I play cop all day. The last thing I need is to be a policeman at home.” He paused. “That’s my wife’s job.”
Calvin nodded again. “Okay.”
“Look at me, son.”
Calvin looked up. He was a young kid. Gangly and awkward-looking, a little bit of acne and an unfortunate blush. Probably worked up every ounce of courage just to ask Andrea out. “Good,” Stevens said. “Now, what’s your business with my daughter?”
“Sir?”
“Your business, Calvin. Your intentions.” Stevens eyed the kid. “What are you hoping to achieve here?”
Calvin studied the floor again. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never thought about it. Andrea’s just cool, is all.”
“You like lots of girls, Calvin?”
From the hallway, Andrea exhaled, loud. Stevens ignored her. Calvin blushed redder. “No, sir,” he said. “Not really.”
“Have lots of girlfriends? Are you some kind of player?”
“Me?” Calvin laughed. “You have the wrong guy, Mr. S.”
“Okay, then,” Stevens said. “So you like Andrea. What do you like about her, exactly?”
“She’s, I dunno—she’s smart,” Calvin said. “And she’s funny.” He looked up at Stevens. “Really, she is. She’s the funniest girl in our grade. And she doesn’t take any shit—I mean crap. Sorry.”
Stevens waved him off. “Go on.”
“And, I don’t know, she likes cool stuff,” Calvin said. “She likes to do cool things.”
“Like fool around in the living room when her parents aren’t home.”
Stevens thought the kid might die in front of him. “No,” he said. “Like go for bike rides and stuff. Watch old movies. Cool stuff. A lot of girls are just into makeup and hair.” He looked pleadingly at Stevens. “That was just the one time, I swear. I’ll never—you don’t have to worry—it won’t happen again—”
“Forget it,” Stevens said. “Andrea, get in here.”
Another long beat. Then Andrea came in. She stood beside Calvin and stared at her father, her mouth set, her eyes defiant, and Stevens again wondered when he’d become the enemy.
“First of all,” he said. He cleared his throat. “First of all, I know you guys are going to fool around, okay? I’m not stupid, and you’re not twelve anymore. I know this.”
Andrea grimaced. “Mortifying. So, so mortifying.”
“You gotta know, though, that this is tough for me. I see things out there that turn my stomach, Andrea. I see people using each other. Hurting each other. I don’t want that for you. For either of you.”
He regarded them both. Andrea’s eyes were still hard, but her posture had softened. Calvin still looked like the kid in the principal’s office.
“Just make good decisions,” Stevens said. “You know what I mean. Don’t rush into something just because everyone else is doing it. Use protection. And for God’s sake, don’t make it all about sex. This stuff is way better when there’s feelings behind it, trust me.”
“Gross,” Andrea said.
“Whatever,” Stevens told her. “‘Gross’ is walking in on your daughter and her boyfriend playing grab-ass. I don’t want that, and neither do you. So just, you know, be smart. If you expect to be treated like an adult when it comes to your relationship with Calvin, be ready to act like an adult when it comes to your mother and me. Be respectful to us, and we’ll try to be accommodating back, okay?”
“Fine,” Andrea said. “Fine. Okay. Can I go?”
“Not yet,” he said.
She made another face. “Dad.”
“I just got home from a terrible case,” he told her. “Give your old dad a hug and tell him you’ll be all right.”
Andrea hesitated. Glanced at Calvin and then gave up and came to Stevens, wrapped him in a bear hug. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said into his shirt. “I’m glad you saved those girls.”
Stevens hugged her back. Felt, suddenly, like he was home. Like everything, just then, was all right in the world. “I missed you, kiddo,” he told her. He gave her one more squeeze. “Now get out of here,” he said. “Go play outside or something. We’re making your boyfriend uncomfortable.”
Andrea rolled her eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend, Dad.” Then she was out the door, Calvin trailing behind, and Stevens listened to the sound of their footsteps through the hall and out the front door, heard their laughter as they ran down the steps into the yard.
Home, he thought. At last.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I feel immensely blessed to have an agent who is willing to knuckle down and get her hands dirty when there’s work to be done. This book owes so much to Stacia Decker; her wisdom, encouragement, and editorial acumen brought these characters, and this story, to life.
A heartfelt thanks, also, to Neil Nyren, the best editor in the business, and to Ivan Held, Katie Grinch, Sara Minnich, Christopher Nelson, Rob Sternitzky, and everyone at Putnam, whose faith and enthusiasm has enabled me to take Stevens and Windermere places I never would have dared imagine.
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