The Traffickers

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “Jesus! Middle-schoolers? What is that, twelve, thirteen years old?”

  “Yeah. And sadly, it really wasn’t considered a ‘problem’ until cheese became chic in the suburbs, until kids there started getting strung out—and dying. And suddenly it was a problem. The difference was that the families in suburbia could by and large afford to send their kids off to a decent rehab. And having your golden straight-A teenager in drug rehab simply became a soccer mom’s dirty little secret.”

  “What drove the kids to do that?”

  “The usual. Peer pressure. The desire to fit a clique. That cute little blonde with the ponytail? The one trying to keep the weight off to make the cheer-leader or gymnastics squad? The cheese works like cocaine to suppress the appetite—plus the added benefit of a great high.”

  Payne shook his head. He drove along in silence.

  Is that what happened, ultimately, with Becca?

  Did Skipper do that to her?

  “So,” Payne finally said as he exited off the expressway, “getting back to the runner you collared at A and M.”

  “The punk had tried to throw away his cell phone during the chase; actually did toss it, but we recovered it. It was a pay-as-you-go one, paid for with cash. But the call list on the phone’s internal memory had a steady string of calls to the area codes here. And I’m betting that the phone records we subpoenaed from the cellular service provider will have more of them.”

  “What about the cache of texts?”

  Byrth nodded. “The text messages could have been a mini gold mine. But because this punk wasn’t very far up the ladder, there wasn’t much detail. When our computer forensic people worked on the memory chip, they uncovered a few new names and numbers and data that had been ‘deleted.’ So we’re working on connecting those dots.”

  Payne made the turn off Race onto Eighth, then just down the block made a left into the asphalt parking lot behind the Philadelphia Police Department headquarters.

  “Ah,” Byrth said. “So this is the famous Roundhouse.”

  Payne pulled into a slot marked HOMICIDE. He shut off the car and turned to Byrth. “So does that cover all of this El Gato’s MO?”

  Byrth shook his head. “Oh, hell no. Wait till you hear the good stuff. Starting with the sexual assault bordering on torture.”

  VII

  [ONE]

  826 Sears Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 3:51 P.M.

  Paco Esteban could hear the sounds of the crowd even before he unlocked and opened the front door of his home.

  Inside, he was not surprised to find that the voices belonged to eight members of his extended family, all women and all of whom had been in the laundromat that morning. Most filled the parlor in the back, sitting on the couch and in the stackable plastic chairs. Almost all were fingering a rosary. There was a Bible in one’s lap.

  All but one, who was sobbing into her hands, glanced at Esteban as he entered. They nodded, then went back to their noisy conversations.

  Paco Esteban walked into the kitchen, where he found Señora Salma Esteban. He smiled warmly at his wife as she approached him. He saw that her face was still puffy from crying. It was all the more evident as she’d pulled her dark hair back and pinned it into a bun. She wore the same dingy beige sleeveless cotton dress that she’d had on earlier.

  “What did you find out?” she asked in Spanish. “Did you find out who this evil man really is?”

  Paco Esteban went to his wife. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed affectionately. Then he kissed her softly on the cheek.

  “How is Rosario?” he said.

  She nodded. “Bueno. She is sleeping upstairs. What did you learn?”

  He kissed her cheek again.

  “My love, I went and met with Señor Nesbitt, the man who is the business partner of Señor Skipper.”

  “And?” she said anxiously.

  “And he said it will be all right. That I am not to do anything until he says.”

  “What!” Señora Salma Esteban almost screeched. She grabbed her husband’s sleeve and pulled him to the doorway leading to the parlor.

  She then said in rapid-fire Spanish: “Look at this! Our family! And their families! Everyone is terrified for their lives!”

  Paco Esteban saw some of the women look his way. And their eyes did indeed look terrified.

  He moved back into the kitchen, almost tugging along his wife with him. “My love, there is only so much that I can do. . . .”

  “Paco! We cannot live this way! We cannot be so fearful that we do not know what will happen to us the next minute.”

  “My love, it is not that I disagree with you. I would like answers, too. And peace. But Señor Nesbitt said that he would call me.” He pulled out the cell phone that Skipper Olde had given him. “He said for me not to do anything until he called.”

  “Where is Señor Skipper?” Salma Esteban said. “Why can he not help?”

  Paco Esteban shook his head. “He is in hospital, Señor Nesbitt said. He is unable to speak with me for now.”

  “Madre de Dios!” Salma Esteban exclaimed, looking at the ceiling.

  She looked back at her husband and said, “And now we have your sister’s daughter coming here!”

  The look of shock was apparent on Paco Esteban’s face.

  “You have forgotten this!” Salma Esteban said.

  He did not know what to say.

  “Maybe: My love, it has been a bad day”?

  Meekly, he nodded. “Sí. I am sorry. But it will be okay.”

  She began pacing the kitchen. She walked with her arms crossed, her hands nervously rubbing her upper arms.

  Paco Esteban tried to stop her and wrap his arms around her. This time she would not allow him to do so. Her tears had started again.

  “Paco! You must do something. You have always been able to do something when we’ve had difficulty. We cannot sit and wait like this. Please? You must go and do something . . . anything!”

  Yes, I have always thought that I could do something.

  But this is something very bad. Very evil.

  What could I possibly do?

  He heard wailing coming from the other room.

  Then he saw his wife’s face, her eyes darting in the direction of the parlor as she nodded sharply toward it.

  She’s saying, “There! See!”

  And she’s right. I must go.

  There was another wail.

  If only because I cannot stand much more of this here.

  “My love, you are right. I go now.”

  She went to him and hugged him. He felt her sobbing on his chest.

  When she finally pushed back, he saw her tears flowing down her cheek. They caused him to tear. He kissed the tears on her left check.

  Then he went to the kitchen drawer and removed the keys to the minivan.

  As a matter of habit—and because he could not immediately think of any other place to drive—he headed in the general direction of the laundromat.

  Along the way, he tried to think what his options were.

  Not many.

  He said prayers to God. He said prayers to every saint he could think of. Anyone who could help him think of how he could begin to find this evil man.

  And still he came up with nothing.

  As he drove north on Broad Street and came closer to the laundromat on Susquehanna, the knot in his stomach became bigger and tighter.

  He was not sure if that was because he was getting closer to the scene of where the evil man had turned their lives upside down, or because he was getting farther from finding any solution.

  Then he saw the sign for the business that shared a wall with Sudsie’s—the Temple Gas & Go.

  And he suddenly realized that Rosario had already given him the answer.

  Praise God!

  He continued driving up Broad Street. He made a right on Erie Avenue, headed for Castor Avenue.

  Paco “El Nariz” Esteban pulled the minivan up to the
island of gas pumps at the Gas & Go in the 3900 block of Castor Avenue.

  It was the same convenience store, of course, where the previous Thursday Rosario had run for her life. And had jumped into Paco’s minivan.

  Later, when Rosario had told Paco and Salma Esteban her stories, she had described how she and Ana had been kept at an old row house somewhere in the city. She did not know where in Philadelphia. Nor did she have a good idea of where in the city she and Rosario and the other girls were taken to work. Only that they were all some type of convenience store with regular customers.

  But Paco Esteban knew the exact location of this particular Gas & Go. And he had decided that all he had to do was wait for the car or van—Rosario said they used a van—to pick up the girls. Then he could follow it back to that prison of a row house.

  And that would lead him to the evil man who Rosario said called himself El Gato.

  What I will do then, I do not know.

  But first I must find him.

  God help me . . .

  El Nariz turned off the vehicle, opened the door, and got out. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill to prepay for his gasoline.

  Then he walked to the door of the convenience store.

  As he grabbed the metal handle, he suddenly realized he was not only scared. He was terrified. He was sweating, and it wasn’t because of the hot late-afternoon sun. This sweat, he noticed with some unpleasantness, had a foul smell to it.

  He understood why he was terrified.

  It was only early this morning that the evil man almost shot me.

  What would happen if it is him inside this store?

  He shook his head and tried to be reasonable.

  But what chances are there of that?

  I do not know.

  And that also scares me.

  He pulled open the door and walked in with all the confidence he could muster. He found that he was forcing himself to focus looking ahead, on the counter with the cash register. He did not want to look to the right, to the corner. The last time, that was where, under a sign with an arrow to the XXX video room, the Hispanic male in his midtwenties stood, keeping an intense watch on the door he just came in.

  The pungent kimchee and garlic smells still hung heavily in the air. But the arrogant young Asian man wasn’t behind the register. Now there was an older Asian who looked to be maybe forty. And not so arrogant, like the other one, who acted as if he had something to prove.

  As El Nariz stood at the counter, he had the sensation that he was being stared at. The feeling did not help ease his nerves.

  He gave the man at the register the twenty-dollar bill and said, “Unleaded.”

  The man nodded, then put the bill under a clip on the wall behind him that was labeled UNLEADED. Next to it was a similar clip, labeled SUPREME. Then the man punched buttons on the machine connected to the gas pumps that would allow El Nariz to pump twenty bucks’ worth of fuel.

  Maybe he will not try cheating me of my money this time.

  The arrogant young one last time did not use those clips.

  As Paco Esteban turned from the register, he tried to scan the store casually. He kept his head down so as not to make any eye contact.

  But there they were: a pair of impossibly young Latinas who looked somewhat like Rosario.

  They cannot be fourteen!

  I pray for you. . . .

  They sat at the same folding table, absently flipping through old magazines.

  And there in the corner was a Hispanic male keeping watch.

  Not El Gato.

  But I think not the one from last week, either.

  Paco Esteban, head down, went quickly to the door and outside.

  As he worked the gas pump, removing the hose handle and turning the lever, he tried to calm himself. His heart was beating heavily. His hands were clammy.

  Okay, so they are there.

  Now what?

  I pump my twenty dollars and leave?

  Then what?

  He scanned the area, trying desperately to decide what to do next.

  And Señor Nesbitt said to do nothing.

  Maybe that is what a smart man would do.

  Señor Nesbitt is a smart man.

  Maybe if I could show him what is happening here . . .

  Pictures!

  If only I could get a picture of the young girls and their guard.

  Then I show them to Rosario. If she knows the girls or the guard, then I tell Señor Nesbitt.

  Such a smart man could get the pictures to someone who could help them.

  But how do I get pictures?

  And how do I go back inside if the man does not try to cheat me?

  I would be expected to put in twenty dollars, then leave.

  He heard his cell phone ringing. He glanced inside the minivan. The phone was where he’d left it in the cup holder on the dash.

  He let go of the pump handle and opened the driver’s side door. He grabbed the phone, but the call had already gone into voice mail. He looked at the phone, waiting to read who had called.

  Then he noticed the tiny glass circle on the phone’s back.

  The camera lens!

  I can use the camera of the phone!

  But how do I go back in the store? To buy a Coke? A beer?

  That may not look good. . . .

  The screen lit up, and he read that it was his wife who had called.

  She I can call back.

  She is probably asking what I have done.

  With luck, soon I have something to tell her.

  He slipped the phone into his pocket and went back to the pump handle. He looked at the register on the pump. It read $14.50.

  That is it! I overpay. And now I must go back in for my change.

  Paco Esteban had his cell phone to his ear as he walked back through the Gas & Go’s door. He had it up to his right ear, his right thumb on the button that triggered the camera to capture an image. At the pump island, he had gone through the camera menu to ensure that the camera sounds were muted. Now he casually spoke to no one on the phone while thumbing the camera button repeatedly as he crossed the floor.

  At the register, he held the phone to his chest so that there was no chance the Asian would see the screen with a photograph of the store.

  When he had explained he’d had more gas in the minivan than he’d thought because the gas gauge never worked, the Asian man nodded. The man pulled the twenty from the clip marked UNLEADED and made change.

  El Nariz moved his phone to his left hand. Then he took his six-fifty and stuffed it into his left front pants pocket.

  “Gracias,” he said.

  He put the phone to his left ear, put his thumb to the camera button, then snapped away as he walked casually to the front door.

  And went out it—smiling for the first time in a long time.

  Five minutes later, after parking down the street just out of sight of the Gas & Go, he walked to the alleyway behind the shopping strip.

  Each of the steel doors along the back side of the shopping strip had some sort of signage. A few read NO DELIVERIES FROM 11 TO 2. Others read NO PARKING! DO NOT BLOCK! And almost all had the name of the business that they belonged to.

  El Nariz found the one that read GAS & GO. Then, keeping what he thought was a safe distance, he found a spot to sit between three big trash Dumpsters. It was smelly there. But he already reeked from the nervous sweating. And this spot provided him with a good view of the back doors to the Gas & Go. There was even a cracked mop bucket that, turned upside down, he could use for a seat.

  With luck, tonight I see something.

  Maybe get a picture of what van they drive.

  Maybe get the license plate.

  He smiled.

  Maybe even follow them to the row house.

  Then he started looking through the photographs he’d just taken with the phone to see how they had come out.

  [TWO]

  Philadelphia Police He
adquarters Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 4:04 P.M.

  “On behalf of the department, Sergeant Byrth, allow me to say that it’s an honor for us to be able to help out our Texas brethren in any way,” Lieutenant Jason Washington intoned as he shook the Texas Ranger’s hand. “Any friend of Liz Justice, et cetera, et cetera. And I have the utmost confidence that Sergeant Payne here will see to it that you have everything you need during your visit to the City of Brotherly Love.”

  Payne, as he’d promised Washington on the phone, had brought Byrth to the Homicide Unit on the second floor of the Roundhouse. The three were in Washington’s glass-walled office.

  “I appreciate that very much, Lieutenant,” Jim Byrth replied.

  “And, please, call me Jason,” Washington said, waving them both into chairs.

  Byrth nodded once. “Only if you’ll call me Jim.”

  “Very well, Jim.” Washington paused, and looked to be gathering his thoughts. “I have some understanding as to why you’re here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Byrth said, but his inflection made it more of a question.

  “And I’m afraid you may have arrived a little late,” Washington went on.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Just shy of noon today, one of our Marine Unit vessels recovered the headless body of a young Hispanic female from the Schuylkill River.”

  “Fuck!” Byrth angrily blurted. His face was clearly furious—his squinted eyes cold and hard, his brow furrowed.

  “Sonofabitch,” Payne added with his own look of disgust.

  Byrth then relaxed somewhat and said, “Jason, please forgive that outburst, it’s just—”

  Washington motioned with his right hand in a gesture that said, No apology necessary. “That word has been thrown around here once or twice. Even I, in a fit of anger or frustration, have been known to make use of it.”

  “I’m not apologizing,” Payne said. “That’s just despicable. What animal does that? And to a young girl?”

  “I want this guy bad,” Byrth said.

  Washington looked Byrth in the eyes a long moment, then said, “As unsettling as the thought is, there’s always the possibility that it’s another doer. But whoever did it, I agree with you, Jim. We both, as you say, want him bad.”