by Elle Keaton
Master Bakker was a small, round man in his late fifties with a friendly face. Joey remembered seeing him on the local news. He had been against the schism and very vocal about it. Joey took an instant liking to the man. The office he was escorted to was bright and modern; a new calendar on the wall displayed places of worship around the world.
“The parishioners who voted to leave were those who fear change the most. The world they grew up in, insular and safe, has vanished over the past few years. No longer are we a homogenous community, but a community of the world. This church has embraced this change: women in leadership roles, same-sex marriage, accepting that the beliefs of others enhance our own beliefs instead of detracting from them. God is in all of us, after all.”
He stopped for a moment, thinking. “It was a dark day for me when these members, many of whom I had known for years, voted against acceptance. In all honesty, I thought about resigning my position. I felt betrayed, as if I had been able to pass nothing along. After contemplation and, if am to be honest, much frank discussion, I realized I was being selfish. Wanting a legacy of sorts, believing it had dissipated before my very eyes brought me to my senses. I know now, I don’t need a legacy, what is important is what I do in this lifetime.”
This didn’t sound like a group of people who would foster child prostitution, so much as a group who refused to see the world was becoming a bigger place then they were equipped to deal with.
Joey hesitated. Sighed. Hesitated. He looked Master Bakker over, trying to give weight to his initial feeling that he was trustworthy. He thought about how Adam was going to kill him in seven different ways if he found out what Joey was up to; about Konstantin and the nightmares that haunted him almost every night.
“Thank you, Master Bakker, for being so candid with me. I’m sure my inquiry seemed strange.”
“My pleasure, Joey. Please feel free to visit, or come one Sunday; you would be more than welcome.”
Back out on the street in the dimming afternoon light, Joey was at a loss. He believed he was on the right track, but this church was not the one. He was beginning to wonder if he had the right idea at all. What if Kon thinking he was going to “church” was just a weird red herring? What if—ugh, what if he was wrong about everything? Crap on a shingle.
He only had one more day off before he was expected to report back to work. Just twenty-four hours and he would be back to his regular routine. Whatever Adam’s team had told the hospital administration must have been ironclad; they hadn’t even tried to call him to cover overtime or call-outs. He hadn’t had to explain about the missing medications, either; apparently, Adam had made it sound like Joey was working with the team the entire time.
He was probably going to have to thank Adam for that one of these days. Dammit. But keeping his job was a pretty big deal, after all.
Standing at his mom’s car lost in thought, he was caught off guard when he heard a voice call his name. He spun around to find Weir directly behind him.
“What the hell are you up to this time?”
His face flushed hot. He found himself stuttering as he tried to come up with a plausible reason why he would be standing on the street outside the Dutch Reformed Church of Skagit Valley. Nothing was coming to mind. “Uh, uh.” He floundered for words.
“That’s what I thought. Get in the car.”
Joey groaned and unlocked the doors while Weir went around to the other side and got in.
“Just what the hell do you think you are doing? Again?” Weir’s voice rose with indignation.
Great; he was going to get chewed out by the baby cop. Just what he needed. Weir was a conundrum to Joey. He was a few years younger than Joey, which made Joey wonder how long he had been a federal agent. A little above average height, with messy, sun-kissed blond hair. He donned the required suit and tie but he had an extra something that made him appear just a little sharper than the others. Joey wasn’t sure how he managed it with his too-long hair and surfer drawl.
“I was just—”
“Stop. Right. There. Drive; head toward the Booking Room.”
“Um—”
“Adam dropped me off,” he snapped.
Oh, fuck. “Oh, fuck.”
“Dude, you have no idea. He had me ambush you so he wouldn’t kill you in public.”
If Joey had ever wondered what condemned criminals felt like as they were led to the gallows, he wondered no longer. A knot formed in his stomach. The closer they drew to the café the sicker he felt.
What had he been thinking? He’d been thinking with his heart, with the part of him that hated pain and suffering, with the part of him that fiercely protected those he loved. Sacha might have apologized for dragging him into this mess, but Joey was staying involved, trying to find the bastard who treated human beings like so much trash.
Maybe he’d been stupid to go there on his own; he had been stupid to assume no one was following up, that Adam and his team were giving up, but it wasn’t stupid to care. That’s how he was built: he cared, often too much and too soon. As evidenced by whatever wasn’t happening between him and Buck. He’d gotten a few texts over the last week, but the longer he went without seeing Buck the easier it was to believe he was being ghosted.
Unfortunately, he found a parking spot right in front of the café. Before they got out of the car Weir turned toward him, his expression surprisingly kind. “I get it. I really do, but understand that Adam is coming from a different place as team leader. He is a passionate investigator. He will see this through. Often, solving cases doesn’t happen at the pace we want. Sometimes we don’t catch the bad guy, but I’ve never worked a case with Adam where I didn’t think he went balls-out. He doesn’t close cases. He keeps them all in the back of his mind waiting for the perp to make a mistake, or for an unexplored angle to pop up. I promise.”
Promises. He’d been made those before.
Feeling as if all eyes were on him, Joey pulled open the door to the café. Adam was seated next to the window. Micah was there, too, at a separate table, working on his laptop.
“Have a seat.” Adam leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. Not relaxed; a big cat ready to strike.
“I really should have you arrested for interfering with an ongoing investigation,” he grumbled. “But I’m not.” He sighed, relaxing somewhat.
Weir brought two coffees to the table, putting one in front of Joey before he, too, pulled up a chair. Great.
Adam leaned forward, elbows now on the tabletop. “I understand. Not only are you invested in the outcome of this investigation, you have been actively involved. Weir, remind me to shoot one of Sacha Bolic’s knees out after he recovers from losing his spleen. Anyway, I get it. But you can’t, Joey. You need to step back and let us take care of the rest.”
Joey opened his mouth to reply, but shut it when he saw Micah glance over, a warning look on his face.
“If I could assure you we are only a few steps behind this guy, that we are going to be making an arrest in the very near future, would you be able to quit poking your nose into extremely dangerous dens?” Adam paused, looking at nothing while he considered what else to say. “Actually, let’s go for a ride.”
Okaaay.
They piled into Joey’s borrowed car, Weir demanding the keys before Joey could slide behind the wheel. Adam and Micah crammed themselves into the back. The CRV was not designed for this much testosterone.
“Where to?” Weir asked.
“Anywhere. Out to the rose garden.”
A beautiful park established in the early 1900s, the rose garden was renowned for hundreds if not thousands of varieties of the nation’s flower. None of which would be in bloom this time of year. Also, most likely there would be no other visitors, with temperatures hovering around forty degrees and the constant threat of a downpour.
While Weir drove, Joey fiddled with the satellite radio, finally settling on a classic ’90s station just as they were pulling through the park’s delicately craft
ed wrought-iron gates. The four of them got out, Adam leading them toward one of three wooden gazebos dotting the park.
Adam motioned for him to sit down. Micah and Weir fled like the cowards they were to the other side of the structure. Joey frowned at them.
“Like I said at the café, I get it. We all do, but you have to stop or you are going to put more people than just yourself in danger. These guys have been at this a while. As far as we have been able to discover, smuggling adolescents into the States is new—this may even be the first shipment—but they have been active in the sex industry for years. It’s bad, Joey. The ringleaders are going to prison for a very long time. But they won’t get their just deserts unless you back away. They are already on high alert; we don’t need another casualty. They won’t hesitate to kill you. Their carefully built world is quickly unraveling.”
While Adam was talking, it began to rain. Heavy drops hammered the gazebo’s wooden roof. The sound was soothing, something Joey had listened to all his life.
“I’m sorry if I interfered. I didn’t . . . I didn’t think.” He felt miserable.
“Joey,” Adam stopped pacing around to sit next to him on the bench, “you have a huge, caring heart. We all can see it. You just gotta stop using it to think with all the time.”
Jesus, Adam was trying to comfort him? Was the world was coming to an end? Nobody had informed him. Suppressing a knee-jerk reaction to ask if this was the real Adam or an impostor, Joey nodded his understanding.
Which was why Adam’s next question caught him off guard.
“What is happening with you and Buck Swanfeldt?”
“What?”
“You two seemed pretty tight the few times I saw you together, and now, well, you look pretty miserable.”
“He said he needed time,” Joey blurted out, hating how pathetic he sounded.
“For what it’s worth, I think the guy is genuine. He called Micah asking for a therapist referral.”
Right. Micah had gone to therapy after his family’s tragic car accident.
“Sometimes a guy needs to sort out his demons on his own. Time means he’s not using you as a crutch but wants to be with you as a partner.”
“Yeah.” Joey stared into the rain with unseeing eyes, playing back the last two weeks. “It’s been a wild ride.”
“I have the impression Buck is not so much the wild-ride type. Give him time,” Adam jabbed a finger into Joey’s shoulder, “and if I fucking catch you anywhere but work or home over the next few days I will personally end you.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
Remarkably, Joey felt better after Adam’s pep talk, not that he would be awarding him humanitarian of the year anytime soon. Adam was right; Buck had asked for time, and Joey needed to give him that and quit overthinking. He dropped the three of them back at the Booking Room before heading back to his mom and Konstantin.
Thirty-Eight
In the days, and then weeks, that followed, Buck struggled. Seeing Dr. Clark was the right thing to do, but it was hard work, and for the first time in his life Buck found himself impatient. Today he was going to talk to her about Joey.
He missed Joey.
Missed him a lot. The nightmares had slowed. He was no longer waking himself from horrifying dreams where he would find himself back in the house with Andriy and then Andriy’s battered face would morph into Joey’s and Buck would startle himself awake, sobbing. More and more commonly, his dreams starred his father. Dr. Clark said this was normal; he was finally coming to terms with his father’s actions. Dreaming was his brain’s way of purging.
He wished his brain could figure out a different way to express itself. Miguel had been a rock for him. More than once, the first few nights after the fight, he’d woken to find Miguel in his room shaking him awake, bringing him a glass of water, asking him if he wanted to talk. He had never dreamed so much. Mostly it was exhausting, but more recently he had awakened refreshed with the tail end of something pleasant just outside the reach of his waking mind.
Last night he’d had a vivid dream about Joey. He squirmed thinking about it. The sheets had been slippery when he finally surfaced. Red-faced, Buck had stripped his bed, stuffing the bedding in the washing machine before taking an extra-hot shower. He wasn’t sure he had ever had a dream like that before.
“Buck? Are you ready?” Dr. Clark called.
When he stepped out onto the pavement in front of Dr. Clark’s office he felt light. Maybe more than he had in his entire life. Now he just needed a plan. Buck did nothing without a plan. Unbelievably, he was looking forward to his next therapy session. Things were moving in the right direction.
Checking his phone before starting the Mustang, he was surprised to see several missed calls from a number he recognized.
“Buck,” Adam answered immediately.
“Adam, what’s going on?” Buck was imagining all sorts of dire situations, mostly ones involving Joey going off on unsanctioned detective missions with no one (i.e., himself) to watch his back. He felt sick to his stomach.
“I thought it would be best if you heard from me that arrests are being made this afternoon. Not how I normally handle things. However, since you and Joey managed to insert yourselves I thought you should be among the first to know.”
Buck was stunned. If he hadn’t already been sitting down, he would have had to.
“You still there?”
“Um, yeah, sorry. I’m here.” He didn’t know what to say.
“Anyway, I can’t tell you any more than that at this point, but you might want to watch the news tonight.” Adam clicked off.
Driving back to Skagit was a blur. Lost in thought, Buck navigated the sweeping hills and turns on autopilot. He halfheartedly tried to find a news station, but his radio kept cutting out and he got frustrated. He passed a mobile news van emblazoned with the logo of a Seattle station powering north on I-5.
He turned off the highway and headed along Steele Street toward the garage. He had been leaving Miguel in charge while he went to his therapy appointments. It was good for both of them. Miguel needed to get out of the house, and Buck needed to delegate more. Kevin and Dom were doing great, but Buck wasn’t anywhere near ready to leave them on their own.
Miguel’s stitches had come out last week, but he was under strict orders not to do anything strenuous, such as work, with that hand. In fact, the doctor seemed to have second sight when it came to Miguel, requiring that he keep his hand protected in a sling for another seven days. Buck had snorted when Miguel told him how Dr. Williams had pinned him with a knowing look.
“That means anything strenuous, Mr. Ramirez.”
“What are you referring to?” Miguel had asked innocently.
“It means, if you want your hand to fully recover without surgery, no messing around.”
“Yeah, okay. No fun times.”
Buck was the one to blush at the innuendo. He needed to get on with his life if that was all it took.
His curiosity over Adam’s phone call getting the better of him, he stopped at the Beaver instead of heading directly to the garage. The normally loud bar was eerily hushed; the patrons’ attention glued to breaking news on the TV. He could have heard a pin drop, it was so quiet.
Ed Schultz and his buddies Don and Tim were at their regular table. They motioned for Buck to join them.
“Micah’s on his way,” Ed said out of the side of his mouth, eyes never straying from the screen.
Keeping his voice low, Ed leaned close. “There’s been a bunch of arrests. So far, a judge, a youth pastor, a couple local business guys—one of them is the guy who owns the mailbox place out by the muni-airport.”
“Shush.” That was Tim.
The noose had plummeted around a ring of men who were truly terrible human beings. The local reporters didn’t have many details, only that more than ten local residents had been arrested in conjunction with human trafficking, prostitution, delinquency of minors, child pornography, and w
ho knew what else. Buck couldn’t believe a judge had been involved, as well as an active SkPD police officer and a retired officer. Buck was disgusted. Nauseated. Almost all the men held some sort of position of power in the community.
The four of them sat stunned, along with the rest of the crowd. More and more people drifted in to watch. SkPD was holding a news conference; it was a madhouse in front of police headquarters. Not only were the local news people there, but several stations from Everett and Seattle had arrived in the last hour, adding to the chaos. Another group of reporters were broadcasting from in front of the courthouse.
The TV screen flashed with snapshots of Jessica Abrahams, who had been found, murdered, before Christmas. Then a reminder of the female body found the past spring as well as the older victim, Jennifer Verdugo, also discovered last month. All of it appeared to be connected somehow to the trafficking ring.
“You cannot make this shit up,” Ed said. “I knew that retired cop, Darren Mortenson. He used to come out to Gerald’s and flip us crap. Threaten to arrest us for smoking a little grass. What a fucker.”
Buck thought “fucker” wasn’t strong enough of a word.
The table fell silent again, all of them watching as the depraved underbelly of Skagit revealed itself.
Buck was so engrossed he didn’t realize Micah had arrived until he pulled a chair up and squeezed in next to him.
“Hey.”
“This is just so fucked up,” Micah said.
The entire table responded with a round of “Yeah, “No shit,” “Unbelievable,” and “Fucking fucked up.”
Thirty-Nine
“Hi,” a deep voice rumbled.
Joey was standing and staring, angrily, at a display of Valentine’s Day chocolates. They were on sale, but he’d end up eating the whole bag by himself. He hated Valentine’s Day. He’d hated it as a kid, and his hatred of the commercial holiday had not abated as an adult. At the sound of the familiar voice behind him, he slowly turned around.