by Ellen Butler
“Sure, I can,” he boasted, then flinched and put a hand to his ear.
“I don’t think Hernandez agrees with you.”
“Speaking of Hernandez, I need to rejoin him back at the car. You’ll be okay here, with the police? They’re probably arranging a safe house for you.”
“Protective custody? No, I’m not staying with the cops,” I declared. Josh started shaking his head as soon as I began speaking. “I’m coming with you.” I nodded in opposition to Josh’s head shaking. “Oh, yes, I am. That’s my sister.” I thumped my chest. “And besides, I saw the vehicle, which means you’ll need me to identify it.”
“We can text you a photo if we find it.”
“An extra pair of eyes couldn’t hurt,” I argued.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I’m coming.”
“Karina . . . ,” Josh said in a mollifying tone.
“No, don’t ‘Karina’ me. Listen, it’s not like I plan to be part of the raid. I’ll wait in the car. But I am coming with you. And if you do find her, I want to be there. I need to be there,” I said firmly in the same tones Josh had used with me on the phone.
Josh held up a finger and quirked his head, listening to the person in his ear. “Fine. You can come.”
“Thanks, Rick.” Hurdle accomplished, I dusted off my pants and hopped from the bumper. “Wait here,” I said to Josh, “I’ll tell Perez and Garcia that I need to leave.” Striding over to the black car, I knocked on the driver’s side window.
With a slight hum, the glass slid down. “We’ll be a few more minutes, ma’am,” Garcia said, chomping hard on a piece of gum. “Can you please return to the ambulance?”
“I need to leave. Here’s my business card. My cell number is written on the back to contact me.”
Garcia took the card without glancing at it. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to leave.”
“Is there something else you need from me?”
“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. You can identify an MS-13 gang member, and they can identify you. Your life is in danger,” Garcia explained. “Right now, we’re working on setting up a safe house for you. In addition—”
“Yeah,” I cut him off, “Josh said you’d be doing that, but I’ve made my own arrangements. You noticed the burly blond fellow with me?” They looked Josh’s way. “He’s private security. He and his buddy Hernandez will keep me company. So, you needn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Perez leaned across the console. “Ma’am, my partner is right. MS-13 is not to be trifled with. There are hundreds of gang members here in northern Virginia. They’re into drug running, sex-trafficking, and extortion. I doubt we’ll get anyone on this street who saw what happened to talk to us. They are well organized, loyal, and violent. Last month we arrested three men who hacked their victim to death with a machete. One hundred and fifty-two cuts—”
“Thank you, Detective Perez, for that enlightening speech,” I interrupted firmly with a curled lip of disgust, and waved Joshua over. “I understand these are very dangerous people. But, as I stated earlier, I have my own private security team to look out for me. Ah, Josh, could you please provide the detectives with your business card?”
Josh pulled a wallet out of his cargo pants and passed over his card. “Gentlemen, I’m with Silverthorne Security. We are qualified to protect diplomats and high-value targets within and outside of US territory. Additionally, we’ve had the pleasure of protecting Karina in the past. I can assure you; her well-being is our number one priority.”
“So, gentlemen, unless you plan to arrest me, I believe I’m free to go,” I added.
Garcia paused his chewing to glance at his partner, who shook his head. “We still have questions for you.”
I sighed, knowing I hadn’t provided the police with the full picture, but antsy to meet up with Hernandez and start doing something. “Okay, let’s see if I can get you the answers you need. Since I don’t see a body cam on either of you, how about we use the dash cam there. Can you turn it toward me?”
Perez twisted the camera to face me.
“We good? Okay, then. My sister came to this neighborhood today, asking questions about a teen she had a run-in with recently. The teen threw a milkshake at her car. In any case, Jillian found out the teen’s name is Trudea.” Perez opened his mouth. “Please don’t interrupt, I’ll try to answer your questions when I’m finished. Anyway, Jilly was concerned the teen was at-risk. Through further questioning of a local resident, specifically an eight-year-old boy, she found out this girl used to be a good student and has recently changed for the worse. She’s skipping school, her grades have dropped, and she may have gotten into drugs. As a teacher, my sister felt she should try to reach out to this teen and help her. When I heard what she was doing, I didn’t like the idea of her wandering this neighborhood. I came over to help talk some sense into her, suggesting she take her fears up the line to the appropriate people, like police, school officials, and youth protection services. She must have hit a nerve—asked the wrong question, or MS-13 thought she was an undercover cop or something.”
Garcia’s mouth dropped as I spoke, and the gum fell out.
“Does that help?” I asked.
“It certainly puts things into perspective.” Garcia picked up the gum from his lap and wrapped it into a random receipt sitting on the dash.
“Does it change the situation?”
“It might,” Perez responded.
“For better or worse?”
“I couldn’t say.” I didn’t care for the look the pair shared, or Perez’s hesitation in answering.
An urgency of intuition seemed to be pushing me to leave. “Well, listen guys, you have our numbers. I’m going to head out.”
Garcia shook his head. “We need your clothes.”
My brows shot to my hairline. “I beg your pardon?”
“You said, in your statement to Officer Benko, that you threw the assailant over your shoulder,” Garcia replied.
“I’m unclear why you need my clothing.”
“DNA. Cortez may have left hair, blood, skin cells on your clothing.”
“So? I’ve already made a positive ID. What do my clothes matter?”
“Court purposes,” Perez chimed in.
I crossed my arms, considering his argument. I couldn’t decide if this was simply a stalling tactic to keep me from leaving.
“We can take you to the safe house to change, then release you to into the custody of your bodyguard,” Garcia said.
My shoulders straightened and I fixed him with a side-eye. If he hadn’t used that precise language, “release me into the custody,” I might have complied. However, I was not some child being passed off to her daddy for the weekend, and this felt like another way to stuff me into a safe house where I’d go batshit crazy pacing the floorboards. Josh didn’t say a word, but I think I heard a snort.
“Fine. You got an evidence bag?”
“I’m not sure—”
“If you don’t,” I interrupted Perez, “I’ll ask one of the forensic boys bagging and tagging everything.”
“There are some in the trunk,” Garcia answered, “but I don’t have any clothes for you to change into.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got some. Josh, can you please grab the pink gym bag for me? It’s in the trunk.” I passed him my keys and waited for Perez to dig up an evidence bag large enough to hold my clothes. Josh stood guard outside the ambulance doors while I did a quick change into a pair of black yoga pants, a purple T-shirt, and sneakers. “I think that’s everything, detectives.” I passed the bag through Garcia’s open car window.
He must have known when he was beat. He pointed to the cell number on Joshua’s card. “We can reach you here?”
“That’s correct. I will remain with Joshua,” I assured him.
“We’d prefer it if you could stick around a while longer. There are more questions we’d like to as
k. And FBI taskforce members will be here soon. They’d like to speak with you as well,” Perez put in.
I forced myself not to wince when he mentioned the FBI. Mike would be furious if he found out what was going on from another colleague. Who was I kidding? Mike’s blood pressure was going to be off the charts when he heard about this situation no matter what. And frankly, it should; Jillian was in a heap of trouble. To hell with Mike’s blood pressure. “Have you heard anything new about my sister?”
Perez shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I’d like to get out of here. It’s all so overwhelming,” I said in a fadeaway voice and listed against Josh, clutching him. “I’m running on low. Can’t we can arrange to meet at the station or via phone? The reporters have shown up, and I—I just can’t face them. And what am I to tell Mummy and Dad?” I pressed a hand to my lips and worked to bring up some tears. To my dismay, I didn’t have to work hard to manufacture them. The tears had been hovering just below the surface.
Josh put his arm around me and said, “Detectives, I can assure you she is safe with me.”
Garcia frowned, but gave in. “I don’t like it, but I suppose we can release you into your security team’s hands.”
I mustered a hitched, “Th-thank you for your understanding, d-detective.”
“Where will you be?” Perez asked.
“We have a secure facility in D.C. I can take her to until more permanent arrangements can be made,” Josh replied. “I’ll need your contact information.”
Both Perez and Garcia dug cards out of their wallets and passed them forth.
Josh shoved them into his back pocket. “I’ll be in touch.”
I leaned heavily against Josh as we headed away, but I paused upon the realization that I’d forgotten to mention one more person involved in this fiasco. I also realized I could send someone else to question Sadira while I searched for Jillian with the Silverthorne boys.
Tap, tap, tap.
Garcia’s window slid down again.
“Sadira. Someone needs to talk with Sadira Manon.” I pronounced her name clearly and concisely. “Current address, Fairfax County Jail. She is in this up to her neck.”
“Wait—”
I ignored the request and trotted back toward Joshua.
Garcia got out of the vehicle. “Ms. Cardinal, wait!”
I paused a moment to let Garcia catch up to me.
“Sa-di-ra Ma-non,” I repeated slowly. “Right now, she is my client so we can’t discuss her further.” I turned away, then quickly turned back. “But she may be in danger. Go talk to her.” I left Garcia standing in the middle of the street, staring after me.
Chapter Eighteen
Josh was able to weave us through the throng of onlookers while avoiding the reporters that circled through the crowd, asking questions. Two blocks away, we stopped in front of a white panel van. Josh opened the passenger door for me. I hopped in and glanced over my shoulder. Through a safety grate, I found Hernandez sitting on a stool in the middle of a bank of electronics.
“Jeez, boys. Did you steal this from the FBI?”
Those dimples peeked at me. “Nope, it belongs to Silverthorne.”
“Can all these electronics help find my sister?”
“You bet your ass they can,” Josh said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”
“Did your sister have an iPhone?” Hernandez asked.
“Her phone! Of course, how stupid I’ve been.” I smacked my forehead. “I can use the Track My iPhone app. Cripes. Why didn’t anyone say anything earlier?” I logged into the app and waited. Sure enough, after a few moments, Jilly’s phone number popped up on the map. “There she is!” I got so excited, I bounced in my seat. “Hernandez, you’re brilliant. I could kiss you. It’s not too far away! Go, go! Turn left at the light!” I shouted.
Josh cranked the ignition and the van roared to life.
“Hurry, hurry,” I urged.
“Is the phone on the move?” Hernandez asked.
“Nope, it looks stationary. That’s probably the house they took her to.” The black knot of dread in my stomach flooded with the shine of hope. “Let’s go, hurry up, Josh. You’re driving like an old lady.”
Josh leveled a stern look my way. “It doesn’t do us any good to get pulled over by police, or into an accident. I can’t just run over this guy in front of me.”
Justly chastised, I sat back and bit my lip. My leg bounced nervously, but Josh didn’t say anything further. “At the next intersection, turn left and then stay straight for a bit,” I mustered calmly.
For the next fifteen minutes our silence was only broken by my directions and my own antsy shifting while we waited at the lights and behind traffic. The map led us to a middle-class neighborhood in Ashton Heights. “It’s just up ahead, on the right.”
Josh drew to a halt next to a playground. Half a dozen toddlers and elementary school-aged children squealed and climbed on the jungle gym while their caregivers watched from a bench.
“She should be right around here.” I doublechecked the map. “I don’t get it,” I said, and opening my door, I bounded out, following the dot on my screen.
“Karina, wait! Hernandez, stay with the car.” Josh slammed the van into park and jumped out after me.
“We’re outside. The location should be accurate up to a few meters.” My eyes searched the treed parkland for my sister’s orange blouse as I approached the green dot, stopping when I arrived at the location indicated by my iPhone. I turned in a slow circle, searching the park.
“Found it,” Josh said, about ten meters away.
I strode over to his location. “Do you think she’s here?” I scrutinized the innocent-looking ramblers and cape cods across the street from the park.
“Doubtful. Don’t touch it,” he said, halting my movements. “They probably found it on her and threw it from the car.” First, Josh photographed the phone and surrounding area. Then, pulling on a black rubber glove, he bent down, picked it up, and dropped it in a zippered plastic bag. He pressed the home button and the cracked screen lit up. “Do you know her password?”
I reeled off my parents’ birth months and birth years. The home screen appeared. “Any activity? Maybe she tried to send us a text or something.”
Josh scrolled around, but eventually shook his head in the negative. “I don’t see any sort of movement on her apps since before the time of the abduction.”
A feeling of panic crept over me. “I think we should look around. Check that building over there.” It started as a fast walk and soon turned into a dead run, as if something drove me to the gray and white building that housed bathrooms and a water fountain.
“Karina?”
Ignoring Josh’s calls, I burst into the women’s bathroom, startling a mother and young son as they washed their hands.
“Jillian!” I yelled.
The woman hustled her toddler out the door as I checked each of the four stalls. Nothing. I spun around one more time before leaving. Josh exited the men’s room the same time I came out of the ladies’.
“Anything?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing?” I said with desperation.
“Karina, I don’t think she’s here. It looks like they chucked her phone out the window.”
“Well, what about street cameras? Does Hernandez have access? Maybe we can follow the trail.”
Hernandez had gotten into the driver’s seat after Josh abandoned it, and the van pulled up to the curb where we stood. “You find anything?” he asked through the open window.
“No. Just the phone,” Josh replied. “Did the boys at HQ get us hooked into the street cams?”
“They’re in.”
“Can they check this area?” he asked.
Hernandez shook his head. “There aren’t any in this residential section. The closest ones are on Pershing and Wilson Boulevard.”
“Dead end,” I murmured, subdued. I had been
so sure that we would find my sister before the police, FBI, and everyone else.
Josh’s arm came across my shoulders.
“Don’t lose hope, pequeña ave. We’re just getting started. Come on, now, hop in,” Hernandez said in a reassuring voice.
Resigned, I climbed into the passenger seat. Hernandez returned to his electronics in the back and Josh reclaimed the driver’s seat.
“Now what do we do?” I asked.
“Rick wants to meet up and discuss strategy,” Hernandez responded.
Twenty minutes later, we arrived at a fast-food parking lot and pulled alongside a black muscle car that must have dated back to the ’70s. A cobra and the numbers 429 were displayed on the quarter panel behind the front wheel. The black paint was so polished and shiny that I imagined I would be able to see my reflection. Rick wore black slacks and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, appearing as tough as the car he leaned against. Josh shut off the engine, and Rick opened the van door on my side.
“She wasn’t there,” I choked out. The drive over did nothing for my psyche, as I silently flayed myself over and over for my inability to save my sister when I had the chance.
“I know.” He placed a black cowboy-booted foot on the running board. “We’re working on it.” He looked over my shoulder. “Hernandez, what have you got?”
Hernandez removed his headphones. “FBI is on scene now, working with the Arlington gang unit. I’ve reached out to my informant. He’s got his ear to the ground, but he hasn’t reported back yet.”
“When do you expect to hear from him?” Rick inquired.
“He’s a burglar and a drug addict—always looking for his next fix. If he can get money without having to steal it, he will. I imagine he’ll get back to me as soon as he hears something or his latest fix wears off,” Hernandez answered.
“Is he reliable?” Josh shifted to see his buddy in back.
“I’d say ninety-five percent of the time the intel is good,” Hernandez said, then returned his attention to the monitor.
I scrunched my nose. “Really? A junkie burglar is reliable?”
Hernandez answered while continuing to type, “Yup. Burglars have got their ears to the ground. They know who shot whom and why, who jacked a car and where it got left, and who’s passing around dirty drugs. He’s quick on his feet, blends in, and as a junkie, tends to live in the shadows.”