Follow the Evidence (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

“I’m a private investigator. If
Hannah is here I…”

“Oh she’s here. I just saw her.
Come on in,” she said. “I’m Andrea. You can wait in the parlor.”

She indicated the large room to my
right.

I nodded as I stepped into a large
foyer and then followed Andrea to a sitting room. The formal furniture, classic
art, and lush window coverings reminded me of the room my grandmother covered
everything with sheets. It was Southern Living decorator’s heaven.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be
right back,” Andrea said.

I gave her another nod and started
to prowl, examining the pictures on the walls. It was like an art museum. I
recognized several of the pieces from my art history class at UM. I leaned in
close to examine an oil of a magnolia blossom by Alfred Ng. If this was a
print, it was a damn good one. I was about to move on to a woodland scene I
recognized as a Greg Olsen when I heard a voice.

“Andrea said some cop was looking
for me.”

I turned to find Hannah standing in
the open doorway. She was tall with long blond hair and a Barbie figure. She
looked better in person than she did in her pictures. Dressed in jeans and a
tan angora sweater she was a frat boy’s dream.

“Partially right, if you are Hannah
London. I’m looking for you, but I’m not a cop. Are you Ms. London?”

“Can I see some ID?”

I hauled my creds out again as I
walked toward her. She examined my ID as closely as I’d been examining the
prints. Finally, she said, “I’m Hannah. What’s this about?”

There was an edge to her voice. It
was a mix of suspicion and apprehension.

“You look pretty good for someone
who’s supposed to be dean,” I said. I want to talk about Jennifer Summers.”

“She’s not here.”

“I know. She’s supposed to be dead,
drowned in the same hurricane as you.”

“Mr. Everett. Let’s sit away from
the door.”

I followed her to a sofa diagonal
to the door at the opposite end of the room. She sat, perched on the edge of
her seat, ramrod straight, as if she was waiting for tea.

“I wondered if someone would come
find me,” she began.

“It was all over the media. You
were on that boat.”

I tried to call the Coast Guard,
but I couldn’t get anyone to listen to me,” she said. She had that nasally fry
so common with young women
.

“Jenn asked me to go to Nassau with
her because of her parents. She didn’t want me to go, really.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“Really? How old are you? You
know...she was going with this hot guy. They were going to, you know…”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “So why…?”

“So why didn’t I call her folks,
come forward, that kind of stuff?”

“Yeah, that of kind stuff.”

“She made me promise not to tell,”
she said. “She was doing it with him. She said her mother would freak. When she
disappeared in that storm…”

“What else.”

“She made me promise.”

“She’s probably not going to mind,”
I said. “Well…Come on, she can’t get in any trouble now.”

“She said they were going to do
kinky stuff, you know, like drugs, and bondage.”

“She told you that?”

She pursued her lips and nodded.
“Sergio was hot, but he was a drug dealer. They got high together a couple
times. They even did it here in the house. That’s like way not cool.”

Like getting high, anywhere else
was OK. Geez.

“When this trip to the islands came
up it she wanted to be alone with him?” I asked.

“Are you going to tell her parents?
They’ll freak.”

It occurred to me doing drugs, sex
and bondage wasn’t half as bad as being lost at sea, but I kept that nugget to
myself.

I didn’t get much more from Hannah.
She explained she flew over to Nassau with Sergio and Jennifer. They’d partied
all day and she flew back that night. Hannah made me promise not to tell
Jennifer’s parents. I hated to lie to her, but hell, she was a sorority girl.
What bothered me most was every other word she said was a lie.

The navigation system routed me
westbound on I-4 to South Orange Blossom Trail. When I was sure I wouldn’t have
to turn for a while, I activated my hands free system and dialed Commander
Swift.

The phone rang once, and an
official voice said, “United States Coast Guard, Duty Officer Abdelli, please
state your emergency.”

“My name is Mac Everett. Is
Commander Swift available?”

“Is this an emergency?”

“No, I need to get in touch with
him.”

“The commander is not on duty. May
I take a message?”

“Mmmmm, ah no, no message.”

I was stuck until Monday. I decided
to shoot the commander an email to have him call me ASAP.

I thought I was looking for an
office, but had no name, only a street address on South OBT. It wasn’t the best
neighborhood. When the navigation system said I was close to the address, there
was nothing around but a rundown and boarded up stores. It was the perfect
place to send your mother-in-law on a shopping trip. Finally, I spotted Stan’s
gray unmarked Dodge in front of a peeling sign that read Living Water
Tabernacle. Stan got out of his car and waved as I pulled up next to him. It
was a real garden spot. Weeds sprouted through the cracked asphalt. There was a
boarded up payday loan place and tattoo parlor with an out of business sign in
the window.

“Nice ride,” Stan said as I pulled
up beside him. “When did you get that?”

“I’ve had it about six months.” I
looked around at the desolate area and said, “I’m not sure I want to leave it
here.”

“Don’t worry, Stan chuckled, “the
Auto Theft Bureau can work wonders.”

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

“Followin’ orders,” he replied. “I
think you’re in for a pleasant surprise. Lock sweet ride up and let’s get
going.”

We headed to the door located
beneath the peeling sign. Taped to the door was a piece of paper that read,
Children of the Night. The place was one of a half dozen storerooms. The rest
of them appeared abandoned. I was scratching my head when Stan said, “Come on,
we are expected.”

Inside was a cluttered office.
There were four grey metal desks scattered around all piled with papers, files
and magazines, but there was no one in sight. Stan called out, “Anyone here?”

From the back came a muffled voice.
“I’ll be right there.”

Stan gave me a look raising his
eyebrows. “I think you’ll like this.”

I looked up from giving Stan the
stink eye to see a pint-sized vision appear.

“Oh, it’s you,” Randi said. “I
wasn’t expecting to see you.”

She was dressed in jeans, a tunic,
and silver sandals. Her casual clothing did nothing to dim her appeal.

“You did say to call,” I said.
“What’s this all about Stan?”

“I’m just following orders, Mac,”
Stan said. “Sheriff Winton needs your help.”

“What’s that lieutenant?” Randi
asked. Suspicion covered her face.

“We’d like you to give us some
background on the human trafficking issue.”

“Oh, so this isn’t a social call,”
Randi said.

“Do you want it to be a social
call?” I said.

She pulled her glasses down her
nose and glared over them at me.

“It’s like I said,” Stan said. “I’m
just following orders. Ms. Massey, give us a rundown on the individuals you’ve
encountered locally. How were they abducted?”

“In the last three years there have
been seventy young girls rescued from the sex trade in Florida, fifteen
locally. We hear about a lot more.”

“How were these girls recruited?
How old were they?” I asked.

“All of them were between ten and sixteen
and they weren’t ‘recruited’. They were either abducted or sold in Central or
South America.”

“Were any of them older?” Stan
asked.

“No, they are all children,” she
said. I’m sure there are older ones, but the ones I’ve worked with personally
have been preteens.”

“Were any of them Americans?” I
asked.

“They were all Americans, North
Americas, South Americas, and Central …”

“OK,” I snapped, “were any of them
from the U. S.?” She was fixing to piss me off.

“No, they were from Mexico,
Columbia, Brazil, Venezuela, oh and one from the Bahamas too. If you’re looking
for a connection to home grown prostitutes, it’s a different entry path.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Statistically, young Americans…”

“Which one North, Central…,” I
said.

“In this country,” she continued
with a glare, “women are maneuvered into prostitution. They are kids from
broken homes. They face physical abuse, drug use, many are runaways…a pimp
befriends them, gives them a place to stay, and then turns them out on the
streets.”

“But these are still young kids
you’re talking about, right?” Stan asked.

“That’s what I’ve seen,” Randi
replied.

“How about a sex trade dealing in
women in their twenties?” I asked. I knew that’s where Stan was going. “If
there were such a thing where would we look?” I asked.

“Is that what this is?” Randi
asked. “I wondered what the hell that damn award was about. You can’t find a
couple missing rich kids and you think it’s the movie
Taken
all over
again. You two can kiss my…”

“We came to you for help,” Stan
said.

She looked at us with suspicious
eyes. “How can I help you?”

“I’m wondering the same thing,” I
said.

“I only know what the boss tells
me,” he said.

“Do you think you can fill Randi in
on the info the Sheriff gave us last night?”

We were supposed to keep the information
on the missing women confidential, but we needed help.

“The sheriff did send us,” I said.

Stan recounted the information the
Sheriff had given us on the meteoric rise in missing women.

“Are they all U. S. citizens?”
Randi asked.

Stan and I exchanged a glance.

“We hadn’t looked at that,” Stan
replied.

“How good is your information,
Randi?” I asked.

“The sex trade advocacy community
is a mix of volunteers, professional groups, and law enforcement. Some of the
information is good, and some of it is second or third hand.”

“Can you get us some grade A
Intel?” I asked.

“I’ll try, but it’ll cost you. I
want in,” Randi said.

Stan and I knew we weren’t going to
be able to keep Randi out of this. We talked with Randi for about two hours.
She answered what questions she could. She said she would send an email to her
network and let us know if anything turned up. I had the feeling she was
holding something back, maybe even hiding something, but I couldn’t put my
finger on it. She seemed to be helpful.

Stan excused himself and promised
to get back with Randi with any new information. He and I agreed to meet early
Monday to evaluate the missing persons reports. When he was gone, Randi looked
at me with that hungry stare she had the night before.

“So is this how you recruit all
your sources?” Randi asked. “Was all that banter last night just to get
information?”

“Whatever you want to think is
fine,” I said, “but I didn’t know about this last night. If we’re going to be
working together we should probably keep the hormones in check.”

“Speak for yourself,” Randi said.
“If I want to make a pass at a man, I will.”

“Do you have a lot to do today?”

“No, why?”

“I’m headed to Melbourne to
interview a kid. Do you want to a ride along?”

“No restrictions?”

“Only that you don’t attack me
while I’m driving.”

I filled her in on my case while
she closed up the office. She even offered to help interview the
eight-year-old, Danny Lewis.

The Camaro hugged the road as we
blasted east down the Beeline Expressway toward I-95. The drive gave us a
chance to get talk. I told her about Iraq and my brief career as a sheriff’s
deputy. She told me she went to work with the LA County Sheriff’s office win
and eye toward a career with the DEA. I wondered if she’d tell me what had happened,
but after an a few minutes, she opened up.

“We’d worked on the Cardozo gang
for 18 months,”
she began
. “I’d been
undercover posing as a runaway.”

“Yeah, I guess petite little thing
like you could get away with that.”

“Well, thank you. I wasn’t sure you
had noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.”

“I pieced together the details on a
big heroin shipment. I found out when the stuff was coming in, and set up a
raid. It was supposed to be a big bust.”

“But something went wrong?” I said.

“Yeah, the girlfriend of one of the
bad guys saw our people in their raid jackets. The twenty guys in that house
opened fire.”

“Somebody get hurt?”

“The guy I’d been seeing was hit in
the neck. He bled out on the sidewalk. Two others went down, trying to pull him
to safety.”

I could see the truth in her sad
words as usual, but there was something else. I guessed it was the depth of her
pain. Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she continued to talk.

“You saw him get hit?” I asked.

“Yeah, and there was nothing I
could do.”

“You’re right; there wasn’t
anything you could do,” I said. “You quit?”

“Yeah, after that…”

“I get it,” I said. “When you see
someone close die, it changes you.”

I knew that fact of life first
hand.

“You really do understand,” she
replied. There was a touch of surprise in her voice. “I don’t usually tell
people... Nobody really understands what it’s like.”

I knew exactly how she felt. No one
did understand.

I took the State Road 518 exit and
headed toward the Melbourne airport. It wasn’t called the Space Coast for
nothing. Some of the roads in the area had names related to the space program
like NASA Avenue or Apollo Boulevard. We drove in silence until we arrived at the
Lewis home in South Melbourne. Crane Creek was three miles from the
Intercoastal Waterway. Dozens of identical ranch homes dotted the Lewis’
neighborhood. I pulled up in front.