In my book, the only thing that fit a serial killer profile was the person had to be bat-shit crazy. The person or persons who took these women could be holed up somewhere doing god-only-knows what with them, and we would never know. Hell, all of these guys had been around when Castro was arrested. He had kidnapped three women and locked them in his basement for years without anyone knowing. I said as much, and Kevin’s brow furrowed as he nodded his agreement.
“I agree with Kevin. Castro was the exception to the rule, if you will, so let’s look at the cases again.” Perone tapped his marker against the white board. “These women are American citizens.”
“Are we suggesting the abductions are crimes of opportunity, since the victims live here, or is there a reason?” Kevin asked.
“Hi, everyone, I know Eli and Kevin, but I don’t know you.” Jennifer held out her hand to Andrew.
“Andrew Lehr.”
“Hi, Andrew, I’m Jennifer McNamara, I head up the anti-trafficking team for cases within US borders, which is why Supervisory Agent Perone has asked me as well as agents Mike Holler and Brandy Jameson to join you. Hopefully I can shed some light on why we think this is trafficking and not a serial killer. Most women abducted into human trafficking come from countries other than the United States. American girls don’t make it very convenient,” Jennifer explained. “They are raised to be aware of strangers and are taught to look for help if they need it. It’s harder to take an American out of their own country. More often than not, if we are notified of someone missing from US soil, we look for a few things, were they homeless, runaways, or women who needed shelter, food, or clothing. These traffickers have banked on that survival instinct. When women become desperate for food or shelter, then these people will be kind and offer them the things they need most. Unfortunately, the girls do not realize that it is not charity, it is a debt with very high interest. When she is not able to work off the debt, she is then forced into a life of slavery.” Jennifer paused. “But, what you have here is something entirely different, which is why we need to work together. None of these women meet the runaway, homeless criteria. But they are a commodity that is coveted in many countries, countries that don’t place the highest value on women’s rights.”
“What do you mean commodities?” Lehr asked.
“Pale skin,” Brandy offered.
“Hair and eyes that are a color other than near black,” Mike stated.
“In other words, think of a Middle Eastern woman, and then picture any woman who doesn’t look like her,” Jennifer said for clarity. “If this is a sex-trafficking ring, then we are dealing with civil rights and organized crime. It’s happening here”—she pounded her fist on the table—“that means the head of the snake is here as well.”
I scanned the files in front of me, as I replayed Jennifer’s words. But as she said, these women all came from middle-class families, had jobs or were in school, and didn’t have obvious ties to any underground organizations. So what are we missing? I scanned the women from late last year, almost all were brunettes, then I looked at the five from this year, most were blonde. Something was niggling at the back corner of my brain; I could feel it. I scanned again, made piles by age, hair color, eye color, and then it hit me. Neat rows, a variety, brunettes then blondes then start with brunettes again…refill brunettes. Shit, that’s it. “I feel like I’m looking at inventory.”
“Elaborate,” Perone encouraged.
“Well, what if these people are stockpiling and creating an inventory of girls to sell? You want a blonde with blue eyes? We have her and she’ll cost X amount. You want a brunette with green eyes? We’re almost out, so it will cost you more. A total supply and demand. It could also go the other way and the girls are being taken on an order-by-order basis.”
Chiu, Lehr, and Perone came to stand over me. Then the other three agents who had joined us looked at the image I had laid out. They all wanted to see exactly what I saw from my angle.
“Who are our street connections? Let’s get in contact and see if we can find out what they know,” Perone ordered.
“We need to find Salib and Nazari,” I told Perone.
“They’ve disappeared,” Chiu added.
“Who are they?” Jennifer asked.
I ran one hand through my hair. “They are two men whose names have come up numerous times in statements made by women who escaped abduction. We have an APB out for them based on their descriptions and the sketches from our composite artist.” Perone grabbed the images and tossed them over to Lehr. “They’ve used several names so far, but it seems that Salib and Nazari are the ones they used the most often. I’m sure that there are other women who haven’t come forward, ones who had run-ins with these men and have no clue how close they were to becoming a statistic.”
“If they are gone, who took their places?” Jennifer asked.
“No clue,” Chiu said.
There was a long lull in conversation as we all chewed over the information on the board. I didn’t want to think about any of these women being sold into sex trafficking, but the more I picked apart the pieces, the more it seemed as if it was the only answer that fit. My stomach soured, and I grabbed a bottle of water from the middle of the table.
“All right.” Perone drew a line down the board. “Let’s do it again. Hit me, where have these girls gone missing from?”
“Lola Richardson, Siesta Key on International Drive,” I said before flipping through another folder. “Salina Jeffries, near mile marker 284 on I-95.”
Chiu added, “Destin, Harbor Boulevard.”
“Cicily Barlow, Indian River,” I added.
“What about last year? The brunettes?”
“Molly Galloway disappeared from the Citrus Bowl during the Pro Bowl, Harper Johnson’s car was found in the parking lot of the Amway arena, and we had Trina Morgan and Erica Tinnes go missing from the Florida mall during Christmas time.” I felt as if I was going to throw up when I was done cataloging all the missing-girl cases.
“Any other cases you think could be tied to this?” Perone asked.
Chiu had some files opened. “Two years ago, if we are connecting the cases, UCF student Katie O’Shay, matched these scenarios, attractive, five foot seven, but she had one big difference: red hair and green eyes—” I sucked in a whoosh of air and tried not to put Bridget into that girl’s place, because the physical description was identical. “According to the witness, she and the victim were walking home after a frat party and our victim was there one second and gone the next.”
“Okay, so they are being snatched during or after having just left a large group or party.” Perone added that to the list.
“So, what, do a pick-up for a normal run and then snag a specialty?” Chiu asked. His choice of words bothered me. I’d seen a lot, but I was never dismissive or cavalier about the victims. Chiu had seven years on me, and if that was how I was going to end up, I might need to reconsider things. It worried me, because that wasn’t what I wanted. When I was around Bridget and her family, they were happy and laughing, I wanted to be able to do that, to compartmentalize the heinous from the rest of my world.
“This is why I’m glad that I don’t have a wife or daughters, you wouldn’t feel safe letting them leave the house.” Perone shook his head.
I glanced over at Lehr, who had a fiancée, but it didn’t seem as if Perone’s words got to him.
“So, we have blondes, brunettes, and one redhead. What do we make of that? You think reds are the high-priced commodity, or not as much in demand?” Chiu asked, and the pencil I’d been tapping fell from my fingers.
“I doubt it, not if these girls are being moved overseas. A lot of Middle Eastern and Western European countries view red hair as a sign of the devil,” Perone said. I guessed all those countries had met Bridget Ann McGuire, because that woman was a devil. That wasn’t right—she wasn’t evil—no, fuck. Okay, maybe a little, like when she was jumping on the trampoline in their backyard. The last time I’d c
aught her on it, she had been wearing one of my sweatshirts from the academy. When I confronted her, she said she thought it was her brother’s, which was a lie. We both knew that her brother had never been to Quantico, but the look she gave me that dared me to call her out on it was more than I could take. I let it go, and when I got the damn sweatshirt back, it smelled like her. Wicked. Yeah, that was the word . . . redheads were wicked.
Chapter 3
Bridget
“Talk to me, Smalls,” I said into my phone.
“I’m at your apartment, where the fuck are you?” Harley asked.
“I’m on my way, got stuck hauling some asshole into the station.”
“Bwahaha, god, I do not miss driving a squad car. Well, hurry up.”
“You have a key, go on in.”
“I know, but I still wanted to clear it with you first. By the way, it looks like your ma is still here.”
“Don’t be crazy, go on in. I should be there in about twenty minutes.” I disconnected and maneuvered through traffic. It was Wednesday, which meant all the girls would be at my house. Not because I had the largest apartment or anything, but because my ma was a godsend, literally. Every Wednesday, she came over and straightened my apartment and cooked for me so my refrigerator was stocked with my favorite meals for the week. My friends thought it was strange, but to me, it was normal. Hell, growing up Irish Catholic, this was the norm. My granny came over and did it for my ma and my ma did it for me. I couldn’t see myself ever doing this, but that didn’t mean I would turn away the help. Honestly, I think she liked doing it as much as I liked having her do it, and since Da retired, I was pretty sure he was driving her up a wall with his boredom.
I pulled into my parking lot and saw Aiden’s motorcycle and Callum’s truck already in the lot. “Motherfuckers.” I slammed my hand on the steering wheel. “Fuck.” Wednesdays were mine. Nothing put me in a foul mood faster than my brothers encroaching on my day. Ma went to Callum’s on Mondays and Aiden’s on Fridays. I never showed up there to eat, but they always came to my apartment. Maybe I should start so they could see how it felt.
Grabbing my laptop and duffle, I hauled my shit up the flight of stairs to my apartment and swung the door open to see the place hopping. Besides my brothers, Ma, Da, Piper, Sadie, Harley, and Kat were inside as well.
“Hello, Sunshine,” Sadie greeted me.
“Do you guys always have to come here?” I asked Callum and Aiden.
“Does it piss you off when we’re here?” Callum asked.
“Yes!”
“And that is why we always have to come here. You’re our little sister, and some things we will never outgrow—like aggravating you.” Callum wrapped one arm around me and pulled me in toward him. “Still loving your job? Are you sure that you don’t want to go back to working in dispatch? You know it is safe there, so I don’t have to worry about you, right?”
I stretched out my arm and took the Mackeson beer Piper offered me. I let the sweet stout’s flavor linger on my tongue for a few seconds before answering. “It’s sweet that you worry about me, but I love it. I’m not sure why I waited so long, but this is what I’m supposed to be doing. I feel it. Plus, I already have a war wound from tackling a combative criminal. He didn’t like my silver bracelets that I was giving him as a gift so he kidney punched me.”
“Ouch,” Kat and Sadie said in unison. I lifted the back of my shirt to show them.
“That’s going to smart,” Ma said as she moved into the kitchen. “Why don’t you go change and then dinner will be ready. I made you your favorite.”
“What’s your very favorite?” Harley asked before she looked around and lowered her voice. “Because I know something that I could eat, well, maybe that is lick.” Harley’s tone was sultry and intended for one purpose, to make my brother Aiden blush.
“Will you two shut up?” I hissed.
“Sweetheart, if I ever gave you a chance, your neighbors would need a cigarette when we were finished,” Aiden said back. He smirked, knowing that this round was totally his.
I marched off before I was subjected to any more of their sexual banter. Just before I got to my bedroom door, I spun and shouted, “By the way, my favorite is Dublin lawyer,” and then shut the door behind me.
“What?” Harley asked.
I slid my gun into the security holster that attached to my mattress. It was a gift from my brothers when I graduated. Because I was a stomach sleeper and cradled my pillow when I slept, mine was nestled perfectly between the edge of my mattress and my headboard.
Once I was finally changed into jeans and a T-shirt, I headed back out barefoot. Unfortunately, Harley and Aiden were at it. I swore to god, the two of them were going to drive each other crazy. I couldn’t understand it, either. Harley liked my brother, and I thought he liked her, but damn it all to hell if either one of them would swallow their pride and admit it. Nooo, they had to act like a couple of horndogs and pretend it was just a game.
“You can always come over and watch porn with me on my flat screen mirror anytime you want,” Harley said to him before turning to me. “By the way, what the fuck is Dublin lawyer and why are we eating him?”
I cracked up laughing. “It’s pasta and lobster. Kind of like lobster alfredo.”
“Then why don’t you call it lobster alfredo?”
“Because ours also has a lot of whiskey in it, just like a Dublin lawyer.”
“Well, why don’t you all stop talking about it and come eat some?” Ma called, and we made our way into the kitchen to grab a plate. My dining table only sat six, so we ended up spread out around my living room while we ate.
“Have you used your pink handcuffs yet?” Piper asked.
“Really, Bridge? Pink handcuffs?” Aiden asked.
“Hey, they are LEO approved. Besides, they were a graduation present.”
“Go figure, leave it to one of you”—he pointed to my friends—“to get her pink handcuffs.”
“I didn’t.” Harley held her hands up.
“Me neither,” said Sadie.
“Nor me,” said Piper.
“Not me,” added Kat.
I glared at them, couldn’t at least one of them own up to it so that I didn’t have to explain?
“Who was the pansy-ass who gave you pink handcuffs?” Aiden asked, and the girls nearly choked trying to hold back their laughter.
I moved my food around as I thought about what to say. Fuck it, he’d get it out of them eventually anyway.
“I don’t remember. I think it was Eli, actually.”
“Eli bought you pink handcuffs? Just wait until I see him next time, he’ll never live this down. I don’t even know where to go to buy pink handcuffs.”
“I said I think it was him. I’m not even really sure.”
I glanced up and locked eyes with Piper, who was smiling at me. She had that all-knowing grin. “Inappropriate thoughts?” Piper asked. “Care to elaborate?”
“No need, in my mind inappropriate and Elijah Grey are synonymous. Oh, and let’s not forget vibrator. Yeah, that’s another one of those words that I would find in my Eli thesaurus.”
“You okay, Bridge? You’re all pink,” Callum asked, interrupting my images of Eli handcuffed to my bed.
I pounded on my chest. “Yeah, I’m fine now. I just had a piece of lobster caught and was trying to stay calm to see if it would go down.”
I glanced at Piper and she was fighting hard not to laugh. When no one was looking except me, she mouthed, liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Are we playing Cards Against Humanity tonight?” Harley asked. “I want to play the Play-Doh way.”
“No, just no. Not playing that way again with you.” Aiden shook his head.
“Aye, I don’t know that way,” Ma said.
“That’s because we would never play it in front of you,” I told her.
“But you would love it, Colleen,” Harley promised her.
“If it makes me boy turn that shade, I
’m all in.” Harley clapped her hands and laughed at Ma’s announcement.
“No, Ma, you have no clue. The person with the black card reads their question and then everyone has Play-Doh and they shape whatever it is they want as an answer. This one—” Aiden pointed his thumb over to Harley. “Well, I don’t need to tell you what direction she takes it.”
I cracked up laughing.
“Sounds like fun, I’m game,” Ma said.
“Get the Play-Doh, Bridget, I’ll get the cards,” Harley ordered. Ma, Kat, Piper, and Sadie moved to quickly clean the table while I ran to my hall closet and grabbed the container of small packs of Play-Doh that a twenty-six-year-old without kids had no business owning.
“I can only play a little while,” Sadie said. “Ryan is working a shift for a friend at the hospital, so he is going in at midnight. I want to be home and spend some time with him before he leaves.”
“Got it,” Harley said. “Everyone grab your Play-Doh. When it’s your turn with the cards, just read the first one on top. Remember you shape it, but you don’t tell the card Czar what you made unless, of course, they get it right. You have two minutes to shape.”
Callum took the stack of black cards, picked the one on top, and groaned. I giggled, already excited for whatever it was going to be. He cleared his throat and then read, “When I am president, I will create the Department of blank.”
We all furiously molded as the sand dripped down the tiny minute-glass. Some of us got adventurous and grabbed a second and even third color.
When the last grains had fallen, Callum called, “Time’s up.” We all set our masterpieces out in front of us. Callum made a pass over each one as he studied them and shook his head before going back to the first one and attempting his guess. “Holy fuck.” He looked at Harley and she was smiling ear to ear, proudly showing off her concoction. There was no mistaking it, it was perfectly defined. “Am I to assume that Harley is going to create a Department of Dicks?”
“Of course,” Harley agreed.
Callum looked over at Da and studied his sculpture. “I have no friggin’ clue what that is.”
Book 'Em Bridget Page 3
