Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Bourne Morris

  “Take a nap,” she said. “Drink lots of liquids. I’ll try to fit you in tomorrow if you’re still feeling poorly.”

  The phone awoke me at four in the afternoon. It was Rosie.

  “I think I saw Cathy again,” she said. “Just a glimpse. She was in the backseat of a car that drove by me as I was heading back from Reno this afternoon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. The car stopped for a red light and I saw her face.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “No, but I think her pimp saw me.”

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Joe went to the Reno Police Department today and maybe he’ll have some news when he gets home.”

  My nausea had abated and I felt well enough to get up, pet and feed Charlie and then start a salad for dinner. Joe came in at about five thirty with wine and enough lamb chops for six. I told him I had invited Rosie to join us. “How’d it go in Reno? Any more about her cousin, Cathy?”

  “Not much,” he said, laying the chops out on the butcher block to trim them. “One of their guys thought he had spotted a girl with white-blond hair who matched the description of Cathy, but she disappeared before he could confirm it was her. And none of them have heard about anyone named Snowbird.” He sliced the fat off the chop with expert swiftness. “But the Reno Chief and I did have a discussion about something else I need to tell you about.”

  “A discussion?”

  “Sort of.” Joe stopped his work and went over to the sink to wash his hands. Then he came over and put his hands on my shoulders. I had a queasy feeling that had nothing to do with my earlier nausea. This was Joe’s approach to telling me something I didn’t want to hear.

  “Sweetheart, the sex trafficking in Reno has become a huge problem. It’s not just individual pimps, but gangs…actually organized rings of them. The more I heard, the more I wanted to help, so I volunteered to take on an undercover assignment. Maybe I will be able to penetrate one of the larger rings.”

  “You volunteered? But you’re not on the Reno force.”

  Joe kissed me gently. This was his way of reassuring me about something I wasn’t going to like.

  “I’m someone whose face isn’t known in Reno. And someone who’s had extensive undercover experience.”

  I looked up into his dark green eyes. Every time I thought of Joe going into a dangerous situation my heart rate sped up so much I thought I was going to pass out. I really didn’t like the sound of this.

  “You told me you went undercover in Chicago.”

  He kissed my forehead. “Several times. The last time was only for six weeks. Just a short time to catch a drug dealer. And it worked, Red. We nailed the guy, and I came out of it without a scratch.”

  Six weeks? No deal.

  Joe sat down at the kitchen table. “I know you don’t like this, but I really do have the experience Reno could use right now, and going undercover might help me get Rosie’s cousin out of there. Landry PD is okay with this. I hope you will be too.”

  I sat facing him. I loved Joe’s face when he was trying to talk me into agreeing with him. His eyes got dark and warm and his lower lip jutted out in a particularly appealing way. He smiled. “Please tell me you don’t have a problem with my going undercover in Reno, just for a week or two.”

  “You really want to do this, don’t you?”

  His head tilted to one side and his voice lowered to a whisper. “I do. I see it as a chance to help free some kids.”

  That did it. Rescuing even one child from the horror of the sex trade would mean an enormous amount to Joe. It might even be his way of seeking redemption for the boy in Chicago. There was no way I could object.

  I put my hand on his and started to say something supportive when the doorbell rang. Rosie, clear-eyed and determined, stood on my doorstep.

  For the first half hour, we chatted about everything except the true nature of Rosie’s reason for being with us a second night in a row. Joe’s lamb chops were broiled to perfection and he had chosen a smooth Pinot Noir to accompany them. But there was no avoiding talk about the sex trade. “You two are great, and smarter about this than most people, but even you enlightened beings really have no idea what it’s like for the girls,” said Rosie, idly pushing salad greens around her plate. “First of all, you’ve run away from home because it’s impossible there, so when the life gets hard, you can’t call your family, because they’re even worse than your pimp.”

  “This may sound naïve, but do any of the girls ever call a women’s shelter or the police?” I asked.

  Rosie’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “It’s not naïve, but this is what’s so hard to explain. When it begins, you’re probably not looking to be rescued. The guy who found you in a bus station or on the street, or seduced you over the internet, has convinced you he really loves you and that he’s the one who is rescuing you from an evil stepdad or Mom’s boyfriend who comes into your room at night. The guy insists you’re the only one for him and he’s going to take you away from all the hell at home.”

  “Why are pimps so attractive? The few I’ve seen look pretty creepy to me.”

  “That’s because you’re a college dean and satin shirts and gold chains don’t turn you on.”

  Joe added, “And you’re not a desperate twelve-year-old.”

  Rosie pressed on, “Even after your pimp turns you out, he’s still sympathetic and loving. He gets you clothes and food and makeup. He makes sure you have a place to stay. And if he’s running other girls, friends to talk to.”

  “What are the other girls like?”

  “A lot like me. It’s a myth that all the girls in the sex trade have been brought here from Asia or Eastern Europe. Most of the ones in my group were Americans from California and Nevada. White, Black, Hispanic, usually runaways from troubled homes. Girls who hooked up with older men who promised them love, excitement and a glamorous life.”

  “Glamorous?”

  Rosie’s mouth formed a bitter grin. “Yeah, glamorous, believe it or not. We were told we’d have the kind of life that comes with pretty clothes and fancy hairstyles and dinners out and dancing at nightclubs. That was the usual line.”

  “And you fall for it.”

  “Of course, it’s the first fulfilling relationship you’ve ever had. It just doesn’t last long.”

  It was my turn to fiddle with my food instead of eating it. “So, after promising to love you forever, the pimp taught you how to use your looks and your youth and sexuality to make men give you money. Then he kept the money.”

  “You got it. He said he was keeping the money safe for your future, but you soon figured out he was keeping the money for his future. My pimp made six figures a year. As for taking care of you, that meant putting you up in shabby rental houses and cheap motels and feeding you meals from fast food joints.”

  “And beating you?” I could hardly believe that the bright, delicate girl at my table had gone through this.

  She finally took a bite of lamb chop. “Not at first. You didn’t get beaten unless you screwed up or tried to hide money instead of giving it to him. Some pimps use violence to control you right after they’ve turned you out. But be damned sure, violent or not, all pimps are in control, complete control. My pimp was always careful with me because I bruise easily and my body, my face was his fortune.”

  “I hate what happened to you,” I said.

  “So do I. My body was sold on the internet, in online classifieds, at strip clubs and sex parties, in malls and sports stadiums and…” she paused for a deep breath “…sometimes, on the street just like the olden days.”

  “How often?”

  Rosie looked away. “Sometimes fifteen times a day.”

  The three of us sat in silence so deep, it attracted Charlie, who came over and put his head on my knee. Rosie pushed away her p
late and regarded both of us. “Some of the girls in my group even forgot their real names and called themselves whatever their pimps had tattooed on them.”

  “Did any escape on their own?”

  “It’s hard, Red. Your pimp keeps close track of you. He decides where you live and with whom. He has older girls who keep track of you and discipline you if you try to run away. If you have a baby, he threatens to hurt the baby if you don’t follow orders. He tells you what to wear, what to eat, when to go out to work. If you resist, he deprives you of food and sleep.”

  “And drugs?”

  “My pimp not so much. He wanted me alert and sober so I could work hard. Other pimps did give out drugs and booze as rewards, but only when they could spare the girl for the few hours she was too high to perform.”

  “You stayed for two years. Why?” Joe’s voice was soft but insistent.

  “Didn’t know where else to go.” Rosie put down her fork and ran her fingers through her hair. Her blue eyes watered. “Until a good cop arrested me and sent me to sex trade rehab out of state.” She pushed back her chair. “Even then, I ran away from rehab and turned a few tricks in Denver before I realized I didn’t want to be on the street by myself.”

  I was incredulous. “You ran away and went back to it?”

  Rosie nodded. “For a week, and then I got arrested again.” She turned to Joe. “I know it’s difficult to understand, but selling myself was all I knew how to do. I didn’t learn until months later that I had a mind as well as a body. And I’m not unusual, Joe. Even if you find Cathy, she may not come with you willingly. You may have to arrest her.”

  Chapter 5

  Later that night, after Rosie had gone home, I lay in bed next to Joe. Neither of us had spoken since Rosie left, but we could read each other’s thoughts. Then Joe spoke, his voice low and reasonable in the darkness. “You know why I have to do this, don’t you?”

  “I know. It’s something about what happened in Chicago.”

  A sigh came from deep inside him. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to know you have accidentally killed a child.”

  He was right. I couldn’t imagine it.

  “That boy was just trying to get some money to help his mother. I think I told you I found out afterward that she had cancer and she was trying to raise the kid and his brothers on welfare.”

  “You told me. But you also told me the kid had dressed himself in that big coat and ski mask so the delicatessen clerk would think he was a grown man.”

  “I can still see that boy as clearly as I saw him then. I should have figured it out. It was eighty degrees outside and there was this guy in a big quilted coat and a wool ski mask. Later I figured out he was a boy trying to look like a grown man, trying to rob a store with an old gun he had found in an alley, a gun that didn’t work. I can see his eyes through the hole in the mask, enormous and wet. I can see him pointing the gun at the clerk and then waving it at me. Jesus, Red, he was crying. I should have known he was just a kid trying to look big and terrifying. I should have known I didn’t have to shoot him.”

  “Oh, Joe.”

  Another sigh. “And that goddamned gun. I should have known he wasn’t a threat to me or the clerk.”

  “How could you have known?”

  “By the way he was holding it. His hands were shaking so hard he could hardly keep a grip on it.”

  I put my hand over Joe’s chest and my head on his shoulder. “My love, you know that’s not rational. The fact that his hands were shaking didn’t mean he wouldn’t shoot. In fact, because he was so scared, he might have shot the gun accidentally and killed you or the clerk.”

  We lay in silence. A few minutes later, he said, “Since it happened, I’ve felt I don’t deserve to have children of my own, but maybe if I could save another kid…”

  My chest tightened. He sounded close to tears. I kissed his neck. “Tell me more about going undercover to infiltrate a trafficking ring. What’s your plan? Or what’s Reno’s plan? How do you get even one of those girls safely out of there?”

  Joe’s voice was still strained in the darkness next to me. “I still have to work out some of the details with the Reno chief, but one idea we discussed was for me show up as a pimp who is looking for a girl who ran off with another pimp. A guy from Chicago who is willing to pay some big money to get the girl back from whoever is running her now.”

  “And you think you can penetrate a trafficking ring with that story?”

  “It’s not all that unusual. Occasionally a girl gets lured away by a rival pimp who promises her a bigger cut of the money and better treatment. Usually, if she’s caught, the girl is beaten. But not killed. These guys are in it for money and that’s what the girls mean to them.”

  “Any other ideas?”

  “Sure. I may just get a job that puts me close to the action. Something in a bar or casino.”

  “Will you have to pose as a john?”

  Joe’s hand grasped mine. “That’s probably not the best way. I need to be seen as someone who’s willing to provide a girl, not as a customer.”

  “And if your cover gets blown?”

  “Red, stop it. I’m good at this. Once I’ve gotten in with these people, I’m in and out fast.”

  “You better be. I will hate sleeping alone.”

  I felt his body turn and the warmth of his skin come over mine. “Me too.”

  Joe packed a small bag and left early the next morning to see his chief in Landry and then head to Reno. After a long and lingering kiss in the kitchen, he said, “Sweetheart, I promise I’ll try to call every night if I can. But don’t panic if I miss a night. Remember, I’ll be passing as an angry pimp looking for his property or a new setup on Reno. I can’t act like some happy guy with a beautiful girlfriend at home in Landry.”

  Right after he left, I threw up in the kitchen sink. I was sure I was sick with something, or else having an unpleasant version of an anxiety attack. I’d lived alone for much of my adult life, but the prospect of being without Joe for what could be two or three weeks not only made me nauseous but also depressed and irritable. A sad yearning filled my now empty stomach. I felt abandoned. Intellectually, I knew there was no reason. Joe had just gone on an undercover assignment. But I think the fact that he was going into danger heightened my anxiety and acute sense of loneliness.

  As I washed my face, I realized I hadn’t felt that kind of loneliness since the day I went back to Ohio to commit my father to a hospital for Alzheimer’s patients. It was the fall of my second year at Mountain West and the call came to me from his doctor. “Meredith, I’m sorry, but Thad should not live alone and he refuses to move to California to live with his sister.”

  Poor Evangeline. I was sure she had made a generous offer to keep her older brother, but how the hell was a busy professor with two kids and a husband supposed to care for a man with Alzheimer’s? I knew she loved him as much as I did, but Thaddeus Solaris was no longer the man either of us had known and loved. He could not even remember our names.

  I flew to Ohio and put my darling father, my champion and mentor, into a hospital. He had abandoned me for dementia just as my mother had abandoned me for whiskey.

  I’d caught the next plane back to Nevada and, as we took off over the green farmlands of my childhood, I put my cheek against the cold airplane window. Goodbye, Ohio.

  I gave Charlie one final pat and went out the back door. I got into my car and shook my head to clear the cobwebs. My father had died. Joe had taken over in my life as my faithful lover who would come home as soon as he could. I had Sadie and Phyllis and Nell as dear friends. I was certainly not alone. I had my job as dean and good work to do to keep me company. Get a grip.

  But old memories persisted.

  When I was in grammar school, my father had given me a small black dog, perhaps to make up for my mother’s indifference as she lost herse
lf in alcohol. I adored the dog, part spaniel and part who-knows-what, and named him Reggie. One bitter cold day in January, I came home and Reggie was nowhere. “Ran away,” said my mother, well into an afternoon of boozy dimness.

  “Ran away?” I screamed.

  “That idiot delivery boy from the liquor store left the gate open and the stupid mutt ran away.”

  My father and I searched for Reggie for weeks. We drove all over the city. We registered with the Humane Society and called the county shelter twice a day. We made posters with pictures of Reggie’s adorable puppy face and offered a reward of five hundred dollars. We put the posters up on trees, near schools, in bars and supermarkets. Everywhere. People called, “I think I saw your dog on my block. Three days ago.” Three days ago. Jesus. But at least if he had been sighted, that gave us hope Reggie was still alive.

  “I feel like I’ve lost a child,” my father said, driving through the gloom of the Ohio winter. We had been searching for four freezing cold weeks. Snow was on the ground. I was sure my father thought the dog dead and gone, but we kept on looking every day because I became hysterical at the idea of us giving up. All I could think about was my beautiful little dog, hit by a car, or bitten by a larger dog and needing help, or picked up and kept by someone who didn’t even bother to look at the tags on his collar. If Reggie was dead, I had to be sure. If taken, I had to take him back.

  Four weeks and two days after Reggie ran away, we got a call from the caretaker of a cemetery ten miles away from our house.

  “I got a little black dog here. Looks like the one on your poster. He’s been chasing a rabbit around the gravestones. Pretty thin. But alive.”

  My father raced home from his last class at the university and drove like a madman to the cemetery. I wept the entire way. Reggie was alive.

  “Four weeks lost in this weather? This dog’s a friggin’ miracle,” said the caretaker when he handed Reggie over to us, a mass of shivering, dirty wet fur. A pink tongue emerged and licked my hand.