“What about those contacts at the PD? Couldn’t you have asked them to look into it?”
“Hindsight, Mr. Gray. If I had thought about it at the time, I certainly would have. Once her father filed the report, I came to my senses and did just that.”
Check. I was right about those contacts, after all.
“So why isn’t there more in the official file? I’ve seen several missing person reports over the years, and this one seems lacking, like someone wasn’t taking it seriously.”
Juarez sank back into his seat. “I know. It has me worried.”
This just got more interesting.
“You think someone is intentionally not looking?”
“Maybe. I certainly expected more.” He didn’t want to make outright accusations, but I could tell his mind was headed into dark territory. I decided to go along for the trip.
“A cover-up, then?”
Juarez steepled his fingers.
Oh boy. Let the conspiracy theories commence.
I waited a moment to see what else he would say, but he wasn’t ready yet. I needed to prod him a little more. He was close to telling me something important.
“The police report says there were no keys, purse, or phone in her apartment, that she might have chosen to disappear.”
“I don't buy it,” he said. “She had no reason to, as far as I know. I'm certain she would have said something to me or her father if she’d planned on dropping off the grid.”
“That's what I was thinking,” I confirmed. “This doesn't feel like a runaway case. What do you think might have happened?”
“It’s not what I think. It’s what I'm afraid of.”
“What are you afraid of, then?”
“Human trafficking,” he said in a hushed tone.
“Really?”
“You think I'm kidding.”
“Well, it’s not something I had considered. I thought that mostly happened in other countries.”
He grunted. “Yes, the media loves to talk about the horrors that happen in other places. No one likes to admit that such things can happen in their own backyard. But they do. Do you know how many people are reported missing every day?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Around 2,500. Every day.”
“That many?”
“Frightening, isn't it? Granted, most of them are runaways or people trying to get lost. Only a handful have been kidnapped or murdered. But what's really scary is how many missing people are never reported. Homeless people, runaways, drug addicts, prostitutes. People who have fallen through all of our society's safety nets. These are the people the traffickers target, because no one looks for them. But once in a while the traffickers make a mistake and take the wrong person, and that person usually ends up dead. That's what I'm afraid of, Mr. Gray.”
I took a moment to digest all of this.
“Do these slave traders have a presence in Chicago?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Do you have any proof?”
Juarez pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Nothing solid. Just back alley whisperings and reports from a source that keeps me in touch with the streets.”
“So there's no reason for the cops to go in that direction.”
“Even if there were some piece of evidence I could give them, I'm not sure it would do any good.”
I arched an eyebrow at this, then tried to predict his logic. “Politics, right?” He smirked. “Let me guess. Doing so would stir up the muck at the bottom of the pond, and no one wants to get the whole pond dirty. As long as the muck stays at the bottom where no one can see it, everyone's happy to leave it alone.”
“Something like that.”
“But you're hoping that Mr. Private Eye here will look into it… and maybe come up with a handful of mud that you can sling at an opponent when the time is right.” I really hated politicians.
“My priority is finding Ellie,” he retorted. “Whatever else you uncover is incidental, even if its discovery would be for the greater good.”
“I've already been hired to find Miss McCarthy. If you want me to find information on this human trafficking ring, that's certainly negotiable.”
“Fair enough.” Juarez slid a folded piece of paper across the table. “That's the name of my source and the address where you should be able to find him. Play nice, and maybe he can give you more information.”
I took the paper, quickly read the name—Jimmy Armstrong—and stuck it in my pocket.
“One more question,” I said. “How good are you with computers?”
“Good enough to send an email and type up a document. Beyond that, my assistant handles everything.”
“That would be Mr. Gallagher?”
Juarez nodded.
“Is he aware of your relationship status?”
“Yes. He's the only one on my staff who knows.”
“I see. I'll need to speak with him again.”
“Oh. I hadn't thought... Yes, that can be arranged,” he said, blinking at the thought that one of his staff could be involved.
“Good. Is there anything else that you think might be helpful in finding Miss McCarthy?”
“I wish I knew something else. Just, please, be discreet in your investigation. I'd hate for something terrible to happen to Ellie because her disappearance became a high-profile case.”
“You have my word, Mr. Juarez, that her safety is my utmost concern. I'll do whatever it takes to bring her home, if that’s at all possible.”
“Thank you.” He stood, placed a ten-dollar bill on the table, and offered me his hand. “I'll set up a time for you to speak with Jason at your earliest convenience. And again, I'm truly sorry for what happened at your apartment.” He looked as if he was about to say something more, but stopped himself. We shook hands, then he turned and nodded at his escort, who joined him immediately, and they both left.
I stared after them for a bit, mulling over this new information. Ten minutes later, I knocked back the last of my cocktail and paid my tab, then decided I had one more stop to make before calling it a night.
8
On the way to Lincoln Park, I called Mac.
“No, I haven't found anything yet,” he huffed when he picked up.
“Wasn't expecting you to. I have a question. How easy would it be to find the spyware on the source computer?”
“Hmmm... easier than tracking it from this end. Do you have a suspect already?”
“Maybe. How fast could you do it with direct access?”
“Not very. I'd still have to search the entire hard drive. Of course, if time is limited, I could probably reconfigure my search utility to run in the background and ping me when it completes the search. I can upload that in no time.”
“Great. Can you have it ready by tomorrow morning?”
“Sure, as long as I’m paid overtime.”
“Good. Call me when it’s ready,” I said, and hung up.
The fastest way to Neo was the Clark Street bus. I sat in a scantily cushioned seat, two green-haired college students entwined in each other’s legs across from me and an elderly lady taking home her nightly groceries several seats ahead. I stared out at the host of lighted storefronts and apartment buildings as we cruised along, thinking about all the alderman had told me. If what he said was true, this investigation could take me to a very dicey place. I didn't particularly want to get tangled up in gang wars or factions of slave traders. That could get seriously messy. I had gotten used to a higher class of sleazebag since Frank took me on, and I hadn't dealt with true criminals since my days on the force. Have I mentioned that yet?
Right. The short of it is that I joined the Chicago Police Department right after college. I had always wanted to be a detective. After a couple of years on the beat, I passed the exams, and my dream came true. I was good too; I solved a lot of cases no one else could. Unfortunately, a lot of my collars didn't stick. My methods of investigation didn't jive with t
he district attorney's office. I had a habit of bending the rules a little too far—far enough so the perps slid off the rod of justice. Some said I crossed the line a few too many times and violated the rights of the offenders too often. I didn't see it that way though. I saw results.
And then one day a particularly heinous psychopath whom I had arrested was cut loose from a murder charge because I supposedly conducted an illegal search and seizure and coerced his confession. It was bullshit. The guy was guilty as sin. Later that week, he had the audacity to walk into a bar I frequented with a smug look on his face and make a snide comment about how I’d hit like a girl in the interrogation room. I snapped and beat the living snot out of him in front of all those witnesses: I broke his nose and three ribs, dislocated his elbow, and severely bruised his spleen before the other cops there could pull me off him. He spent two weeks in the hospital while I was brought up on charges of assault and battery. Needless to say, I lost my job.
After that, I fell into a pretty serious bout of depression and did a good bit of damage to my liver. At some point—I really have no idea how long I wallowed in self-pity—Frank found me and offered me a job. I owe a lot to that man. He never did tell me how he found me, but I think Larsen had something to do with it.
***
The bus driver called out the intersection I was waiting for, and I pulled the cord. I don't know why, but the ding signaling a stop is terribly satisfying.
I hopped off the bus and walked down the block toward the club.
As I got closer, I felt the thump thump thump of deep bass emanating from the building. Someone ahead of me opened the door, letting more of the rhythm and some of the melody escape into the night air.
It was a couple of minutes before ten. This place was reputed to be a late-night joint, so I hoped it wouldn't be too crowded and I could talk to the staff without interference.
Once inside, I realized interference from other people wouldn't be an issue. Being heard over the pulsating music, however, would be.
Just inside the door and to the right was the coat check, which I ignored. To the left was an elevated area with a bar made of concrete and topped with terrazzo marble. A long dance floor extended from there, lined on one wall with mirrors below cement archways. In the back, I could make out a DJ booth perched above a lounge area and opposite a stage for live bands. The whole place was lit with hues of purple and orange by Fresnel lights hanging from the ceiling. It gave me the sense that I was standing on Lower Wacker Drive looking out at the river—you know, if Satan had done the decorating.
I climbed up to the bar and waved at the bartender, who was busy cutting limes. He came over, then leaned over the bar and shouted in my ear, “What can I get you?”
“Information,” I shouted back. “I'm looking for someone.”
“Aren't we all.” He smirked. “Most of the ladies don't get here until midnight. Have a drink and chill out till then.”
I pulled out my wallet and flipped it open to my PI badge.
A lot of PI's don't carry a badge so that they don't run the risk of impersonating a police officer, which can end a career quickly. I like to have one, however, because it can open doors that would otherwise remain closed and locked. Some people who would clam up around a cop will talk to a private detective because they don't think we have any authority to arrest them for something they say—which is mostly true. I thought this might be one of those times. Drugs are pretty common in clubs, and I didn't want this guy to be afraid of me, but I did want him to take me seriously.
He glanced at it quickly and lost interest, but I held it out a little longer and waited until he took a closer look. His expression softened a little but remained wary.
Then I held up Ellie's Facebook photo on my cell phone. “Have you seen her lately?”
He squinted at the picture. “Couldn't say. Looks a little vanilla for this place. Talk to one of the wait staff. They see more faces than I do.” With that, he went back to his limes.
I found a waitress pretty quickly—it wasn't really busy yet, so they were milling around aimlessly—and showed her the photo.
“Yeah, I think I've seen her in here a few times,” the waitress chirped.
“Do you remember the last time she was in?”
“Not really. You should ask Eli. I think she hung out with him most of the time.”
“Who's Eli?” She pointed to a corner of the bar where a guy sat in a plush booth.
“Thanks,” I said, and headed in that direction.
Eli had spiky bleached-blond hair, perfectly applied eyeliner, and wore a black peacoat over a shirt that hugged his perfectly chiseled chest.
He gave me an appraising stare as I approached.
“Are you Eli?” I asked.
He didn't respond, just continued to stare.
“I'm told you're the man to see for the inside scoop on the ladies that come here.” I hoped the compliment would break the ice.
He shrugged.
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
He shrugged again.
I pulled out the chair opposite him and sat.
“Nice jacket,” I said.
“What do you want?” he tossed at me in a flippant, devil-may-care London accent.
“Okay, I'll skip the small talk. I'm looking for this girl,” I showed him Ellie's picture. “I know she's been coming here and that you were seen with her on several occasions.”
“Sure, I've seen her around. Hard to miss, actually. She's a fit bird. A bit too posh for this place, though.”
His voice was deep and rich, with just a hint of tartness, kind of like a good barbecue sauce.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Couple of weeks ago, I think. Can't be sure. The nights all blend into each other at this point.”
“Try a little harder.” As far as I knew, this guy might have been the last person to talk to her before she disappeared. I needed him to tell me everything he could.
“Thinking makes me thirsty,” he hinted.
I flagged down the waitress and ordered him another round.
“You said she was hard to miss. Why?”
“I have a thing for redheads. Something about a bonnie lass really gets me going,” he flipped.
“What did you talk about?”
“Talk? We didn’t. We danced. I hoped we would do more than that, but it turns out she was just a tease.” His tone turned spiteful. “I don't like having my chain yanked, so I quit talking to the nit. No shortage of women here.”
“Did she turn her attention to anyone else?”
“I don't bloody know. I don't pay attention to other blokes trying to get their knobs polished.”
His attention began to wander. I could feel the hypnotic rhythm of the music pulling me into a trance as well.
“Come on, I’m sure you would’ve noticed if the tease left with another man,” I plied.
“Maybe, but she didn’t. She always left alone. That’s how I know she was a tease.”
By this point, I figured our conversation was over, so I paid his tab, left my card with him, and asked him to call if he could remember anything else. I doubted I’d hear from him, but you never know.
***
It was late, and I was beat. I didn’t want to risk going back to the office in case it was being watched by whoever had tried to kill me. My place was still technically a crime scene, so I couldn’t go back there. I decided to rent a room for the night and decompress with an hour or two of mindless television before I crashed. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.
9
Ryley waited, somewhat impatiently, for his Sire to arrive. He had gotten the text a little before midnight and arrived at the specified location shortly after. It was almost two o’clock now.
At last, a figure stepped out from a steel-framed door into the alley. The darkness that hid his features was thicker than usual somehow—maybe due to the humidity from the recent rains. Ryley could smell the anger r
olling off his Sire in waves. Something was up.
“Ryley!” his superior snapped.
Ryley didn't respond. The boss already knew exactly where he was; his senses were far better than Ryley's.
“Why is the detective still alive?”
“Harrison failed again,” Ryley answered.
“Obviously, you idiot. But why?”
“He said it was pure chance, a one in a million coincidence. The detective ducked just as Harrison pulled the trigger.”
“Fantastic. So tell him to try again.”
Ryley hesitated. He didn't want to be the bearer of still more bad news. The resulting wrath could be the end of him, he knew. But this was his job, and he’d known all that it entailed when he signed up for it.
“There’s a problem,” he said once he worked up the nerve. “We've been cut off. Harrison is no longer on the job.”
The boss's eyes narrowed to slits. “Is that so?” he hissed.
Expecting an onslaught of rage to descend upon him, Ryley closed his eyes and waited, but several heartbeats later, there was still only silence. He chanced a peek and realized his master was standing nose to nose with him. His ashen face filled Ryley’s entire view. It was not contorted with anger, as he’d expected, but the placid expression it bore was far more terrifying. Ryley swallowed.
When his Sire spoke, it was almost a whisper. “Then we'll deal with the bastard ourselves. Do it the old fashioned way: hunt him down and tear out his throat like the dog he is.”
“Won't that draw attention?” Ryley chanced the question.
“Yes. Yes, it will.”
10
Daylight peeked around the heavy drapes of my motel room window when I woke up. I rolled over and looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 10:04. Crap. I had overslept.
The night before, I had set my phone’s alarm for eight o’clock. I knew the battery was low, but I had hoped it would last the night. I leaned over the edge of the bed and fished it out of my pants pocket. Sure enough, the display was dark, and it didn’t respond when I swiped the screen.
Missing: A Mason Gray Case Page 5
