by Jean Heller
The risks to me of committing perjury were too great. If I wanted Charles in the clear, it would be a lot easier and safer to withdraw the charges against him.
I was kidding myself on both counts, of course. Any sort of chicanery or display of mercy would simply empower an escalation of Charles’s bad acts. Getting him out of trouble was a desperate and stupid idea doomed to backfire.
I tried to climb out of my ever-deepening funk, but it was like trying to claw my way out of a twelve-foot pit in the sand. Every time I scraped out a handhold to pull myself up, the wall of the pit caved in on me. I even lost interest in the mysteries of Ryan Woods.
I wasn’t doing anyone any good at all.
And then Winona Jackson called.
“I need coffee, and I don’t drink alone,” she said. “Six-thirty work for you?”
Winona was already at the Wormhole when I arrived. She had her coffee and was working on her laptop at the same table we’d used the first time. She glanced up when I pulled out a chair. She noticed my hands were empty.
“You’re not drinkin?” she asked.
I shook my head, and Winona studied my face the way a neurosurgeon scrutinizes a brain scan.
“Honey,” she said, “you’re lookin’ beat down and sleep-deprived. Somethin’ to do with the Ryan Woods thing?”
“No,” I said. I didn’t want to explain, but I felt compelled. “I’m feeling like a fool. I got played by a nine-year-old, a street kid I really liked. I think we’ve got a good thing going, and the next thing I know I come home from work early and catch him and two little friends burglarizing my house. It’s got me down.” I shrugged. “But I don’t think you called me here to talk about my disappointments with life.”
“Most street kids are con artists,” Winona said. “I coulda warned you if I’d known. You pressing charges?”
“Yes, but it breaks my heart. He has so much going for him.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be doin’ him any good lettin’ it slide if that makes you feel any better. If he’s gonna make anything of his life, he has to learn accountability.”
“I know, but in a way it’s my fault,” I said. “I invited him over for dinner, and he asked me what time I got home from work. He said he didn’t want to wait for me outside in the cold. It didn’t dawn on me until later that his motive for asking had nothing to do with his desire to stay warm. My bad.” I leaned forward and crossed my arms on the table. “So what’s your story?”
“You get a chance to look at those papers I gave you?”
I pulled my iPad out of my messenger bag. “I took your list of the places where ten years worth of missing kids were living when they disappeared. I turned it into a spreadsheet, then turned the spreadsheet into a map. My plan was to start with the addresses closest to the neighborhood, to Beverly, and work my way out.”
“Honey, that process could eat up the rest of your career. What’d you plan on doing? Going up to the front doors and asking folks if they’d killed any kids lately?”
I frowned at her. “Of course not. I was going to look for complaints filed by your agency or others alleging any kind of mistreatment, mental or physical. I’d be searching for overlap. I don’t suppose there’d be any way for you to do that in your databases—I mean look for places with the worst records of complaints for abuse?”
“I got those records, and I’m already running through them, but it’s going to take a considerable amount of time because I need to take it slow. I don’t want to do anything that could alert people in my office to what I’m doing. I don’t want to be leaving any bread-crumb trails.”
“I hear you. But the information would be helpful.”
“I’m not sure how. You’ll be able to identify the marginal homes, but that won’t prove anybody died there.”
“It might. You know the identities of all the children assigned to each facility. If they aren’t where they were placed, and there’s no record of them being moved or aging out, we have a new list.”
“Most of the missing kids will be runaways,” Winona said.
“And the easiest for bangers and traffickers to snatch up, I know,” I said. “It’s a place to start, the only starting place I can think of. And then, if we get identities on any of the bodies in the woods, we can track where those children had been.”
“I know you won’t like hearing this,” she said. “But you might never have access to the information you want.” She hunched up over the table to get closer to me and dropped her voice. “I think I know at least part of the reason there’s such a tight lid on this.”
“Whatever the reason is, I can’t believe it’s justifiable.”
“You’re still bound by your promise to keep my secrets, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“I finally talked to Aidan—Aidan Coughlin, my boss. I was angry, and I told him so. I’m the head of the Child Protection Division, and I need to be in the loop.”
“Makes sense. What did he tell you?”
She took a deep breath. “Apparently the authorities—and by that I mean city and federal—are fully aware of the situation, but they don’t know how to deal with it. There’s some international aspect to this, some foreign involvement that makes it a very delicate diplomatic matter. And that scares me.”
“Why?”
“Because if a foreign diplomat stationed in the United States is behind this, he or she has diplomatic immunity. A diplomat can’t be prosecuted for a crime unless his country waives his immunity. And that almost never happens. The home country doesn’t care or is too embarrassed or is maybe afraid of triggering some sort of backlash, like a tourism boycott or even formal economic sanctions. So the home country turns its back.”
“Why couldn’t the United States get the diplomat recalled? Or expel him?”
“I don’t know,” Winona said. “We do have the legal power to do those things.”
“And Coughlin wouldn’t tell you.”
“I don’t think he knows.” She sighed. “I’m guessing here. If the diplomat is from a nation that’s economically or strategically vital to us, we’re probably worried about that Washington-speak crap, ‘unacceptable and far-ranging consequences’.”
“Are you saying our country, is willing to see our children tortured and killed because acting against it could endanger some international relationships?”
“I pretty sure that’s what I just said. I also said I was only guessing.”
Winona bit her lip and furrowed her brow.
“You need to hear me,” she said. “If I’m right, and if you pursue it, you could be putting yourself in some serious danger.”
15
I stomped out of the coffee shop and looked hard up and down the block for the black Suburban. If the two men who’d been using it as a surveillance vehicle were still following me, I was ready to confront them face-to-face to demand to know who they were and why they were watching me.
I didn’t see their Suburban. I had no doubt it was lurking somewhere nearby. Or maybe they’d switched to a less obvious vehicle.
Being so angry made me reckless enough to confront them out in the open on a busy city street. I wasn’t so oblivious that I would risk prowling dark side streets and alleys to find them without the Seventh Cavalry backing me up.
Frustrated, I returned to the coffee shop where Winona still sat at our table, watching the front door for me.
“What the hell was that about?” she asked of my abrupt departure.
I explained. As she had cautioned me, I returned the favor.
“I don’t know who’s tracking me, but they could be a danger to you, too.”
“If somebody was comin’ after me,” she said, “it probably wudda happened after we met the first time. Still, we probably shouldn’t be seen together again.”
“How about burner phones?” I suggested, feeling a child playing spy games. “And we give the numbers to no one but each other.”
“Feels a little cloak-a
nd-dagger to me,” she said. “And something makes me think burner phones aren’t as anonymous as they used to be.”
I knew what she was talking about.
“A few years ago,” I said, “a federal court ruled that cops don’t need warrants to use cell towers to track pay-as-you-go phones. Before anybody could track us, they’d have to know we’re using burner phones and have to know the numbers. They still couldn’t legally listen in on conversations without warrants.”
“I don’t know what you’re smokin’, honey, but I could use a hit on it. You don’t think the feds get warrants to listen in?”
“I know they do,” I said. “But first they’d have to know we’re using burner phones, and second, they’d have to show probable cause that we’re using them to commit crimes.”
Winona nodded.
“Okay. I’ll go with the program.”
“Did Aidan give you any hints about what country this diplomat represents?”
“Not a clue,” she said. “I’m not sure he knows. I would imagine this is being handled by the FBI and the State Department, and they wouldn’t involve our department because there’s nothing we can do to help.”
I knew someone who could.
Maybe.
Back at the office the next morning, I brought Eric Ryland up to date. I told him I wanted to talk to former FBI agent Carl Cribben, who had been instrumental in helping me resolve the Vinnie Colangelo case the year before.
“Is he still in Washington?” Ryland asked.
“Unless he’s home on a break,” I said.
Cribben, who had retired from the service, had been hired the previous fall by the House Judiciary Committee as an advisor on a new investigation of organized crime, which began after the mob-ordered assassination of a Nevada member of the U.S. House of Representatives. Cribben still had a lot of friends in the FBI. As a result, he’d been able to break loose some key information in my Colangelo investigation. Perhaps he could help again. It couldn’t hurt to ask. His home was in Rogers Park, the northernmost neighborhood in Chicago, but he’d taken a small apartment in Washington for the times he had to be in the nation’s capital to advise on the investigation. If he was in Washington at the moment, I wanted to fly there. The trip would cost the newspaper money. We were in a serious cost-cutting mode, so I wasn’t sure how Eric would react.
I was surprised.
“Find out where he is and go see him,” he told me.
“Even if it means flying to Washington?”
“Yes. Just don’t fly first class. And don’t stay at the Jefferson.”
I called the number for the House Judiciary Committee and asked for Cribben. He was in a meeting. Which meant he was in D.C. I made airline reservations.
I didn’t want to tell Carl I was coming. He would ask why I wanted to see him, and it wasn’t something I wanted to discuss on the phone. His first inclination would be to dismiss anything that might get him embroiled in an international incident. But if we were having dinner together, it would be harder for him to walk away.
When my Southwest Airlines flight landed at Reagan National Airport, one of the pilots said it was twenty-two degrees with a twenty-mile-an-hour wind, making the wind chill feel like four degrees above zero. That was pretty much the way I’d left it in Chicago.
I walked through the A Terminal and headed to the Metro station. Washington’s subway system was ingenious, clean, and comfortable, and the ride to the Capitol South Metro stop uneventful. Much more pleasant, in fact, that the two-block walk to Capitol Hill Hotel on C Street SE.
Once I had checked in and settled into my room, I hauled out my cell phone and called the House Judiciary Committee again, and again asked for Carl Cribben.
“May I tell him who’s calling?” the secretary said.
I hated that question. I always wanted to answer either, “No,” or, “It’s none of your business.” But I bit back the sarcasm and gave him my real name.
“Did you say, ‘Deuce,’ as in two?”
“I did.”
“Hold, please.”
I waited most of a minute, beginning to believe after thirty seconds that Cribben would refuse my call. But he didn’t.”
“Well, hello stranger,” he said. “How the heck are you?”
“Very well, thanks. How are you holding up in the wacky world of politics?”
“Avoiding it wherever possible,” Cribben said.
“Well, I happen to be in Washington, Carl, and I’d love to take you to dinner tonight if you can get away.” I realized I had my fingers crossed.
“I absolutely can,” he said. “Did you have any place particular in mind?”
“I haven’t been here in a couple of years, so I don’t know the restaurant scene any more. You choose, keeping in mind that the Journal is paying so you don’t have to worry about the size of the bill.”
We settled on Rasika Penn Quarter, an internationally known Indian sensation on D Street NW just north of the National Mall. Cribben knew the manager, who would bypass those with reservations to give us a good table as soon as we showed up. When I got out of my cab at seven, Cribben was waiting for me at the curb and enveloped me in a bear hug and planted a kiss on my cheek. It was a display not usually performed in public by an agent of the FBI.
“Retired,” he reminded me when I remarked on his effusive reception.
We got a few hard looks from people waiting at the bar for their reservations to be called as we were escorted to a four-top set away from the bulk of the crowd. The place was a little noisy, which seems to be the trend in restaurants these days. But on the upside, the din would provide cover for our conversation.
“You want a Laphroig, for old-times sake?” Cribben asked with a broad smile, recalling our last dinner together.
“I think I’m better off sticking with red wine,” I said, choosing a California pinot noir from the bar menu. Carl ordered an Indian style lager.
I asked about his family, his house, his dog, and his job on Capitol Hill, all of which he reported were fine.
He asked about Mark, my new house, and my job. Also all fine.
“I hope you don’t plan to grill me about my project here,” he said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. But I am here on business.”
He nodded. “I figured. Otherwise you would have called first. But you show up unannounced, confronting me with the fact of your presence, and I can’t say no.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“No, but it’s the same reporter trick you pulled on me when you came to my house to see me last fall.”
I smiled at the memory. “I’ll have to find a new trick,” I said.
The restaurant manager came by to say hello to Cribben, who introduced me. Rather than trying to decipher the menu—I like Indian food, but I don’t know much about it—Cribben suggested the manager send out what he liked best from this evening’s selections, heavy on the seafood, lamb, and vegetables.
We ate slowly, and I told him my story in minute detail, from Murphy’s discovery of the bone in the woods to the black Suburban that had been showing up wherever I went. Without naming names, I described the lead curtain of secrecy drawn across the bodies in Ryan Woods—not even Superman could see through it—and what Winona told me about her suspicions of some diplomatic involvement.
“You mean,” Cribben asked, “your source suspects a foreign national, posted to his country’s diplomatic mission to the United States, is behind the deaths?”
“Suspects is the operative word,” I said. “The source also suspects the FBI and the State Department are the principal investigating agencies, both of them stymied by the possible ramifications of accusing this diplomat, or diplomats, of committing the crimes.”
My monologue was interrupted only by an efficient and pleasant wait staff bringing a variety of naan bread, crab cakes griddled with onion, garlic, ginger, and a spicy beet sauce, and tandoori lamb served with mint chutney. The manager also brought a cucumber
salad with yogurt relish, compliments of the house.
My mouth filled with an explosion of taste sensations I’d never before experienced. And those were the appetizers. They were followed by an Indian eggplant with onions, ginger, and green chiles, then red snapper with shrimp, and a mixed grill. I ran out of capacity before the kitchen ran out of food.
After we oohed and aahed over the meal for the manager—it was easily the best meal I had eaten in recent memory—we politely declined dessert in favor of coffee and a little time to talk without further interruption.
“What is it you want me to do?” Cribben asked. He sounded skeptical.
I felt guilty messing up dinner with business, but that was why I’d come.
“People trafficking in American children are getting away with murder. Literally. I need help or advice, or both. And I had nobody else to ask.”
“I don’t have the same freedom to poke around that I had during the Colangelo thing,” he said. “I was retired and a civilian. Now I work for a congressional committee. We were publicly linked by the Colangelo affair. If I start asking questions about a sensitive subject not related to my assignment in Washington, and even more since my questions would involve events in Chicago, everybody’s going to assume I’m working with you again. This isn’t a truck ‘jacking that happened a couple of decades ago. It’s multiple kidnappings, sex crimes, and murder happening right now. A misstep could cause an international incident. Nobody’s going to say anything to me.”
I was in danger of losing the one shot I had at getting Cribben’s help.
“Your work here on organized crime must involve Chicago,” I said.
“Hard not to,” he acknowledged.
“And human trafficking rings are clearly organized criminals, right?” He nodded and frowned, clearly understanding where I was taking my argument. “Not all organized crime is Italian/Sicilian/Irish these days. You’ve got the Russian mob, the Balkan mobs, the Mexican cartels, Vietnamese gangs, and lord knows what else.”
“That’s all true,” Cribben said. “We’re investigating the activities of all those, and more. Human trafficking is on our radar, too, but we haven’t gone there yet.”
