by R. A. McGee
“I imagine so. I think sometimes they invent problems in a workplace, just to have something to do. When someone has a real case, they’re frothing at the mouth,” Porter said.
“They sure were. After they reviewed all the evidence, EEOC found I’d been severely harassed and an administrative judge awarded me a settlement. The sheriff office’s own internal investigation agreed with me and demoted my sergeant. They moved him out somewhere where he couldn’t bother anyone else. As part of my settlement, they agreed to give me the promotion and award me back pay from the date I was first passed over for a detective job,” Rivera said.
“Good for you. All’s well that ends well?” Porter said.
“Hardly. I’m a pariah in the sheriff’s office. They complied with the EEOC settlement and gave me a promotion, but you see where they stuck me. The problem squad. They have no intention of doing anything that may actually help my career. The other detectives in my unit don’t want to talk to me because they all think I’m a snitch. People worry that if they work with me, I’ll keep tabs on them and drop a dime. Never mind that two investigations proved I was telling the truth.” Rivera kept searching the area through her binoculars.
“You know what they say; sometimes doing the right thing isn’t doing the right thing,” Porter said.
“Tell me about it. I swear, I’ve about had enough of this place. Screw these people. If I had someplace better lined up, I’d quit. But I don’t, so I stay.”
“That’s why Candy Man’s so important to you?”
“That’s right. We catch him, maybe they’ll move me to a real unit. They have to if I make a good enough case,” Rivera said.
Porter looked at the time and noticed they were no longer early. If Candy Man wasn’t already hiding somewhere in the bookstore, he should be walking in any second. There still appeared to be no sign of a professor. Porter’s Hector-phone made a noise. Porter fished it out of his pocket and checked the screen.
Waiting for you. Where are you?
Porter hadn’t seen a professor-type walk into the bookstore. He showed Rivera.
“Shit. What are you going to say?”
“Bluff. Gotta buy us time to find him.”
Here. Where are you? Porter tapped out on the phone.
Rivera redoubled her efforts to locate their targets. She still saw nothing.
Porter was deciding what to do. If Candy Man was inside, he would see that Hector wasn’t walking in. That might spook him. Porter’s real phone rang.
“Yeah.”
“Hey man, I think I found Candy Man’s car.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve been driving around since I got here. Nervous energy,” Ross said. “There aren’t that many cars in this parking lot and I think this one is the only rental. It has one of those weird barcode stickers on the front of the windshield. Plus, it has an Arizona tag. Who drives here from Arizona?”
The phone buzzed again.
Get in here or I leave.
Porter said to Ross, “Is there a guy in the car you’re talking about?”
“Yeah. He’s in there texting on his phone,” Ross said.
“That’s him,” Porter said. “He’s so careful, he won’t even go in until he sees Hector. I’m not going to get him out of that car.”
“What’s he driving?” Rivera said.
Porter relayed the question to Ross.
“A black Cadillac. One of the new fast ones,” Ross said.
“Look for a black Cadillac,” Porter said to Rivera.
“I already see the Cadillac,” Ross said.
“Not talking to you.”
“I see it,” Rivera said. “West side of the building, tucked behind that old truck.”
Porter strained his eyes until he saw it too. It was time to act before they lost Candy Man.
“Keep an eye on him, Ross,” Porter said. “Just don’t get too close.”
“Okay,” Ross said, and hung up.
Porter got the Hector-phone and typed out his message.
Give me a min.
“I need to get over to that Caddy.”
“Then what? What if he bails?” Rivera said.
“If he takes off, follow him. Remember, the most important thing is that we know where he is for as long as we can. We can work things out from there.”
“What are you going to do when you get over to the car?”
“Not sure yet, but at this point we don’t have any other options. If this guy ghosts, we’re back at square one.”
Forty-Six
Porter got out of the unmarked unit and looked around. They’d been well-hidden where they were sitting. To get to the Cadillac, he would have to cross the busy road to the parking lot of the bookstore. Porter figured he had a good chance of making it without being seen. He stood at the edge of the road, waiting for his opportunity to cross.
When a break in the cars came, Porter moved. He sprinted to the median, then hurried the rest of the way at the next break in traffic. Arriving behind the row of cars where Candy Man was parked, Porter made his way from bumper to bumper until he was next to a rusty F-150 with a topper over the bed. He leaned close to the tailgate. Candy Man’s Cadillac was in the next parking place.
Porter knew this was his best chance to find out what had happened to Danisha Hill. To help Ross get some peace at night. To help Miss Leona find closure for herself and her baby. To help Rivera have the type of career she deserved. It was time for Porter to make it happen. He stepped around the bumper of the Cadillac to the passenger side.
He slammed his elbow into the safety glass on the window, smashing it into tiny pebbles that rained down inside the car.
Porter leaned down and looked in the car. “You Candy Man?”
He looked at Porter as if he’d interrupted something important. “You are not Hector.”
He didn’t look like Porter had expected. The word ‘professor’ had conjured an image of a scholarly type, walking across campus with a briefcase and a tweed coat with elbow patches. Candy Man’s hawkish features gave him a predatory air, and he was as much a professor as Porter was a bill collector.
“You got me. I’m not Hector.”
“May I ask why you are destroying my car?”
“That’s a terrific question. Let me ask you something first.”
“It is rude to answer a question with a question,” Candy Man said.
“That’s what they tell me. I’m going to break decorum. When you meet women, if you meet women, do you introduce yourself as Candy Man?” Porter watched his hands, still on his cell phone. He couldn’t be sure Candy Man wouldn’t pull a weapon and if he did, Porter’s face was front and center.
Candy Man stared at Porter, as if trying to gauge his intentions. He had a perturbed air about him as he answered. “That is a silly name. I did not give it to myself; it was invented by some associates. However, it is important for one to have a calling card. Brand recognition, if you will.”
Porter wasn’t sure if he wanted to strangle this guy or laugh at him. The fact of the matter was, he’d found him and he wanted to use this opportunity to its fullest. But before Porter could say anything, Candy Man spoke again.
“I was looking forward to a cup of tea. Shall we continue this conversation in the coffee house?”
The request caught Porter off guard. He was used to people begging. Please don’t arrest me, please don’t hurt me, please don’t kill me. He was used to defiance. People who would fight and cuss and lie. Anything to get out of the situation Porter had put them in. He wasn’t used to this.
He decided there could be no harm in getting Candy Man into the open.
“Sure. Let’s do tea.”
Candy Man pulled the door latch and swung his body to get out of the car. There was no subterfuge. He didn’t run or try to grab some hidden weapon. He just got out of the car. Porter walked around the hood to meet him. Candy Man chirped the key fob and locked the Cadillac. Together, they walked t
owards the front door.
Candy Man was almost Porter’s height, but that was where the similarity ended. Brown corduroy pants hung off his rail-thin frame and his button-down was neatly tucked in. Porter stayed to the right and rear of Candy Man, ready for an attack that never came. They walked into the bookstore and turned into the coffee shop.
Porter imagined Ross and Rivera were confused. The last thing they would have expected was Porter and Candy Man walking into the building together.
When they arrived at the counter, Candy Man ordered a large hot tea.
“Would you care for anything?” Candy Man asked.
“No thanks. Coffee gives me the shits.” Porter looked at the barista. “I’m sure you understand.”
Candy Man gave Porter an annoyed look and turned to finish his transaction. When the order was ready, the pair turned and walked to a small table flanked by two tall wing-backed chairs.
Candy Man looked at Porter, who gestured to the table. “Looks good to me.”
There was silence for a few moments. Candy Man had the lid of his tea off and was stirring milk into it. Porter watched him the entire time. He had a peculiar way about him. A strange affect, as if he were unburdened by the current reality he was facing.
“You mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Something other than the vaguely insulting one you asked me in the car?”
“That was a bit of fun, Candy Man. Don’t take offense.”
“Oh, I will not.”
“Good. My real question is, where exactly are you from?” Porter said.
“What do you mean?”
“Your accent is… off. There’s something strange about it that I can’t quite put my finger on.”
“Very perceptive, Mr. …”
“Smith,” Porter said.
Candy Man turned his mouth into a frown. “I doubt very much that your name is Smith.”
“I could say the same thing, Candy Man.” Porter made air quotes as he said it.
“Fair enough. Very perceptive, Mr. Smith. I am actually a transplant from the UK. I have been here a very long time and thought my accent was tamed sufficiently to pass for American.”
“It’s not bad. What brought you to America?” Porter wasn’t sure where to take this conversation, so he resorted to his old law enforcement officer interview strategy. Open-ended questions, and lots of them. Let the person being interviewed take the conversation where they wanted. Inadvertently, they would give him answers.
“It is a long and sordid tale. The distilled version is, I came for school.”
“Do you like it here?”
“I do. The States version of capitalism is an amazing thing. People will buy and sell anything,” Candy Man said.
“Helps that practically everything’s for sale.”
Candy Man smiled. “Mr. Smith, as much as I’m enjoying our little chat, I feel the need to ask you some questions. I would like to determine your intentions.”
Porter turned his index finger and middle finger into a mock pistol and pointed them at Candy Man. “Shoot.”
“It is evident that you are not a police officer.”
“What gave me away?”
“Several things, really. If you were an officer, there would be more of you here. You would have likely placed handcuffs on me from the outset. Additionally, you don’t have the… look… of an officer of the law.”
“Well, I gotta give you that one. I’m not a police officer.”
“My next thought was that you were some sort of reporter. Trying to find a story about some of my more unscrupulous activities. But that does not appear to be the case, as they generally have some sort of cameraman for video documentation,” Candy Man said.
“A 60 Minutes documentary or something like that?”
“Exactly,” Candy Man said. “Which leads me to my third thought: You found out from Hector what type of work I do, and you want in. Maybe a piece of my pie, maybe all of my pie.”
“I don’t like sweets,” Porter said. “I need to watch my figure.”
“Barring those possibilities, I’m not sure who you are or why you are here.”
“Let’s just say I’m a concerned party. I need to ask you some questions. You need to answer those questions.”
“A threat. I was wondering when that would come.”
“Not a threat at all. I’m being on the up-and-up. You have to answer my questions.”
“Or what? You will kill me? In public like this? Plenty of cameras saw the two of us walk in here together, Mr. Smith.”
Porter smiled, acutely aware that he was on camera. “No, you need to answer my questions for your own satisfaction. I can tell the type of guy you are.”
“And what ‘type’ is that?”
“The type that’s too smart for your own good. You guys always want someone to know what you did and how you did it. If not, how can you revel in your own brilliance?”
Candy Man mulled over Porter’s words, then nodded. “It is a bit of a burden, being the smartest person in the room all the time.”
“You make my point for me,” Porter said. “How does one get into the child-selling business?”
“I prefer to consider myself as a wish-fulfillment consultant.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Porter said.
“I merely provide a service. If people want to use it, that is their prerogative. But, to your point, it is the type of work that one falls into.”
“How’s that?”
“Oh, you know, it starts word of mouth. I helped some Russian and Italian friends of mine with some surplus inventory years back. Word gets around. Referrals. One eventually finds like-minded colleagues. I don’t need to advertise,” Candy Man said.
“So the mafia—sorry, Italian friends of yours had ‘surplus inventory.’ How do you fit into that? How do you find customers?”
“The internet, naturally.”
“The internet?” Porter said.
“Of course. Have you spent much time on the dark web?”
Porter had heard of it. The dark, or deep, web was a place that could be accessed through the regular internet. A user had to download a special program on their computer to obtain access.
The dark web was enormous. If you imagined the online world as a house, the part that everyday people used—social media, video streaming sites, even pornography websites—accounted for the master bathroom. The dark web was the rest of the house.
Anything could be purchased on the dark web. There were websites where you could buy drugs and have them shipped to your home. You could communicate with arms dealers and purchase caches or weapons. The dark web ran primarily on Bitcoin, which was an untraceable virtual currency, and the criminals who used it were all but out of the reach of law enforcement. Porter was aware of a few cases that had been successfully run through the dark web, but not many.
It was the wild west.
“So people just roll up to your dark-web website and pick out which child they want? You’re like Amazon for pedophiles.”
“I would not say we are nearly that successful.”
“We?”
Candy Man stopped for a moment and considered his next words. “I believe it is safe to say that I work for a… consortium. I think that’s the best way to put it.”
“You made it sound like you were a freelancer, making his bones in the dirty cyber world,” Porter said.
“It is a bit more complicated than that. I could get into it all, but I fear you would not understand. Best we keep things less complicated,” Candy Man said.
“Works for me. I’d love to talk to you about all this and get to understand your ‘consortium,’ but I’ve had a long day. How about I get to my original point?” A twinge of pain shot through Porter’s arm.
“Splendid.”
“I’m interested in the whereabouts of one child,” Porter said.
“Am I to assume it is the little black girl for whom I transacted with He
ctor Quintana?”
“Correct.”
“Interesting.”
“What’s that?” Porter said.
“I have never had anyone contact me after a deal was done, let alone ask about a child’s whereabouts. Forgive me if I may be so bold—are you her father?”
“No.”
“I was wondering. It is obvious you are some sort of… minority, but you are not quite dark-skinned enough to be her father.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how genetics works,” Porter said.
“I suppose not. And what is your relationship to her?”
“A friend of the family.”
“Quite the resourceful friend you are. Finding me is no easy task. Am I to understand that I will be doing no further business with Hector in the future?”
“That’s a safe bet.”
“I could say ‘what a shame,’ but I wouldn’t mean it. I never liked Hector; he was just a small-time crook. A stooge. I don’t like to work with people who are not professionals. However, he knew me through mutual acquaintances. When he called me and told me had a child, it would have been folly to turn down an opportunity at a generous payday.”
“Understandable,” Porter said.
“As to your young negress, what is it you would like to know about her? I fear I cannot tell you much.”
“Why? You know where she went. You know what happened to her. All I need to find out is who did what to her. Maybe where she’s buried. The family would like to have a proper funeral.”
“Why would you presume she is buried somewhere?”
“That’s what you guys do with kids when you use them up. You get rid of the evidence. Nobody wants to go to prison,” Porter said.
“In most cases, yes, they are disposed of. Eventually. Once the product has outlived its shelf life, it must be discarded.”
Candy Man’s detachment made Porter’s teeth ache. Then he realized they ached because he was clenching his jaw. “So where was this girl ‘discarded’?”
“To the best of my knowledge, she has not been discarded. That girl is still very much alive,” Candy Man said.
Forty-Seven
Porter had barely let himself contemplate a scenario in which Danisha Hill was still alive. He was sure part of that was a defense mechanism, to steel himself against the eventuality of finding her lifeless body. The other part of it was experience and common sense. Finding one of these kids alive was no small feat. It happened, but even for Porter it was rare.
