Midnight Crossing: A Mystery

by Tricia Fields

  Josie introduced herself, and the women each did the same. She took the documents out of the package and matched them up with the women to get a sense of who she was working with. She asked each of the women questions about their fictional background, memorizing each woman’s name before proceeding. If Josh’s story was accurate, it would be a simple exchange, but if she was questioned she needed basic information on each of the women who had supposedly been in her care.

  Josie finally said, “I think we’re ready.”

  She got a thumbs-up from the other women and Sheila said, “Take a right out of the parking lot and turn left at the stoplight.”

  Josie followed Sheila’s directions and listened to the cops’ banter in the backseat as they discussed the players they would most likely encounter once they were inside the apartment building. One of the women worked vice, and they were still catching her up to speed on the investigation.

  After a ten-minute drive, Sheila directed Josie into the parking lot of a building that looked like public assistance housing gone wrong. Three dumpsters were backed up against the side of the five-story building, each one with trash overflowing onto the ground. Windows were broken and duct-taped together, and a general sense of misery pervaded the block of tenement buildings.

  Josie pulled the van into a space and scouted out the parking lot. There were about ten vehicles in various states of disrepair, but all of them appeared empty. She noticed an old minivan parked in the rear of the parking lot and asked if it was the backup undercover vehicle.

  Sheila laughed. “That’s our backup. Sad old piece of junk smells like mold and cat pee. The SWAT team is also ready to go on our call. We need to communicate space and size and the number of people for them to expect when they get inside.”

  Josie called Townie, the project lead, who was communicating with the backup van, and asked, “Is the backup picking up my mic?”

  “You’re good to go.”

  “Okay.” Josie turned and faced the women in the back of the van. “Good luck.”

  She received a similar chorus of voices telling her to be careful, and she left the van.

  SEVENTEEN

  Vie Blessings called Otto at noon. “We’re ready to release the women, but I’m not sure what to do with them. Have you heard from victims’ assistance? I’ve called and left two messages but can’t get anyone to respond. We’ve got two rooms tied up, Otto. As much as I want to help, we can’t use the trauma center for long-term care when there’s no medical issue. And, sorry to say it, no money to pay for it.”

  The frustration in Vie’s voice was obvious. Aside from Isabella, the other three women weren’t suspects. They were victims. With no money. And no identification. When the van that Josh Mooney was driving was confiscated for evidence, the police found useless fake IDs and passports. Meanwhile, Otto had no idea what to do with the women, and now one of them was a prime murder suspect with no known motivation.

  Josie had wanted to wait to interview Isabella Dagati, but Otto was the lead on the case, and he couldn’t afford to sit on his haunches and wait. He drove to the trauma center and convinced Vie Blessings to give up the staff lounge again so that he could speak with Isabella. Next, he called Selena Rocha and asked if she would come to the hospital for an hour to translate if language became a barrier. She had agreed to meet him there in thirty minutes. Police work was about problem-solving and often making split-second decisions that could make or break a case. But when immigration issues and cross-border crimes were at play, it complicated things immensely. There were no rule books, only best guesses.

  Otto and Selena sat at the staff lunch table and waited for the nurse to escort Isabella into the lounge. She entered wearing black pants and a woman’s button-down shirt. Obviously someone in the community had provided clothing for the women. He wondered if Caroline Moss’s group was trying to find the women transportation home to Guatemala. He thought how bizarre the entire situation had become.

  “How are you feeling today?” he asked.

  She nodded and smiled shyly. Her hair was pulled back in a long braid behind her head and she looked rested but nervous, frequently glancing away from Otto as if not wanting to make eye contact.

  “It’s time to talk about what happened the night that Renata was shot,” Otto said.

  Her face clouded over and she shook her head.

  “Not talking about it is no longer an option.” He paused to let his words sink in. “We found a gun in the pasture where Renata’s body was found. Your fingerprints are on that gun.”

  She closed her eyes and her body slumped into the chair.

  “I need the truth, Isabella.”

  Otto’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he saw that it was Ernie Mays. He stood and excused himself into the hallway. What timing, he thought.

  Ernie apologized for not getting to him sooner and began explaining another case he’d been working on that took precedence. Otto listened patiently, wanting to hurry him along. Ernie finally said, “I’ve got your information.”

  “That’s great news. What did you find?”

  “I test-fired the gun and fed it into the ATF’s database. The gun didn’t match with any other crimes. But when I checked the bullet casing against the gun, there was no match there either.”

  Otto frowned. “So, you’re telling me that the bullet found inside the victim’s body did not come from the gun we found at the crime scene?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. The bullet and casing associated with the murder are .380-caliber. The gun you gave me is a nine-millimeter Luger. To the naked eye the rounds look almost identical. Under the microscope, the rounds are clearly different.”

  “I’ll be damned. Ernie, get your appetite ready. I’ll be up to deliver on that steak dinner soon.”

  Ernie laughed. “If everybody had delivered on all their steak dinners through the years, I’d be a well-fed man.”

  * * *

  Otto entered the lounge again and found Isabella crying. Investigations with the roller-coaster effect irritated him: up and down; one minute things were coming together, the next falling apart.

  He sat down across from the young woman and hoped to get her side of the story without first telling her the information about the casing and the gun. He lightened his tone. “Just tell me what happened,” he said. “Help us understand so that we can help you.”

  After several false starts and more tears and hand-wringing, she finally gave in and told Otto the story.

  Isabella and Renata escaped from the motel in Piedra Labrada, just like Isabella had told Marta. But as they left the motel, Isabella took the gun that she knew Josh hid in his shoe each night when he went to bed. She hid it under her sweatshirt, tucked into the back waistband of her jeans. They found a Catholic church a few blocks away and learned about Señora Molina. They hiked out to the river to find her, and after staying with her for a night, they crossed the Rio Grande in search of Josie’s house. They found it one afternoon while Josie was at work. They made a place to sleep in her toolshed, gathering courage to approach Josie one evening after she came home from work.

  Meanwhile, they heard a vehicle driving slowly by the house their second night there and feared the people in the vehicle were searching for them. On the third night, Josie wasn’t home yet and a car pulled into the driveway with its headlights on and stopped. Isabella figured it was somewhere between nine and eleven o’clock. It was much earlier than the other nights the car drove by. They heard someone get out of the car. They could see through knotholes in the toolshed that someone was prowling around outside. Isabella grabbed the gun and they snuck out of the toolshed without being heard. They had reached the back of the house, ready to run down the lane toward Dell’s house, when Renata tripped over something and a man shouted both their names. Isabella couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think it was Josh or Ryan’s voice.

  The women took off running into the pasture, parallel with the road. A man followed them, yelling
their names. There was enough starlight to see to walk carefully, but they were terrified and confused and desperate to get away. Then they noticed headlights moving slowly down the road from behind them. They changed course and turned to run toward the mountain range, directly behind Josie’s house.

  A short time later, Isabella said she heard a gunshot from behind her and she flung her arm around and pulled the trigger on the gun, not having any idea if she was going to hit the person, but wanting to scare him. She heard two more gunshots and turned to look behind her and saw Renata stumble and drop into the dirt.

  Isabella’s voice turned to a whisper. “I thought Renata was running next to me. I don’t know if it was me that shot her. I don’t know. I thought she was right beside me, and then I turned to see where the shooter was, and there was Renata, stumbling forward, and then she hit the ground, and I turned and moved as fast as I could, tripping over rocks and cactus. It all happened so fast I couldn’t make sense of any of it.” She took a deep breath, obviously forcing herself to continue. “I hid behind rocks at the bottom of the mountain until I was sure they were gone and I went to check on her but she was dead. I threw the gun into the pasture and went back to hide in the toolshed until I could figure out what to do next.”

  “It wasn’t you that killed her,” Otto said, feeling a rush of compassion for this young woman. “Renata was shot in the back. If you turned and fired behind you, the bullet would have entered her chest. And we have the bullet that killed Renata. It didn’t come from your gun.”

  Her mouth opened and she looked stunned.

  “The phone call I just took was from the police lab. Someone else shot Renata. It wasn’t you.”

  * * *

  A bullet had pierced the shatterproof glass of the entrance door to the apartment building, leaving a spiderweb of chipped glass. Josie pushed the door open and the smell of backed-up sewage made her wince. Flickering fluorescent lights cast a yellow glow across the stained carpet. The lobby was no more than a hallway that led to an elevator that clearly hadn’t worked in years, a bank of mailboxes that appeared as if someone had taken a baseball bat to them, a stairwell leading both upstairs and down, and at the end of the hallway, a door with the word OFFICE painted in black.

  She took a deep breath and wished she knew how to pray. She would have said a prayer. As the chief of police in a small-town city department, working undercover was not her specialty.

  She knocked on the door and a man with a gruff voice yelled, “What?”

  Josie put her hand on the sticky doorknob and turned. The space was the size of a bathroom and seemed to serve as both a custodian’s supply closet and an office with a small wooden desk. The bald gaunt man with a goatee in a three-piece suit did not fit the voice that had bellowed out at Josie.

  “What?” he repeated.

  “I need to see Big Ben.”

  “Why?”

  “I got a delivery.”

  “Of what?”

  “Women.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” she asked back.

  The corner of his mouth lifted and he rolled his chair away from his desk a bit, finally seeming to take her seriously.

  “I’m Big Ben.”

  “Well, then I’m Deirdre.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She let the corner of her mouth lift but said nothing.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “In my van. In the lot.”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “I’m waiting on five.”

  She smiled, cocking her head slightly. “Well, now you get four.”

  “Deirdre makes five,” he said.

  “Deirdre’s getting the hell out of here.”

  Josie pitched the manila envelope onto his desk, and Big Ben dumped the contents onto the pile of papers in front of him. He flicked through the documents to find the driver’s licenses, studying each one, mumbling the girls’ names and their weight and eye color, commenting on their appearance. He spoke with a light Mexican accent, drawing out some words, clipping others. He held up one of the licenses and read off the name. “Susita. What’s she like?”

  Josie shrugged. “She’s all right. A little attitude.”

  A gold tooth glinted when he laughed, giving him the appearance of a cartoon character. “I knew it. I know these mamas before they ever walk into my life, just by their picture.” He tapped the photo on the license. “This little mamacita needs to be trained.”

  Josie smiled and nodded. He was referring to Sheila. Trained? “She’s a tough one.”

  He stroked his goatee and eyed Josie. “Tough, huh? She won’t be tough for too long. I guarantee you that, my friend.” He laughed and stood from his desk. “Let’s go.”

  He brushed past Josie and into the hallway. She followed him outside, where he peered into the parking lot and spotted her van. “Pull it around behind the building.”

  He started to walk away and she said, “Hey! What about my check?”

  “Don’t be rude, mama. Meet me in back.”

  * * *

  Josie climbed into the van and was peppered with questions. The undercover officers were wired, but they had no audio of Josie’s communication, nor could they communicate with each other once they entered the building. Josie’s transmission was only connected to Townie.

  “I spoke with one man who identified himself as Big Ben. Tall, middle-aged with a goatee and a cheesy three-piece suit.” Josie turned in her seat to look at Sheila before driving the van around back. “He singled your driver’s license out and asked about you. I said you had an attitude. I think he’s looking forward to messing with you.”

  One of the others, a Hispanic woman with big hair and a loud laugh, gave her grief. “Oh, girlfriend. He picked the wrong UC to mess with. Sheila will rip his ass good.”

  * * *

  The mood in the van would have seemed lighthearted to someone outside of law enforcement. But Josie knew it was nervous energy. Any situation with criminals involving innocent people, money, guns, and drugs could end in disaster in seconds flat. Everyone in the van knew that one wrong move could put their lives in jeopardy.

  The back of the apartment building was down a sloped drive that ended in what looked like a loading dock and the building’s basement. Josie stopped the van where Big Ben was standing beside the basement door stroking his goatee. She opened the van’s side door and four women stared out at her, eyes wide, looking terrified, playing their parts well.

  “Ladies. Welcome to the beautiful United States of America. My name is Big Ben and I’ll be your tour guide. We’ll get you set up in your lovely room and then I’ll introduce you to your trainer. For now, let’s see which one of you lovely ladies will rise to the top.” He held up one of the driver’s licenses. “Contestant number one. Juanita! Come out here and let me see you.”

  The woman with the loud laugh climbed out of the van looking timid and scared. Big Ben pointed to the wall next to the entrance door and had her stand there. “Arms to your side,” he said. They all stared at the woman, who looked away, possibly searching the parking lot for the backup undercover minivan, but more likely humiliated at being treated like a piece of property.

  “Not bad. Drop a few pounds, fix that mess of hair,” he said. “Now turn around, slowly.”

  She did as instructed. Josie knew the women would thoroughly enjoy watching the handcuffs click tight around the man’s wrists.

  This went on for at least fifteen minutes as Big Ben took each girl out of the van and assessed her physical qualities in front of the others, making it clear that he was in charge.

  “Okay, ladies. You’re all mine now. Let’s set you up in your room, where you can pick out some clothes. Then you get your first lesson on cleaning toilets and keeping your mouths shut.” He turned to Josie and pulled an envelope out of the inner pocket of his suit coat and handed it to her.

  Josie held the envelope in the air. “I bet I ca
n make you a better deal,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t make deals with the drivers.”

  “I’m not your typical driver.”

  He considered her for a moment. She was off-script. They hadn’t planned for her to talk business with him, and she hoped she wouldn’t blow what was so far moving along as planned.

  “I can see you aren’t a typical driver, Miss Deirdre. What’s your cost?”

  “I’ll do you ten percent better than what she was charging you.”

  He frowned as if contemplating the offer, but didn’t seem surprised that she’d referred to the person arranging the current deal as female. He took out his wallet and handed Josie one of his business cards. “Be in touch,” he said, and turned away from her.

  Josie got into the van and took one quick look back as he led the women into the basement.

  EIGHTEEN

  Four hours after leaving a cocky Big Ben lording his power over four seemingly frightened women in the Maid’s Quarters, Josie walked into an interrogation room to find Benjamin Dominguez sitting in a chair, bent over at the waist.

  He braced his hands on the side of the chair and leaned up slightly to speak. “I have anxiety attacks. It’s a medically diagnosed condition. I need to get to the hospital immediately. I will pass out without medical care.”

  “We’re not taking you anywhere,” Townie said. He rolled his eyes at the theatrics and pointed to an empty chair for Josie.

  The interrogation room was in the basement of one of the police department substations. She was certain more accommodating rooms were available, but the setting fit the occasion. The room was barely large enough to hold Big Ben, Townie, and two other officers that she’d not seen before sitting in chairs, and another officer who was running a video camera behind a tripod in one corner of the room.