To her side was a wall of glass with doors that led onto a balcony, infinity pool, and beyond to the Pacific Ocean. The woman who had orchestrated the buying, selling, and using of humans wasn’t wearing a long black dress, a pointed hat, or anything to indicate her evilness. No, she was dressed in a yellow shirt and long white shorts. Another step and I could see her completely. Her feet wore sandals with large rhinestones, her fingers glistened with various diamond rings, and upon her wrist, she twisted gold bracelets.
As I approached, I imagined what could be done to her if we had more time. The images in my mind weren’t pretty, and I wasn’t proud that the thoughts occurred. I also wasn’t ashamed. After the role this woman had played in Madeline’s nightmare, my visions included various ways to return the favor.
The barrel of my gun came to her neck.
“Don’t scream,” I demanded.
Her spine stiffened as the unmistakable putrid stench of alarm emanated from her pores, overpowering her expensive perfume. “What do you want?” She hadn’t yet turned around. Not that it would matter if she saw me. She wouldn’t be alive long enough to recount my description.
“Wendy,” a male voice called with a shaky tenor from a large staircase to our left.
We both turned to see Sparrow a step behind with his gun drawn upon an older man with graying hair, wearing khaki shorts, a bright orange golf shirt, and white canvas loafers. The man’s hands were lifted in the universal sign of surrender as step by step, they descended the stairs.
“Stand up,” I said to Wendy Millstone. “Walk to the dining room.”
Ever compliant, a few moments later, both Jerry and Wendy Millstone sat in padded large chairs at a long glass table with bowed white legs, set with colorful place mats and cloth napkins in rings. Upon the center was another fresh floral arrangement.
Their hands were placed on the surface as they’d been instructed, staying visible to me and Sparrow. Beyond the tall windows, whitecaps topped the waves in the distance as only the television show still playing in the other room could be heard.
As Sparrow and I moved around the couple, the Millstones’ eyes widened as they continually looked nervously from one to the other and back to us.
“What is the meaning of this?” Jerry finally asked.
“Dr. Miller?” I asked.
Wendy’s eyes grew rounder as she stared at her husband. “You have the wrong people. That’s not our name. My husband, h-he’s not a doctor.”
I stepped closer to Jerry Millstone as my volume rose. “Dr. Miller?”
Small beads of perspiration dotted his furrowed brow as his hands twitched. “I-I used that name, but you see,” he said, “I’m not a doctor.”
“Mrs. Miller, Wendy,” Sparrow said, “tell us about the office in Chicago, the one with the examination room, the one where you completed the intake of women and children.”
Her head shook from side to side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tell me about Kristine and Roberto Ortiz from Charitable Heart Mission,” I said.
“We have money,” Jerry said, grasping his own hands and sitting taller. “There’s a safe here in our home. Please, we have children and grandchildren. This is a misunderstanding. We’ll give you whatever you want.”
“We want answers,” Sparrow said.
“What about the children you sold?” I asked. “What about the babies you sold away from their mothers’?”
“I don’t know where you got your information, but you’re wrong,” Jerry protested.
Sparrow leaned back, casually resting his shoulders against the white trim of the archway as his gun remained in his grasp. His gaze narrowed in contemplation as he stared toward Jerry. “I remember you. You always seemed intimidated by the others, a bit like you are now.”
Jerry’s face snapped up as he returned Sparrow’s gaze. “You’re…you’re Sparrow.” It was true that Sterling Sparrow held more physical resemblance to his father when Allister was younger than he cared to admit. Recognizing the familial traits wasn’t uncommon.
Wendy gasped.
“Now that we have introductions out of the way,” Sparrow said.
Jerry lifted his hands. “Wait, I was fair with your father. If he said I wasn’t—”
“My father never mentioned you,” Sparrow replied. “You see, you were an insignificant cog in the wheel as far as he was concerned. However, to me and my man here, we have a special interest in you. Think about it. For the first time, you’re special.”
Wendy’s head shook. “What do you want?”
“Do you think you can be honest with us?” Sparrow asked Mr. Millstone.
“Yes, yes, sir.” He nodded faster with each word. “Yes, I can.”
My lips twitched. “You’re addressing the king of Chicago’s underground. Show some respect. His name is Mr. Sparrow.”
“Yes…I’m sorry. Mr. Sparrow,” Jerry repeated.
“Tell us about the office,” I said, “Tell us who your buyers and sellers were. Who besides the people at Charitable Heart Mission brought you product—human product?”
“What?” Mrs. Millstone said, aghast.
“Come now, Wendy,” I said, placing my gloved hands, including the one with my gun, on top of the table and leaning forward. “From what we’ve been told, you were responsible for the intake and information. How much would a…say, eighteen-year-old girl go for? Who would then buy said child from you?”
“Eighteen is an adult,” she said defensively.
“Are you insinuating that as an adult the individuals volunteered to be sold into sexual slavery?”
She didn’t answer, her gaze flitting between mine and her husband’s.
“How many persons do you think you processed through your little office in the sky?” I asked.
Sparrow stepped away from the wall. His head tilted. “Did you enjoy presenting the girls to your husband to fuck?”
“Please,” she said.
“Or did you present the boys too?” Sparrow turned to Jerry. “Did you check out all the merchandise, no matter the age or gender, before moving them along to the buyer?”
Jerry Millstone’s lips came together as his jaw grew rigid. “You have—”
The butt of Sparrow’s gun came into contact with Jerry’s temple. Bright red flowed from the wound as Wendy gasped.
“You have ten seconds to give us the information we came for,” Sparrow said, lifting the barrel of his gun to Jerry’s other temple.
Patrick
“You won’t get away with this,” Jerry Millstone, a.k.a. Dr. Miller said as he reached up to his wound, turning the tips of his fingers crimson. “We have home security. Our maid will be back—”
“Not until four,” I interrupted, looking down at my watch. “What would you do to those girls, those children, in the course of the time remaining?”
Jerry reached for one of the napkins, holding it to his forehead.
Sparrow’s brows lifted as he turned to me. “Do you want him or her?”
“Wait. What do you want to know?” Wendy asked.
“Roberto and Kristine Ortiz,” I said. “I want all the information you have on their whereabouts.” We’d followed the land deed on the mission to get their complete legal names; unfortunately, Ortiz was too common and our search was too wide. We could find what we wanted, we always did. This was quicker.
Wendy began to stand. “I have—”
The raising of my gun stilled her movement.
She lifted her hands. “I-I have their contact information if you’ll allow me to get it.”
My head shook. “Are you trying to tell us that you exchange Christmas cards?”
“We don’t send them cards,” Jerry said. “We send them money. Twenty-five thousand a year. It was an agreement we made when they closed the doors of the mission.”
Sparrow flattened his lips as his jaw clenched. “Sounds like the gift that keeps on giving. I would assume this arrangement involves
not disclosing certain incriminating information.” He looked at me. “What do you think will be made public when the Millers miss their next payment?”
“The information they retained won’t only incriminate us,” Jerry said.
“We’ve never missed a payment,” Wendy said.
“You will,” I replied.
“What?” the Millstones said in unison.
“Madeline Alycia Tate,” Sparrow said. “Think hard. Your answer may save your life.”
It wouldn’t, but even the slightest hope was a sufficient motivator.
The couple shook their heads as they looked from one to the other. If this had not been real life, but perhaps a cartoon, we would see gears turning within their skulls as they searched their memories.
“I’m sorry,” Wendy said. “There were so many.”
Slowly, Jerry’s eyes met Sparrow’s and his neck straightened. “I know who you’re talking about. Of course you’d be interested. You needn’t worry. Most likely she’s dead or was sold out of the country.” His head shook. “It’s the same as dead. Those purchases don’t return.”
The barrel of my gun rose to point at Wendy. “Think harder,” I said.
His head shook. “Listen, I have what I know about her early history, who took her, and who finally purchased her. However, that was a while ago. As I said, she could be dead or sold again.” He shrugged. “I don’t follow every purchase.”
He was talking about Madeline such as one would track an item on eBay, and with each one of his sentences, my finger itched to pull the trigger.
Jerry went on talking to Sparrow, “You want to ensure that she’s dead. I get that. If you’ll allow me to look, I can give you what we have. The paperwork is in my office.”
I forced my finger to remain away from the trigger. As much as I wanted to see his brain matter splattered over the windows, if he actually retained the documentation, it could prove helpful for retaliation against others who did Madeline wrong. My gaze went to Sparrow.
“Both of you,” Sparrow said to the Millstones, “stand up. We’re all going to find this paperwork.”
They both stood. Jerry reached for the table unsteadily as he pressed the napkin to his temple.
“Are you all right?” Wendy asked as she reached out to her husband.
He was better than he would be.
A prod with the barrel of my gun refocused her attention.
With Sparrow behind Jerry and me behind Wendy, the four of us walked through the living room to a large office. Located in the front corner of the house, the room was filled with sunlight streaming through two walls of glass overlooking the ocean. I took a step near the window and looked down. From this location, there was no balcony. The house appeared to hang over the rocky cliff. “That has to be a forty-foot drop.”
“It’s in here,” Jerry said, pointing to a picture. “I’ll show you.”
Sparrow nodded.
Jerry swung the picture upon a hinge, revealing the door of a safe. As Jerry began entering a code, my phone buzzed. With one hand, I reached into my pocket and pulled the phone free. When I swiped the screen, Reid’s message appeared.
* * *
DISTRESS SIGNAL ACTIVATED. BLOCKED. NEVER SENT AND NOW DELETED.
* * *
Sparrow’s eyes met mine. I didn’t need to say what I’d learned. With a simple nod, he knew.
The door to the hidden safe opened. Within were multiple stacks of old journals as well as a clear box containing various types of electronic storage.
“It’s somewhere in here,” he said.
“Your signal has been deactivated,” I said, lifting my gun, ready to relieve the persistent itch.
I pulled the trigger.
“No,” Wendy screamed, her hands flying to her lips.
With a high-pitch whistle and muffled bang, the 9mm bullet entered the front of Jerry’s skull. For only a millisecond, the realization registered as his eyes opened wide. Blood splattered over the windows and wall. His limbs twitched milliseconds before his body lost rigidity and crumpled to the floor.
“Oh no,” she screamed.
“Mrs. Millstone,” Sparrow said, “come with us.”
Her eyes didn’t move from her husband’s dead body or the pool of red forming around his head.
I tugged on her arm. “He’s not going anywhere.”
Walking back to the living room, Sparrow opened the glass door. Unlike in the office, here it was the balcony that jutted over the cliff. A gust of warm breeze billowed our hair and clothes as the three of us stepped onto the stone balcony. Our ears filled with the roar of the surf as sunlight streamed down from overhead. Though the temperature was only in the sixties, with the low Southern California humidity, the air felt warmer. We continued walking to the edge.
The perimeter of the balcony was surrounded by an all-clear railing. The design allowed for ocean viewing at every height. I stepped to the railing and peered over. The cliff upon which the house stood was irregular with rocks jutting in all directions. Far below at the ocean’s surface, waves crashed over other large rocks, the seawater spraying ten or more feet into the air. Given different circumstances, the beach could have been used in a scene from a teenage beach movie filmed in the 1960s.
Turning back to Wendy, I asked, “Do your grandchildren enjoy this view?”
“Please. We do have money. You can have it all,” she said.
I turned the gun I’d been holding around, so that the handle faced her. To date, I hadn’t touched the handle without gloves. “Grab my gun, Wendy.”
“What? No.”
“We know where your children and grandchildren live,” Sparrow said. “The choice is yours.”
Tentatively, she reached out. The 9mm pistol she was about to touch was not registered to me or anyone. It was part of a shipment of stolen guns we’d acquired. Its last known sale’s origin was in Mississippi.
Hopefully the owner had reported it stolen. If not, he or she would be contacted soon.
“Hold the handle as if you were going to shoot,” I instructed, knowing that when I’d loaded the magazine, I’d purposely only added two bullets. One was expelled in Millstone’s office. Wendy was about to shoot the second.
With now-trembling fingers, Wendy did as I instructed, her hand grasping the handle.
I stood behind her and lifted her arm toward the sea. “Pull the trigger, Mrs. Millstone.”
Her head shook from side to side. “Please don’t do this.”
Sparrow lifted his gun to her temple. “Pull the trigger or I will.”
Her body lurched back with the recoil as she compressed the trigger, firing the second bullet out to sea. Without releasing the handle, she turned back to me with the gun pointed directly at my chest.
“I’ll shoot you,” she said. She tilted her head toward Sparrow. “I’ll do it before he can kill me.”
Calmly, I reached for the barrel. “Too late. You’re out of bullets.”
Her finger again pulled the trigger.
Click.
Again.
Click.
The gun fell to the stone-tile floor of the balcony as she dropped to her knees. “Why?”
“You’re going to jump to your death,” Sparrow said. “It’s a sad case of murder-suicide. You were distraught over the knowledge of what you’d done.”
She looked up, her eyes red and mascara smeared. “They were nothing. Those people…” She said the word as if they weren’t people but product. “…they had nothing. We gave them purpose—”
In one swift kick, my shoe connected with her chin. Releasing a groan, she fell back. The barrel of Sparrow’s gun was still pointed at her.
“You sold them into prostitution after your husband and whoever else you called gave them a taste of their future. If you were younger, I’d do the same to you,” I said. “How would you like to be raped over and over?”
“She is too old,” Sparrow said with a casual tone. “But her daughter could still
get a fair price.”
“What? No.” Wendy said as she scrambled to stand. The side of her face was beginning to discolor and swell. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
“How old are her grandchildren?” I asked.
“Her daughter’s girl is ten. The boy eight,” Sparrow said. “Oh, and her son has a twelve-year-old boy.”
“Stop,” she screamed. “I’ll do it.” She turned to the rail. “Please tell me my grandchildren are safe.”
“Jump, Mrs. Miller,” I demanded.
Her body trembled as she lifted one leg and then the other until she was perched with her legs dangling over and her hands gripping the rail. The sea breeze blew her light blonde hair away from her bruising face. “Please,” she begged, looking over her shoulder at us. “Tell me they’re safe.”
I stepped forward and pressed my hand in the small of her back. “Madeline Tate was and is my wife. She and my child were sold by you,” I growled in her ear. “Your grandchildren will be—”
I shoved her from the railing without completing the sentence.
Sparrow and I both leaned forward until…
Simultaneously, we both straightened our necks.
“I didn’t expect her to bounce,” Sparrow said.
“Hmm,” I replied. “Let’s get those journals and get out of here.”
Twenty-five minutes later, we were both back in our plane, and our driver was on his way back to Colorado. Upon the table before us were the Millstones’ journals. Before leaving the house, we’d placed enough evidence into the safe to send the authorities to the presumption that guilt had finally gotten the best of Wendy Millstone, and closed the safe.
“What do you think we’ll find?” I asked.
“Only one way to find out,” Sparrow replied.
“I have a wish list that includes Roberto and Kristine Ortiz’s address.” I looked up until my gaze met Sparrow’s. “If it’s here, I have an idea.”
Madeline
Ashes Page 17
