by Tom Fowler
“So do I.”
“Do you know where he is?” she said.
“Katherine, you should rest,” I said. “You’ve been through a lot. Don’t worry about him.”
“I’m going to worry about him, dammit. He’s the one who told them to take me, who allowed them to lock me in there with those other girls, who let the men . . .” Katherine’s voice dissolved into sobs. I stood and grabbed the small box of tissues on the table beside her bed. She took one and wiped at her eyes. I set the box beside her on the bed. “Thanks,” she said after a moment.
I sat again. “You’re welcome.”
“Part of me is curious how you found us. I thought we were goners. They kept saying we were leaving soon, that we’d never see our families again.” Katherine stopped and cried a little more. She pulled another tissue, wiped her eyes again, and blew her nose. “Then the other part of me doesn’t care. You found us, and we’re all safe. Why dwell on it?”
“It’s a good question.”
She turned her eyes to me for the first time since I’d sat in the room. “Which part should I listen to?”
“The part not wanting to dwell on things,” I said.
“I think you’re right.”
I heard a shriek from the doorway and turned. “My baby girl!” Pauline said and dashed to the bed. She leaned down and embraced Katherine, squeezing her like a wrestler going for a bear hug—or a mother who thought she might never see her daughter again. Both shared a good cry for a couple minutes. When it tapered, I stood and started for the door. Pauline put her arm out and stopped me.
“Thank you, C.T.,” she said. “Thank you so much.”
I patted her on the shoulder and smiled. “You’re welcome,” I said and walked out. They should enjoy their happy reunion by themselves. Besides, I didn’t know where David Rosenberg was, and still didn’t know who killed Stanley Rodgers. At least Katherine was safe, but the original case still stood before me, pointed a finger, and laughed. A few minutes ago, I advised Katherine Rodgers not to dwell on things. I planned not to take my own advice this time. Solving Stanley Rodgers’ murder was the case I signed on for, and despite the happy reunion in room 412, I hadn’t made much progress on it from the beginning.
Rich called me as I left the hospital. I drove downtown.
Eliot Eisenberg sat in an interrogation room. He clutched an icepack to his groin. It dripped onto the floor occasionally. I hoped they would make him clean it up. After watching through the window a moment, we walked into the interrogation room. Eisenberg’s right wrist was handcuffed to a bar on the desk. He scowled and appeared surprised at us, managing to pull both off at the same time.
“You’re not an investor,” he said to Rich.
“Actually, I am,” said Rich, “just not with you.”
“Shoulda known.”
“So raping and sodomizing girls is your cut of this sex trade ring,” I said.
“Yeah, so? All those girls, right there. How could I not?”
My answer was ready to go, but I didn’t see the point.
“You know, you kicked me a lot,” Eisenberg said. He jutted his chin to his crotch, as if I’d forgotten planting my foot there a bunch of times. “I might be sterile.”
“If I’d remembered my knife in the moment,” I said, “I would have cut your dick off and fed it to you. Kicking you into sterility was the next-best option.”
“I might sue.”
“Good luck. I’m sure judges and juries are very sympathetic to pedophiles who rape girls captive in sex rings.”
“Hey, I’m no pedophile,” he said with complete sincerity.
“What was the girl, fifteen?” I said. “Statutory rape makes you a pedophile.”
“Let’s move on,” Rich said. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. While I would like to crucify you, the state’s attorney is willing to make a deal if you give up Rosenberg and all other major players above you in this sex slave trade.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Up to her. It depends on how good your information is. If the feds get involved, the deal expires.”
“Minimum security?”
Rich and I both laughed. “You’re doing hard time, you prick,” Rich said. “How much and how hard is up to you. The clock’s ticking. You wanna talk?”
Eisenberg sighed. He grimaced and crossed his legs. The puddle under the ice pack grew. “I don’t know where David Rosenberg is,” he said after a moment.
“So no deal, then?” said Rich.
“What do you mean?”
“You say you don’t know where Rosenberg is.”
“Because I don’t.”
“Have a good guess? Anyone else up in the chain you can give us?”
“I don’t know where he is. If he’s gone into hiding, I don’t know where. There was no one else I reported to.” Eisenberg’s mouth twitched a little when he said it. I didn’t have to look at Rich to know he saw it, too.
“You’re sure?” Rich said.
“I think I know who I fucking reported to,” said Eisenberg.
“And it was only Rosenberg?”
“Yes, only Rosenberg.” I saw the small twitch again. “If he doesn’t want to be found, you’re not going to find him.”
“Won’t stop us from trying,” I said.
“You’ll be wasting your time.”
“It’s mine to waste, and I’ll be doing it out here, while you’ll be the one getting raped in prison.”
Eisenberg frowned. “That’s not funny,” he said.
“It’s a matter of perspective,” I told him.
It was late when I left the station, and I hadn’t slept much the last couple days. On the drive home, I looked forward to climbing into my bed and resting for about twelve hours. If Gloria were there, she would understand. My ringing cell phone interrupted my thoughts. Caller ID showed it to be Joey. What did he want at this hour? I figured there was one way to find out.
“C.T., I might have some information for you,” Joey said, “but I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”
“Oh, fuck. What now?”
“Can you meet me? I got a table at Della Notte.”
I already passed it on my way home, but turning around would be easy enough. “All right. Give me five minutes.”
Whatever Joey wanted to tell me didn’t sound encouraging. I drove fast and made it in four minutes, plus an extra to find a parking spot. I left the Caprice directly in front of a fire hydrant, entered the restaurant, and saw Joey in a booth along the left wall. He waved, and I walked to him, and slid onto the opposite seat. He’d already got a soda, an order of fried calamari, and a bowl of Italian wedding soup. True to form, Joey worked over the squid first.
“Glad you could come out,” he said.
“I’d had my fill of slimy pedophile accountants,” I said.
Joey blinked. “One more reason to hate accountants, I guess. You want anything?”
“Not really. It’s been a long couple of days. I want to get home and go to sleep.”
“Still working on the same case?” Joey covered a nervous smile with a quick intake of calamari. I could never watch him eat for long.
“Yeah, just wrapped up the mess spiraling out of it,” I said. “Now I still have to figure out who killed Stanley Rodgers.”
“And you think things still point to David Rosenberg?”
“Looks like it.”
Joey winced. Normally, I might have capitalized on a moment like this to snag a bite—I never got many chances—but I wondered what discomfited Joey so much. “What’s going on, Joey?” I said.
“I set someone up earlier today,” Joey said, lowering his voice. “He paid double the normal rate. Got him out of town in a hurry. Great work for a quick job, if I do say so myself.”
“You just did.”
“So I did.” Joey flashed a quick, awkward smile again. He looked like he was smiling for his senior prom photo after realizing he hated his date.
�
��And this is significant to my case and my evening how?”
Joey sighed. He took his napkin from his lap and set it on the table. Now he was getting serious. Joey didn’t abandon eating posture unless serious shit was going down. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but the guy I helped was Rosenberg.” He finished the sentence with a wince, like he expected me to hit him.
If I hadn’t been so surprised, I might have.
“What?” was all I could say after a moment of mentally watching my case vanish down a drain.
“I didn’t know who he was. I swear.”
“Joey, you’ve been doing this work for a few years,” I said.
He indicated yes. “About three and a half.”
“In this time, you’ve helped people get away from Rosenberg.”
Another head bob. “I have.”
“And you knew who “DR” meant when I had no idea,” I said.
“Right, I did.”
“And despite all this, you didn’t know what the area’s biggest loan shark looked like?” I heard a couple conversations around us stop and felt eyes on me. Joey noticed it, too.
“Keep your voice down, will you?” he said. “I told you I didn’t know—”
“Oh, I heard you,” I said, pounding the table. “I just don’t know when you became such a fucking idiot.”
“Now wait a—”
“You get blinded by the fact he paid double?”
“Will you keep your voice down?” Joey whispered.
“No. Nobody knows who you are, and nobody gives a shit.” I drew a breath. “You and I both fall on the right side of the line, but you’re over it this time.” I rested clenched fists on the tabletop. “Where did you send him?”
Joey frowned. “I can’t tell you. Professional ethics.”
“Professional ethics?”
“Yes,” Joey said, wincing at my continued refusal to talk quietly. Several people followed our conversation with interest. All we needed now was some jackass to tweet about it, or—worse—livestream it. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” I said. “I understand a man is dead, and his family still grieves. I understand the family got torn apart when his daughter was abducted as part of a sex ring. I understand I and a few others just busted up the ring and saved quite a few girls, though not before some of the higher-ups took some free samples. I know the man you just sent out of the state is responsible for everything I’ve said.”
“I told you I didn’t know who he was.”
I stood, grabbed Joey’s bowl of hot Italian wedding soup, and dumped it in his lap. He recoiled in the chair but didn’t stand. “Here’s what I think of your professional ethics. Fuck you, Joey. When you realize how bad you fucked up, let me know. Until then, go to hell.”
Before Joey could answer, I stormed out of the restaurant. I got curious looks from the entire staff. I ignored them.
Chapter 18
When I got home, Gloria was in my bed, already asleep. She stretched across enough of it to encroach on my half. Sometimes, I can sneak up and wake her with a start when I sit on the bed. Tonight, I was too tired to bother. She startled awake anyway, but it happened when I walked into the bedroom. She recovered from her initial surprise and said, “Welcome home” in a voice sounding far more alert than I felt.
“Thanks,” I said. I wandered into the bathroom to attend to my nightly rituals, emerged, and changed into my pajamas. I felt tired enough I almost slept in my clothes, but I had been uncomfortable in them for a while. It was the case more than anything, but still, I wanted to sleep in clean comfort. Gloria smiled at me as I sat on the edge of the bed, then lay down. My head sank into the pillow, and I let out a deep breath. Gloria put her hand on my chest. I smelled her perfume as she leaned closer and kissed my neck. For the first time since we met, I rebuffed her advances. I couldn’t scrub the image of Eliot Eisenberg violating that poor Chinese girl from my mind. Gloria said she understood.
I doubted it.
In the morning, I awoke before Gloria. I did this despite being weary from the past few days and going to sleep later than she. As I pondered the grand unfairness of circadian rhythms, I walked downstairs, fired up the coffee machine, and set some breakfast things out for Gloria. Then I called Gonzalez.
“I was wondering when I’d hear from you again,” he said.
“I thought I heard eager anticipation in your voice,” I said.
“Did you?”
“I’m used to hearing it from a lot of girls over the years.”
“Great,” he said. “Today’s my day off, you know.”
“Then you have no excuse not to meet me for breakfast.”
“You buying?”
“Sure,” I said. “Where?”
The line went silent as Gonzalez thought about it. “Towson Diner. Remember where it is?”
“Yep.”
“Forty-five minutes,” Gonzalez said. I was about to point out he’d tried to tack on the when to the where, but he hung up before I could.
I went back upstairs. Gloria was still asleep. I got dressed quietly, wrote her a short note, left it on her nightstand—I actually thought of it as her nightstand, which both gave me pause and made me smile—then left.
Gonzalez occupied a booth near the back when I got there, late as usual. No one sat within a dozen feet of him. The Towson Diner wasn’t very big, and the rest of it looked moderately crowded. I slid in opposite Gonzalez and gulped down half the glass of water waiting for me on the table. “You order yet?” I said after wiping my mouth.
He shook his head. “Just the coffee. Waiting for you.”
A middle-aged waitress who looked like she’d done this her whole adult life approached and took our requests. Gonzalez asked for pancakes with double bacon and a bagel. I ordered a western omelet, wheat toast, and coffee. The waitress returned quickly with my coffee and put a fresh top on Gonzalez’s. I added some sugar and cream and tried a sip. Perfectly mediocre.
“It’s better than precinct coffee,” Gonzalez said.
“Damning with faint praise,” I said.
“What’s the latest on the Rosenberg case?”
“You BCPD cops are all business,” I said. “Don’t I get any small talk for buying breakfast?”
“Sure,” Gonzalez said with a grin. “Go, Ravens. Now tell me about the fucking case.”
I caught him up on the happenings over the last few days. His expressions indicated he followed, and he looked impressed when I told him about the sex trafficking organization we had broken up. If he felt left out about not getting cut in, he didn’t show it. “Rosenberg is gone,” I said in conclusion. “I don’t know where.”
“We don’t know, either,” said Gonzalez. “We had a man watching him and his place. He hasn’t seen him anywhere. Cell phone goes to voicemail. Our informants never knew much about him . . . still true.”
“I guess he figures the heat will be on now.”
“I guess.”
“What about his people?”
“The ones we think were part of the loan sharking business have gone, too. The legit employees in his store are still there, far as we can tell.”
The waitress brought our food and refreshed our hot and cold drinks. Gonzalez buttered his pancakes like a man defying his doctor’s mandate to reduce cholesterol, then added enough syrup to dare diabetes along with heart disease. I cut my omelet in the meantime and added a pinch of salt and a few dashes of pepper.
“What’s your play now?” Gonzalez said after eating a bite of his pancake death traps.
“Not sure,” I said. “I guess I hope to find Rosenberg or one of his key people.”
“How are you gonna do it?”
I ate a forkful of my omelet and washed it down with coffee. In all my excursions to the Towson Diner, they always made a good western omelet. Their coffee hadn’t improved over the years, but it was good enough to keep the Towson and Goucher kids caffeinated for their exams. “The less I tell you
about my methods,” I said, “the less you can criticize me for them.”
“And the more plausible deniability I have.”
“Ooh, fancy term for a humble public servant,” I said.
“I watch TV,” Gonzalez said.
We each enjoyed more of our dishes. I noticed some college kids, girls mostly, come and go with interest. Gonzalez did, too. We detectives needed to remain vigilant and keep an eye out for evildoers. After we both ate most of our respective breakfasts, Gonzalez said, “You got Rosenberg’s accountant, right?”
I grimaced. “Yeah. Caught him sampling the merchandise.” A shudder overtook me.
Gonzalez noticed and offered a sympathetic wince. “Bad?”
“Worse.”
“What’s going on with him?”
“Right now,” I said, “he’s being held on a litany of charges. I think the BPD and the state’s attorney are hoping he’ll flip on Rosenberg, but there’s no sign of it. He claims he doesn’t know where Rosenberg is.”
“You believe him?”
“No.”
“What’s his motivation?”
“If Rosenberg is as ruthless as his reputation suggests, Eisenberg probably doesn’t want to get shanked in the exercise yard.”
Gonzalez nursed his coffee. “Maybe. I get the feeling there’s something else at play here.”
“You mean besides the girls being abducted for sex?”
“Yeah. I don’t know. Call it cop’s intuition . . . whatever.”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
“I’m going to do some digging, too, when I’m not working the case folders piling up on my desk. Maybe if we both shake the tree, something will fall out faster.”
“Here’s hoping,” I said.
When I arrived home, Gloria was awake, sipping coffee, and watching a cable news show, her preferred morning viewing. She rarely talked about the events of the day, but at least she kept up with them. I tried to when a case didn’t have me too busy. Since I wanted to be busy as rarely as possible, I thought of myself as well-informed, but these past few days had done nothing for such an image.
