by James Hunt
Grant covered the wedding ring on his left hand with his right. “I appreciate the opportunity, Ambassador, but I have plenty of work here in Seattle.”
Mujave nodded and reached inside his pocket. “If you change your mind, give my office a call. Do your best to not misplace the card.” He leaned closer and pointed to the number. “It has my personal cell.” He flashed that wide political grin. “Thank you again, Detective Grant. You have done more for me than I could ever repay.”
Grant nodded his thanks and escaped the auditorium without further obstruction. He flipped his collar to shield himself from the cold wind blowing outside. Despite the sun, it hadn’t warmed past forty degrees, though Grant was thankful the rain finally stopped. He flipped over the card Mujave had given him and read the scribble on the backside. There were two words written on it: Polaris Project.
Grant had heard of it. The organization had an office based here in Seattle. He had heard reports through some of the other precincts of the sex trafficking issue the ambassador mentioned and how it had quickly turned into an epidemic along the West Coast.
The individuals that were kidnapped in the Philippines and other parts of Asia were funneled through Seattle’s port. After they were given fake identification, they were shipped down south. Massage parlors were the biggest cover up. Almost all of them operated without a license, and they popped up like weeds choking the communities where they were housed.
When Grant was still with Homicide, he stumbled into one of those places from a case he was working. The women were packed inside the tiny buildings like sardines. Sleeping bags and piles of clothes lined the floors. They were all Asian and scared to death.
None of them spoke any English, and even when the translator arrived, they kept silent. The people who owned them had threatened them into silence. The girls were whipped, beaten, verbally abused, whatever it took to ensure their obedience.
After the raid, Grant turned the case over to the Special Victims Unit and the FBI. A few days later, he heard that three of the women they brought into custody had committed suicide. They were so desperate to escape their captors that they believed death was their best way out. Grant couldn’t imagine a monster like that, but he wouldn’t mind finding the person responsible.
“Detective Grant!”
Grant’s hand froze on his car door handle. He turned slowly, only his eyes visible behind the upturned collar, bracing for the hordes of reporters.
But it wasn’t paparazzi. It was an older gentleman shuffling after him, waving his hand in the air. He wore a dark suit with a bright purple tie. As he moved closer, Grant also noticed a flag pin on the man’s lapel. It didn’t take long for Grant to fill in the rest of the blanks.
“Senator Pierfoy,” Grant said. “What can I do for you?”
The old senator consumed Grant’s hand with his own and gave it three hearty pumps. “I just wanted to thank you again for all that you’ve done.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Maybe have you come around to the front so I can snap a few pictures with the press while standing next to Seattle’s favorite son?”
Grant gave a light-hearted smile and pulled his hand back from the senator’s. “I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something right now.” He turned, but the senator leaned his heavy body against Grant’s car door to keep it shut.
“I saw you speaking with the ambassador. Most likely about that job?” Pierfoy asked. “I hope you haven’t given him an answer yet.”
“I have,” Grant said. “It was no.”
Pierfoy sighed. “Well, that’s a relief.” He straightened his jacket and lifted his chin. “I’ll make this brief then, seeing as your disdain for this kind of talk is well known. I want to promote you. To Captain.”
Grant’s jaw went slack, and Pierfoy laughed.
“I’m glad I can still surprise people,” Pierfoy said. “My wife says I’m too predictable. Glad I can prove the old cow wrong.”
Grant held up his hand. “Senator, I don’t feel comfortable taking that large of a leap. Especially over Lieutenant Furst. He’s well liked by the officers. Me included.”
“Oh god, no,” Senator said, his guffaw exaggerated. “You wouldn’t take over your current precinct. No, no, no. What I’m talking about is something new.”
“Senator, I appreciate—”
“The ambassador’s heart is in the right place, but there is a more pressing issue in our city that needs to be addressed, and that’s the drug epidemic,” Pierfoy said. “We are the hub for opioid use and production for the entire western United States. It is an epidemic that is eroding the very foundation of our communities, and it won’t be long before they collapse under their own weight.”
“Sir, I don’t have much experience with drugs,” Grant said.
“No, you don’t,” Pierfoy replied, then lifted his finger and pressed it against Grant’s chest. “But you’re skilled in finding people. And with your previous background in Homicide, I know you have the stomach for the more violent crime scenes. And during the department exchange program, you logged more hours with S.W.A.T. than any other detective in the state. I know you don’t have any trouble banging on doors. Both on and off the clock.”
Grant shook his head. “Off the clock?”
Pierfoy lowered his voice and raised an eyebrow. “I’m quite familiar with your past, Detective. Even the unsavory parts.”
Grant stiffened. He should have known better. You couldn’t outrun time. The seconds ticked away like drops of blood from an IV, and once it was done, so were you.
“I want you to end this war on drugs, Detective,” Pierfoy said. “Help me give the communities back to the people who want them to be a safer place for their families. Help me end this violent war we have raging across our entire state. I know you could do a lot of good.”
Before Grant answered, the senator held up his hands and backed away. “Just think about it. I know you have a lot on your plate, but it would be a disservice to give your answer so quickly, like you did with the ambassador. I’m in a hurry to get this done, but I’m willing to wait until I get the right people.” He flashed a grin, but it lacked the well-natured smile of the ambassador’s.
Grant lowered himself into the driver seat of his cruiser, his mind sifting through the morning’s events and the past twenty-four hours. Grant knew offers like these were inevitable. He was aware of his skill at the job, but no matter how low of a profile he kept, he couldn’t hide the results of his work. Work which required his attention.
***
The precinct was busy. More movement than usual. There hadn’t been any call-ins yet, but Mocks felt it brewing. And it made her nervous.
Detective Susan Mullocks leaned back in her chair, which practically swallowed her whole. She’d always been small, and it had always pissed her off, though she’d reached a level of acceptance now that she was pushing thirty. She rocked slowly back and forth as she flicked the lever of the green Bic lighter in her left hand. The flame appeared and disappeared in rhythmic strokes. Mocks’s hand performed the ritual involuntary. Old habits died hard.
She tucked her shortly cropped brown hair behind her ears, which exposed a small, pretty face. Freckles spotted her pale cheeks, and she kept her green eyes on the phone. In her two years with Missing Persons she’d spoken to dozens of parents, but this time felt different. This time she knew it was coming, and that knowledge only worsened the anxiety.
Mocks pocketed the lighter and reached into the bottom drawer of her desk. She removed a fresh pack of strawberry Pop-Tarts and discarded the wrapper on the growing pile of trash on her desk. The other officers joked that she ate like a NFL linebacker but never put on any weight. She cursed that when she was younger. Now she clung to it for dear life.
She opened her mouth to take a bite when her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She hesitated when she saw the name on the screen. She wasn’t in the mood to open this particular can of worms right now. But she knew that putting it off wou
ld only make it worse. She set the pastry down and leaned forward on her desk.
“Hey,” Mocks said.
Rick paused. “I wasn’t sure you’d answer.”
“I’m waiting for Grant to get back from his award show,” Mocks said. “I’ve got some time.”
“I don’t really want to do this over the phone, when are you going to be home?” Rick asked.
“I don’t know,” Mocks said.
A sigh. “Honey, I—if you’re not willing to take the time to talk about this I don’t know what we’re going to do. We need to figure this—”
“Look, I’ve gotta go,” Mocks said, and then hung up. It wasn’t the most tactful goodbye, but her mind hadn’t changed. And she didn’t know how to tell him that without crushing him. It had made them so distant. They were like roommates who didn’t get along anymore. They hadn’t even touched one another in over a month.
Mocks chomped a huge bite out of her Pop-Tart when the desk phone rang, and she reached for it with a cobra-like strike. “Neheckhive Mullhocks.” She swallowed the pastry, and repeated herself. “Detective Mullocks.”
“I’ve got a mother calling in, Detective,” Officer Banks said. “Says her daughter was taken at the mall. Her friends even have video.”
Mocks leaned forward, her forearms crunching over the empty wrappers on her desk. “What’s her name?”
“Hannah Mauer,” Banks said. “Daughter’s name is Annie Mauer. That was all I was able to get out of her. Good luck.”
A beep, and then the call came through. “Hello, this is Detective—”
“Please, you have to help me.” The woman’s voice was quick and panicked. “My daughter, someone took her.”
“Okay, ma’am, I need you to calm down for a second—”
“She was at the mall with her friends and they showed me the video of her being taken. It was some man, he was driving a truck,” she gasped for breath, and then swallowed. “Someone took my daughter!”
Mocks sandwiched the phone between her shoulder and her ear and broke off another piece of Pop-Tart, nodding along and remembering to keep her voice as neutral as possible. “I understand you’re scared, Hannah. But I need you to hang with me for a couple minutes and just answer some basic questions, okay?”
Hannah’s breathing slowed, along with the pacing of her words. “O-okay.”
“Great.” Mocks popped another piece of strawberry-frosted deliciousness into her mouth. “Now, what was the mall you dropped your daughter off at?”
Mocks nodded and replied with affirmative grunts as she devoured the pastry. She squinted her eyes shut, the rambling in her ear so shrill she had to lean away from the receiver a few times to avoid a pierced eardrum. She didn’t bother with a pen and paper to jot down notes. She didn’t need to.
Everything Hannah Mauer said into Mocks’s ear was permanently recorded in her brain. Annie’s description, the clothes she wore, birthmarks, age, birthdate, all organized neatly into the computer that was her brain.
“Okay, and that’s the mall on the east side?” Mocks asked, flicking a crumb of hard icing off the top of her wedding ring. “Did her friends mention anything else?”
Malls were busy on the weekends. Made for good conditions for snatching kids. Only a small percentage didn’t make it home. And that small percentage found their way to her desk with parents sounding just like her. Well, maybe not just like her.
“I-I-I don’t know what to do,” Hannah said, and she started cry. “I don’t know where my daughter is.”
Mocks halted the next piece of pastry to her lips and set it down, brushing the crumbs from her long sleeves. “Hannah, I know exactly what you need to do. Do you have a pen and paper? Or anything to write with?”
“Y-yes, just… Hold on, I…. Okay. I’m ready.”
“Good,” Mocks said. “Get a ride to precinct eighteen in downtown Seattle. That’s where I work. Once you get here, we’ll have you fill out an official statement. By the time you arrive, I’ll have all of the paperwork ready to give my boss to gather the resources to find your daughter. And I’ll need you to bring a few things. A recent picture of Annie, and any health records you have. And the video your daughter’s friends took. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Hannah answered. “I can do that.”
“Now, is there anyone that would have taken your daughter?” Mocks asked. “Family members, the father, anyone like that?”
“No. I-I don’t know who it could have been,” Hannah said.
“That’s all right,” Mocks answered. “Just get here and ask to speak with Detective Mullocks and Detective Grant. My partner and I will be handling your case.”
“Thank you, Detective,” Hannah said. “I’ll be there soon.”
Mocks set the phone down and devoured what remained of the Pop-Tart. She exhaled through her nose and tugged at the long sleeves that concealed the marks in the crook of her arms.
She rose from the desk and walked back to Cyber. She weaved between the officers in the halls, the cops scurrying to get out of her way. When she was a rookie she had been bulldozed. But it only took one chop-block on an unsuspecting traffic cop to get everyone’s attention. At five foot nothing and one hundred pounds, she used what leverage she could to her advantage. Thankfully the cop escaped with only a bruised ego.
Cyber was tucked away in a corner office at the very back of the building. They didn’t get a lot of foot traffic; in fact, they preferred no traffic at all. It was a request that Mocks was happy to abide by, but Grant always liked doing things face to face and she thought the situation called for his tactics. It was something she admired about him and simultaneously drove her nuts.
Their last missing person case had landed them in some type of abduction conspiracy. Or at least the start of one. The perp from the same case had been logging into a website designed as an online class for abductions. It was how she learned all of the techniques. And if it hadn’t had been for Grant, then she would have gotten away. Cyber had been trying to crack the site’s source code to find out who created it, but it was tough sledding.
“Hey,” Mocks said, knocking on the door. “Where are we at with the website from the Givens case?”
Four bodies turned in their chairs, slowly. The dimly lit room made the motion ominous. Three of them returned to the glow of their computer screens, and only Sam remained. He grabbed his laptop and walked past her without a word, turning into a small nook behind their office.
The site was already up on Sam’s laptop when they turned the corner. He typed a few lines of code, sighed, and then leaned back in his chair. “I spent most of last night trying to work my way through the firewall, but haven’t made a lot of progress.” He crossed his arms over his stomach and chewed on his lower lip. He looked up at Mocks, the fluorescent lighting not doing any favors to the dark circles under his eyes.
“We need progress, Sam,” Mocks said. “I just got an abduction call. A little girl at the east side mall.”
Sam’s face went pale. “You don’t think the people who logged in here are—”
“Starting to apply what they’ve learned?” Mocks asked. “Yeah. I do. So I need to know everything you do.”
Sam exhaled a shaky sigh and placed his fingers on the keyboard, drumming them over the letters without striking down. “We know that there were one hundred and seven users that signed into the site since its creation, which was six months ago. I know there are at least seven users who have logged into the site within the past forty-eight hours, and I also have the usernames of eighty of the one hundred and seven individuals who have logged in.”
“That’s our starting point,” Mocks said. “Cross reference those usernames and see if we get a hit on anyone.”
“I’ve tried, but with only a username as my only data point it’s hard to find any type of match,” Sam said.
“What about the site’s contents?” Mocks asked. If she knew what the abductors were taught, then they might be able to get a step ahead.
“It’s impressive,” Sam answered, typing a few commands to pull up the site’s coursework. “I have taken a lot of online courses over the years. Most of them were just ‘read this’ and then ‘answer these.’ Nothing but regurgitated thoughts. Whoever made this site put a lot of care and thought into it. The creator intended for their students to become the best. They cover everything in regards to an authority’s response to an abduction: search efforts, negotiation techniques, S.W.A.T. formations for home invasions, media response, coordinated efforts across multiple agencies, our entire playbook is on here.” He paused a moment, and then cleared his throat. “There was one thing in particular I found I thought you should know.” He hit a few keys on his laptop, and the website uploaded a schematic. For explosives. “It seems that our abduction instructor has a scorched earth policy when their students are caught by police. The site suggests either rigging a vest to blow for the kid, or wiring the safe house that they’re staying in to explode.”
“Master abduction artists who dabble in explosives. Fantastic,” Mocks said. “So they know the type of kid to look for, when to take them, and how to get away with it.” She clenched her fists. “What kind of sicko would make something like this?”
“Someone who’s grown bored.”
Mocks and Sam spun around and saw Grant standing in the hallway, staring down at the computer screen.
“How long have you been standing there?” Mocks asked.
“Long enough,” Grant answered, switching his eyes from the computer to Mocks. “Banks said you had a call-in.”
“Mother says her daughter was taken at the East Side Mall,” Mocks said. “Where’s your medal?”
“It’s in the car,” Grant answered, then turned to Sam. “What’s the timeline on finding out who created the site?”
