Wallace referred to his notes again. “It took him a couple of days of digging, but yesterday morning he found out that it’s listed to a Pablo Nieves Crucero. He’s some kinda ambassador from the Republic of San Cristobal.”
“Did anyone interview the ambassador?”
“The lieutenant, he said the ambassador lives in Washington, but he’s been in San Cristobal for the last three weeks.”
“Somebody else must have his phone.”
“The lieutenant, that’s what he said too.”
“Okay if I call Lieutenant Castellano?”
“Sure thing.”
Jorge answered on the second ring. “Hola, Carlos.” He continued in Spanish. “I told a man named Wallace Jenkins to call you.”
I answered in English. “Mr. Jenkins is here in my conference room. I’m gonna put you on speaker.”
“Mr. Jenkins, how are you?” the Port City police lieutenant asked.
“All right I guess, Lieutenant.” Wallace gestured to me.
I leaned toward the phone. “What did you turn up on the names in the texts?”
Jorge told me pretty much the same thing Wally had said. “We’re checking every Vince and Tommy, but nothing’s popped yet. I have two guys on it full time until we check out all the names. Unfortunately, our records don’t always include tattoos and identifying marks.”
“The tattoo could be new anyway. Any luck with the description of the house?”
“Too general to do much good, but we’re screening the property appraiser’s data base for buildings over six thousand square feet.”
“What about the street she described?”
I could hear Jorge scoff over the phone’s speaker. “Do you know how many streets in Atlantic County have parking on both sides? And how long those streets are?”
“Must be thousands of miles of them, and that’s if we assume she got the description right.”
“We briefed the patrol units in all precincts. We told them at morning muster to watch for three-story houses of any size on a street with two lanes of traffic that has parking on both sides. Nobody’s seen anything suspicious so far.”
Betty knocked twice on the door and brought in fresh coffee.
I nodded my thanks and turned back to the phone. “Tell me about the phone that sent the texts.”
“We ran into a brick wall.”
“How so? It’s usually pretty simple to check out a phone number.”
“The key word being usually. The phone used a cell tower in a few miles north of downtown to send the texts. We got a warrant using the phone number and obtained the tower’s location from the cell carrier. No problem. The problem came when we tried to track down the owner. The phone’s official address is the Embassy of the Republic of San Cristobal in Washington, D.C. We had to call the U.S. State Department to find out that it belongs to the San Cristobal ambassador to the United States, Pablo Nieves Crucero. We checked him out with the D.C. cops and the State Department. Pablo is not the guy. He’s been in San Cristobal for the last few weeks for knee surgery. He wasn’t in the U.S. when the texts were sent.”
“So who has his phone? A family member maybe?”
“Yeah. It took me two days of pulling teeth to find out. Diplomatic immunity crap. The ambassador has four cellphones, all covered by diplomatic immunity, which means we can’t get a warrant to do anything with the phone, like trace back its GPS locations. Coincidently, he has a wife, a thirty-year-old son, and a daughter attending Georgetown University. The phone that sent the text may belong to the son because the wife and daughter went with Daddy to San Cristobal.”
“Jorge, you saw the texts. This girl has been kidnapped. Can’t you do an unofficial GPS backtrack on the phone?”
“Nope. This thing is hotter than a volcano. I don’t dare touch it, and I sure as hell couldn’t ask any of my people to do it. It could mean jail time.”
I didn’t speak. I knew Jorge was torn up about not being able to help.
“Okay, Chuck. Look... you do what you can from you end. I’ll ask around on the down-low and see if I can get a back-track on the phone. Don’t hold your breath, and don’t expect much.”
“Okay. What’s the guy’s name?”
“You’re gonna love this, Chuck. It’s Antonio Ricardo Crucero Calderone.”
“With my luck, this idiot is a cousin or something.” My Mexican mother’s maiden name is Calderone and my legal name is Carlos Andres McCrary Calderone, after the Mexican custom.
Jorge laughed. “San Cristobal is a long way from Mexico, amigo. If he’s kin, he’s an eighth cousin or some such.”
“Where’s Antonio now?”
“Funny you should ask. When we asked about the son, the San Cristobal embassy stonewalled us. Some snooty fart at the embassy reminded me that the ambassador and his family have diplomatic immunity and cannot be questioned without the diplomat’s permission.”
“I suppose you asked for permission?”
“Do cats have hair?”
“And their answer was…?”
“Go piss up a rope. They used fancy diplomatic words and gobbledygook, but basically they told me to take a long walk on a short pier. That’s why I told Wallace Jenkins to call you.”
“Can’t the FBI do nothing?” Jenkins asked.
“Technically the girls are just missing persons,” the lieutenant replied. “It’s not like they were snatched from their bedrooms last night and left blood evidence. Liz and the other two young women we were able to identify all left home of their own free will. They’ve been missing for at least a year. The only evidence that your daughter is being held against her will is in three texts sent from a phone that has, uh, complications regarding its ownership. That’s not enough to get the FBI involved. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
“Which cell tower did the texts use and which carrier owns it?” I wrote down the address and the name of the carrier. “You got pictures of the two girls you identified?” I checked my notes. “Dolores Cherry and Morgan Putnam?”
“I’ll email them to you.”
“Thanks. Anything else you want to tell me?”
“The D.C. cops couldn’t come out and say it, them being diplomats and all that, but one cop used the term ‘diplobrats’—that’s what D.C. cops call the children of diplomats who use their diplomatic immunity to ignore local laws. The mild offenders only park illegally or break the speed limit and then tear up their parking citations and speeding tickets. The worst ones commit felonies. Drug smuggling is common. One D.C. cop said they had a diplobrat commit murder once, and. All they could do was ask the U.S. State Department to declare the perp persona non grata and have his country recall the guy.”
“Is that the situation here? Human trafficking or drug smuggling?”
“God, I hope not. If Antonio Crucero is some kind of criminal, which we don’t know, our hands are tied.”
“But mine aren’t,” I reminded him.
“Exactly, amigo. I’ll keep working the names from our end. If anything pops, I’ll keep you in the loop.”
I looked at Liz’s father while speaking to Lieutenant Castellano. “You know that I may not keep you in the loop from my end.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” Jorge answered. “Mr. Jenkins, you’re in good hands with Chuck. He saved my career. Hopefully, he’ll save your daughter too. Good luck and good hunting.”
I disconnected and slipped the phone back in my pocket.
“What did the lieutenant mean about you not keeping him in the loop? Wouldn’t that help him find my Lizzie?”
I sipped my coffee while I decided how to answer. “Jorge Castellano is a LEO—a law enforcement officer—sworn to uphold the law. LEOs have to follow state laws and the U.S. Constitution—important due process things like search warrants, reasonable use of force, and Miranda warnings. All the things that protect people’s civil rights.”
“Okay, but so what? My daughter’s been kidnapped for chrissakes. Her life’s in dan
ger, not to mention the other girls.” Jenkins smacked the table with his palm. “We got to get a move on.”
“The cops have to follow due process when they obtain evidence, or the prosecutor can’t use it in court. Without due process, the prosecutors can’t get a conviction even when the cops and the prosecutor know the defendant is guilty as sin.”
“You mean the legal stuff I seen on the TV cop shows is true?”
“Right.”
“All I want is to rescue my daughter. I don’t care about convicting nobody in court. I never I’d say this, but screw the Constitution. Just find my daughter.” His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Jorge sent you to me because I’m not a LEO. As a private citizen, I don’t need to prove anything in court. The evidence I obtain doesn’t have to be admissible. But when I ignore due process, I sometimes do things which, strictly speaking, may be, ah, outside the law.”
“Like what?”
“Suppose I find that three-story house that Liz described in her text. I’d have to search the house to find her. As a private citizen, I can’t get a search warrant, so I might pick the lock or even break down the door. If Liz or one of the other four captives is inside, nobody’s gonna raise a ruckus that I broke the law to free them, even if I do get caught. The result would be so good that I’d be okay. You follow?”
“Yeah, I can see that. Good P.R. and all that.”
“Right, but if the girls are not there—say the kidnappers had moved them to another location—I could wind up in jail if I’m caught in a B & E.”
“B & E?”
“Breaking and entering.”
Jenkins rubbed his chin. “So you’re taking a big risk.”
“Goes with the territory.” I shrugged. “Also, as a private citizen, I don’t give Miranda warnings when I question a witness. I just get them to talk to me however I can—whatever works.”
Jenkins stared at me. Then he caught the implications. “Jesus Christ. If you question somebody, and they don’t want to answer you—”
I nodded. “Sometimes, I… persuade them to cooperate. I can be very persuasive when necessary.”
“How?”
I paused before answering. “Are you sure you want to know, Mr. Jenkins?”
“It’s my fault Liz ran away in the first place. Every day when I look in the mirror to shave, I cuss myself for being the fool that I am. I get on my knees every night and ask the good Lord for just one more chance to hug my Lizzie and tell her how awful sorry I am and beg her forgiveness.”
His lips pressed into a firm line and his eyes took on a hard look. “I want my daughter back, Mr. McCrary, whatever it costs. You go do whatever the hell that takes.
Chapter 3
Liz sat on the edge of the bed and watched as the john closed the door behind him. Maybe he was the last one for the day. She was tired and sore, and it seemed like she had serviced a dozen or more men today. Even one woman. She didn’t bother to hope that her day was over, because hope made no difference. Another stranger would come in the door or else Tommy would. One was as bad as the other.
Liz went to the bathroom and washed herself before the next one showed up. She didn’t bother to dress. Tommy would come tell her if the next john wanted to play dress-up. She returned to the bedroom and lay on the bed to wait for the next whoever—or whatever. It didn’t matter, did it?
Some of them just opened the door and walked in like they owned the place. The fat Ambassador was like that. Others knocked like they needed permission to enter. It was like they pretended this was a date. They knew better of course. Months ago, she had even told several johns that she was a captive. She asked them to call the police. They just laughed, so of course they knew. Still, it was funny how many johns knocked. Maybe they needed the illusion of a normal romantic relationship. Liz had no illusions left.
She never knew which john was the last one until Tommy came in. Tommy always opened the door without knocking. Of course, he did own the place. He would announce that her day’s work was done, and he would take her one more time for himself. Every day.
She heard the door knob turn. No knock.
It was Tommy. “Hey, Angel. You’ve had a good day today. I got lots of compliments from the clients.”
Tommy always called them clients, like they were somebody special. They weren’t special to Liz. To her they were an endless drudgery of sweat, body fluids, and sore muscles. She sighed. “What do you want now?”
Tommy smirked. He never smiled, only smirked. “You know what I want, Angel.” He pushed her back on the bed.
After it was over, she dragged herself to the bathroom one more time. At least he was the last one for the day.
She ran the hot water an extra long time in a vain attempt to wash away the dirty feeling from what Tommy had done to her. It didn’t work. It never did, but she kept trying.
She walked nude back to the bedroom where she worked and slept. Tommy had taken her only nightgown. The only underwear Tommy let any of his Angels have was kinky stuff that some johns liked them to wear. The small chest of drawers was full of thong underwear, crotchless panties, pushup bras, and sex toys. The closet had a couple of changes of normal clothes for her, and, for the johns, a nurse’s uniform, a maid’s uniform, and see-through negligees in red, white, and pink. None of those were comfortable for sleeping, though God knows she’d tried.
She’d slept nude for eleven months now, but she hadn’t gotten used to it. Sleeping nude, she felt exposed and vulnerable, even when she pulled the sheet and blanket up over her head to make a little tent like she had done when she was a child.
In Nebraska, her mother had given her a pink flannel nightgown when she was thirteen. When her mother had succumbed to breast cancer the next year, Liz began to wear it every night. Somehow it made her feel like her mother was still there. She had washed it so often, it had faded almost to white. She had packed it first when she ran away. For weeks it was her link to the home she had loved before her mother died. Before Daddy changed.
Then she met Tommy. At first he seemed so nice. He partied with her, gave her drugs and alcohol. After a couple of weeks as lover, he asked her to have sex with a friend of his. She objected and he hit her. He brought her to this place and made her watch as he burned all her clothes in the alley behind. “Your past is dead, Angel. I am your future. I’ll give you everything you need.” He dragged her inside and locked her nude in this room for two days without food. She had to use her hands to drink from the lavatory in the bathroom.
When he finally showed up, she was so grateful she did everything he demanded. Better than starving to death, wasn’t it? Now she wasn’t so sure.
She sat on the bed and stared at the door which Tommy had locked from the other side when he left. The bed still felt warm from where she and Tommy had rolled around. Tears itched the side of her nose where they ran around her nostril. She wiped them with the back of her hand and sniffed. She grabbed a tissue from the box on her nightstand and blew her nose.
Where was Daddy? Why hadn’t he rescued her? Sure, he was probably mad at her for leaving him, but he was still her father. Had he’s changed cellphone plans and gotten a different number? Her spirits fell even further. Maybe he didn’t even receive the texts she sent. It had been a week already.
If he didn’t come, she would kill herself. Did she have enough hidden pills for a fatal overdose? She didn’t know how many it would take. She didn’t dare try and fail. She didn’t want to be tortured to death like Evelyn. No, it had to be escape, rescue, or overdose. And, whichever it was, it had to work on the first try.
She flopped back on the bed. I’ll give Daddy one more week. One more week and I’m finished.
Chapter 4
The San Cristobal embassy had claimed diplomatic privilege and refused to tell the cops doodly squat about Diplobrat Antonio Crucero.
I chose an easier path.
Certain personality types share details of their personal lives on social me
dia without hesitation, even the kind of information that the San Cristobal embassy wouldn’t give Jorge Castellano. Crucero was one of those types. He had accounts on the first four social media sites I checked. I learned all I needed to know from those four sites.
He called himself Tony Crucero—very American, very hip. I got both his license plate numbers from pictures of his silver BMW sedan and Corvette convertible. Fire engine red, of course. Diplomatic plates on both, too—much easier for parking in loading zones and in front of fire hydrants. He posted the names and pictures of several trendy bars and nightclubs he frequented, mostly in Port City or Port City Beach, so I knew where he hung out. He was proud of the view from the balcony of his waterfront apartment. I downloaded several selfies of him standing on his balcony with different beautiful women, his long black hair blowing in the wind when it was not restrained in a ponytail. The women were all nines and tens; Diplobrat himself was no more than a three, maybe a four. What did these women see in him? Surely, a jerk like him would need more than just money. Or were these women professional escorts?
I filed that question away for future research, if needed.
I used the backgrounds in the photos to figure out where his Port City Beach apartment was and even the approximate floor he lived on.
Saturday afternoon late, I staked out his building and waited for the Corvette or BMW to show.
Another gorgeous South Florida sunset lit the sky over the Everglades as Crucero’s blood-colored sports car squealed down the ramp from the parking garage and headed south on Ocean Drive. Little Richard song lyrics from the oldies channel on my satellite radio drifted through my head.
Well, it’s Saturday night and I just got paid,
Fool about my money, don’t try to save,
My heart says go go, have a time,
’Cause it’s Saturday night and I’m feelin’ fine…
As I accelerated my white minivan, I wondered if Tony Crucero, poster boy for diplobrats everywhere, was a fool about his money like Little Richard.
His first stop was the Rusty Pelican, a thatched-roofed restaurant on an island in Seeti Bay, and a favorite on his Facebook page. He left his Corvette with the valet. I intended to stick a GPS tracker under his car, but if I failed, I needed my minivan accessible to follow him when he left. I found a spot in the self-parking lot fifty yards farther away from the rustic plank steps that led to the restaurant entrance. I backed in for a quick exit.
Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4) Page 36
