by John Moore
My faux calm was matched by theirs. I still wasn’t sure what they felt, how much they were hiding. I thought it odd that parents who’d just lost a child could be so removed from the pain of the loss, not participating in making the funeral arrangements. They seemed content to remain bystanders, let the grief roll over them like a wave at the beach, just anxious to get it over with and get back to their lives. Maybe that was the only way they could cope with it.
I enjoyed the quiet time on the way to the Sacramento airport. I had time to think about what had recently transpired. Sandy worked at a whorehouse disguised as a spa. Her boyfriend Victor owned the place and kept the women secluded in an apartment complex that he probably also owned. The women appeared to be mostly from Eastern European countries. This situation stunk. I’d seen a report on television about women who were tricked into coming to the United States with promises of jobs and new lives only to end up as prostitutes, or worse, slaves. Now Victor wanted Piper back. Why? Did he want to turn her out? Make her a prostitute? What about Sandy? When did she become a heroin addict? So many unanswered questions caused my mind to race, seeking in vain to find answers to these questions.
I parked at the Sacramento International Airport. This airport was built from mostly recycled materials, and is a marvel of efficiency. The only complaint I heard while waiting at baggage claim for Tom was that there was no cell phone waiting lot. Many want to just drive by baggage claim, pick up their loved one, and be on their way. They don’t want to pay for parking in the lot as I did. So they park at an Aarko convenience store a short distance from the airport to wait for a call to pick up their loved one. Sometimes I think we in the US are so lazy and spoiled. But I had bigger worries on my mind than convenient parking.
My heart jumped when I saw Tom walking into baggage claim. I ran to him, jumping into his strong arms. He held me close, whispering, “I missed you,” in my ear. I felt a chill run down my spine, and we lingered for a full minute holding each other. It was like a battery recharge.
We began our journey to Red Bluff in the silent darkness of the cool California night, cold by New Orleans standards. The temperature was in the fifties, a cloud cover blanketed the sky, and no celestial body’s light penetrated the darkness, not even the moon.
“Ethan was murdered because of Sandy. I think whoever she was mixed up with killed him trying to kidnap Piper,” Tom said. “We’ve got to find out more about these people. When they learn we’ve taken Piper to New Orleans, they’ll be coming after us next.”
Chapter Nine:
Suspicions
Tom and I contemplated every possible scenario to find a reason Victor or his people would kill to get their hands on Piper. She was just a little girl. Did she see something they wanted to keep secret? Why would they wait a year to go after her? Was it only that they wanted her to work in the spa, turning tricks like the women from Eastern Europe? Did they want to sell her to some pervert from another country? Whatever the reason, they weren’t getting her, and Tom and I vowed to protect her no matter what the cost.
When we arrived at Tom’s parents’ house everyone was asleep—everyone except Piper, that is. She was on my computer in her bedroom. I knocked before I entered, resisting my urge to rush in and catch her doing whatever it was she was trying to hide. I didn’t know how long I could contain my curiosity, especially since we’d found out about Victor’s intent. When I entered she asked me to sit beside her. She was on my blog site.
“Can you believe all of the young girls that have gone missing all over the United States?” she asked. “I wonder if someone is taking them and hooking them on drugs like Victor does?”
“How do you know he’s the one who gets them hooked on drugs?” I asked.
“I saw so many of them come and go over the years. When they first got to the United States they were innocent, small-town girls. They didn’t speak much English, but I found a way to communicate with them anyway, and learned about their lives in their home countries. Over time they got hardened by what they had to do for Victor. He made them have sex with men. At first he just offered them booze. They’d get drunk at the end of the night and make jokes about the men, that weren’t very funny. You know.”
I didn’t know. I wondered why her mother let her listen to that stuff. “Sometimes they’d cry. Soon the booze wasn’t enough to help them escape the misery of their lives, so they turned to drugs. Victor always had an abundant supply handy.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?” I asked, forcing the question from my lips. I didn’t want to scare her, but I had to know more about this asshole.
“Oh hell yes he’s dangerous. Some of the girls refused do what he told them to do and they disappeared. He told us all he sent them home, but my mom told me he took care of them. All of the women in the spa said they were murdered and their bodies disposed of at sea.” She said this in a flat voice, as if every fourteen-year-old knew about stuff like this. I felt so bad for her, but also glad she was telling me.
I could see Piper was uncomfortable talking about Victor, her mom, and the spa. I suspected her mother had a larger role in the shady operations of the spa than she knew or cared to admit, so I decided to drop the subject.
“Piper, I’m interested in hearing more about this, but we all need to go to sleep now. We’re having a short funeral service for your father tomorrow. Then you, Tom, and I are heading to New Orleans. Shut down my computer. I’ll charge it in my room.”
“Suits me fine,” Piper said. “I’m so bored with Red Bluff. I’ve watched lots of videos about New Orleans. I can’t wait to see it.”
I really wanted to get in bed with Tom. I wanted to feel his arms around me, his warmth. I crawled in bed naked next to him, and like always, we were instantly in sync, his nakedness next to mine. Sex was out of the question. We were too loud together for that. We both just wanted the maximum amount of skin-to-skin, connecting, bonding. As I spooned behind him, he said nothing except, “Mmm.” We fell into a sweet sleep, the kind where you feel you smile all night.
Few people attended Ethan’s funeral. Not surprising, considering both Tom and Ethan had moved away as soon as they graduated high school and his parents spent most of their time out of town pursuing their various causes. We loaded in the Sanderses’ car and headed to the Sacramento International Airport. On the way I was surprised again how little the family talked about Ethan. Most of the conversation was about how farm life in this country has been ruined by industrial farming. Tom withdrew inside himself around his parents. I guess growing up with a family who cared more about larger causes than immediate family issues made Tom keep his concerns to himself. He didn’t say anything to his parents about Ethan’s death or Sandy’s voice mail. This disconnect created an air of tension for me. My family discussed almost everything. Once again, I wondered what our relationship would be like.
The flight to New Orleans was pleasant—that is, as pleasant as flying could be these days. Piper played on my computer the whole way. She was fascinated with my blog. She and I answered many of the bloggers’ questions. Piper was turning into a sharp detective too. She theorized about the missing and the nameless bodies, trying to connect the dots. I was impressed.
Tom and I didn’t have time to talk any more about the potential danger we were all in, acting as though nothing had happened. Tom decided to spend the first night in New Orleans at his place, and Piper and I went to my condo. Traveling all day wore us all out, so we crashed early.
I was up at morning light. Before I did anything I made a cup of good old New Orleans coffee. God, was it delicious! I sat at my computer on a mission, knowing how to find out about Victor Ivanovich. I sent an email to Sophia Garcia, an Interpol agent I’d befriended in my pursuit of ACC. I knew if this Victor guy was connected to any international crime, Sophia could find out.
Soon Piper joined me. She wanted a cup of coffee. She was hooked with the first sip. Pip
er was slowly becoming my shadow. As I watched her follow me around I couldn’t help but think she had to be disoriented having no parents, just me and Tom. I’d known her for less than a week. I was already attached to her. I just needed to know more about her, and she wasn’t the most open child I’d ever met. How could she be after coming from such a disturbed environment? But I had a feeling she was one of the smartest and most interesting young ladies I’d ever met. My Lois Lane brain couldn’t stop scheming of ways to find out everything about her, and investigating Victor’s background was the first step.
“How would you like to go to the Café du Monde in the French Quarter for some café au lait and beignets?” I asked.
“I don’t know what any of that is, but you said French Quarter and I’m all in,” Piper responded.
I texted Tom, inviting him to join us. He passed, needing to go to his job and let them know he was back in town. Tom loved his job more than anything, and it was more than a job to him. It was a calling. After meeting his parents and seeing how they raised him, I could see how he ended up so passionate about the environment. He was fortunate to have a job that allowed him to be flexible. Sometimes he stayed in the Gulf for two weeks without coming home. Other times he would be free to do what he wanted for a week or so. It suited him.
Piper was amazed by the sights and sounds of the New Orleans French Quarter. Having grown up in LA, she’d never seen classic European style architecture like the buildings that permeated the Quarter. As we parked, she witnessed the city coming alive. Shock and amazement filled her radiant blue eyes as we walked down Bourbon Street passing bars open at eight in the morning. Every bar had customers sitting on well-worn stools, drinking their nutrition-free breakfasts. Characters of all types and sizes littered the street. She said it reminded her of Venice Beach only more fairy-tale-like and exaggerated. She absolutely loved it. When we arrived at the Café du Monde, we took our place in the customary line that wound down the street. The beignets reminded her of small, puffed-up versions of the funnel cakes she’d tasted at her only visit to Disneyland on her eighth birthday. As we went through the line, she ordered a café au lait but passed on the beignets. She guzzled down the café au lait while she watched table after table devour snow-topped beignets. She went back for seconds on the coffee and quickly sat back down at our table so her eyes could dart all around to take in the entire, exaggerated flock of humanity. We sat quietly, sipping our coffee and watching the procession of visitors mixed with locals sashaying through the streets.
After a few minutes of people-watching, I asked her more about her life with her mother. “Where did you live before the spa?”
“In a little apartment near my mom’s job in West Hollywood. It had yellow walls in the kitchen and a mural outside on the front of the building,” she said with a sad smile. “Mom worked in a law office as a secretary while she attended UCLA. That’s how she met Victor. He was a client. They started dating when I was ten, and within a month she quit her job at the law firm and went to work in the spa. We moved to the apartments Victor owns next to the spa then too. I was taken out of school and homeschooled after.”
“When did Sandy start using drugs?”
“She was really pretty, but she always had a problem with her weight, and it bothered her. She loved sugar. She ate cakes and ice cream every night. Sometimes she would go into the bathroom and I could hear her throwing up. I heard Victor tell her that he could give her pills that would help her with her weight problem. She jumped at the chance. Especially since Victor offered it. She would do anything to please him. I could always tell when she tried to quit the drugs. She would start eating a huge amount of sugar again. Finally she got off of the pills and went to heroin.”
“Who took care of you?” I asked.
“The other women in the spa were like a second family to me. Many of them had a child back in their old country. I was their surrogate child. They spent time tutoring me. One lady was a math whiz. She taught me algebra and calculus. I spent time on the Internet learning just about everything. I couldn’t go outside the apartment complex without escorts. The Internet was the only entertainment I had.”
“Where is Victor from?”
“He is Russian and proud of it. All the girls say he’s Russian Mafia,” she answered.
“He sounds like an evil bastard,” I said as she nodded in agreement.
We left the Café du Monde and strolled around the French Quarter. The shops were open. As we passed by, our eyes were stabbed by the brightly colored T-shirts, gadgets, and souvenirs displayed in each shop. Every second door was a bar or restaurant blasting out jazz, zydeco, or some other unique sound native to New Orleans. People stood in doorways dancing by themselves or with each other. Some were holding daiquiris, some were holding children. All were having fun. The aroma common to all large city downtown streets was masked by the smell of Cajun cooking swirled streetward, filling the nostrils of all who passed.
“Is it always like this?” she asked.
“Yes. This city is always on ready to pass a good time with people from all over the world,” I said.
We stopped in Jackson Square and marveled at the talented street artists. Each artist was painted with a unique style that added to the gumbo of art that is New Orleans. As we gazed at an artist’s abstract version of the Quarter at night, a tour group walked by. I stared at the tour leader. She was dressed all in black. A large wide-brimmed hat with a thin lace veil partially covered her familiar face. It was Mandy Morris. I whirled around, turning my back to her. What the hell was she doing leading a tour group? Weird. I grabbed Piper, shuffling her to one of the many horse and buggies waiting to take tourists through the Quarter. I thought it best to avoid explaining a zombie version of Paris Hilton to Piper. Though she most likely would have welcomed the meeting. This wasn’t the time. I’d call Charlotte tomorrow to find out why a Goth version of Mandy Morris was leading a tour group through the French Quarter. My focus remained on finding out about Piper’s life in Los Angeles. What was Sandy in to? Why was Piper so streetwise? Then there was this mysterious Victor guy.
The clickety-clackety sounds of the horse’s hooves on the pavement quickly spirited us away. It was a real treat to see the city from this perspective. Piper admired the decorative iron-work accents adorning the swarm of balconies that complemented the breathtaking French architecture. She was wowed by the buildings, but I couldn’t erase the scene I’d just witnessed. Mandy Morris, a tour group leader. What the hell was going on? I had to know more.
Piper’s voice pierced my thoughts. “Can we live here?” she asked. “I see people living here. I love this place. I didn’t know anything like this existed. I want to be here all the time.”
“We can look for a place near the Quarter,” I said. “I don’t think we can afford a place actually inside the Quarter itself, but we can look.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” Piper screamed at the top of her lungs, causing the buggy driver to momentarily turn to look at us. Others walking alongside us barely noticed. That was part of the charm of the city. No one bothered you.
Tom called as we considered our lunch options. “Alexandra, where are you?” he asked.
“We’re in the Quarter,” I said.
“Go back to your condo right now. I’ll meet you there. A woman claiming to be Sandy, Piper’s mother, called my dad asking to speak to Constance. He told the woman Constance went to New Orleans to live with us. I don’t think it was Sandy. My dad shouldn’t have told her where she was.”
Suddenly I felt vulnerable. Piper read my face like a card shark at a poker tournament in Vegas. “It’s Victor, isn’t it?” she asked.
“No, it was Tom. He asked us to meet him at the condo.” Piper studied my face for a millisecond, totally unconvinced by my feigned nonchalant demeanor, before she grabbed my hand and led me toward the car.
In full military ma
rch, she said, “We’d better go then and see what he wants.”
Chapter Ten:
Time for Caution
Piper fixed her eyes on the road ahead making no small talk or asking anymore about Tom’s call. I insisted we stop at Whole Foods on our way back to the condo. After we raided their buffet, I received an email from Sophia on my phone. I knew I’d have to sneak past Piper’s observant gaze to read it. Nevertheless, I peeked. There were a great many attachments, and Piper glued her eyes to me like a hawk perched in a tree watching a field mouse. I had about the same chance as the mouse, so I thought it best to wait till I was on my computer to read it all.
Piper sat across from me at my kitchen table eating her Whole Foods curry chicken and vegetables and chattering away about the sights and sounds in the French Quarter. I opened the email from Sophia. She was in Paris recovering from the life-threatening wounds she’d received at the hands of El Serpiente in this very condo. She said she’d be returning to active duty in one week. She asked how I ran across Victor Ivanovich. She’d circulated his name around Interpol’s Paris office and discovered a great deal about him.
She wrote, “Be wary of this guy, Alexandra. Victor Ivanovich is a Russian currently residing in Los Angeles. He is associated with a group of criminals commonly called the Saratov Mafia. Some say he is the leader. His group is involved in human trafficking, money laundering, drugs, and bank and credit card hacking. He has never been convicted or even arrested for any crime. Even so, he is under investigation by Interpol for human trafficking in the US, Romania, Czech Republic, Belarus, Latvia, and several other countries around the world.
