Houston and Bouchard sat quiet, staring out the window, and watched Fuchs pull away with his emergency lights flashing. When he disappeared into the traffic, Houston said, “Now we get in touch with Luca Power, York County Sheriff.”
He took out his cell phone and punched in a number.
After three rings it was answered. “Sheriff Power.”
“My, aren’t we formal.”
“Hey, Mike, what’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
“You always need a favor.”
“This one has to do with a possible homicide.”
“Homicide? Outside of Portland and maybe Bangor, the state police usually handle them.”
“Nevertheless, the victim may be a resident of Kittery—your county.”
Houston heard Power’s chair creak and knew his friend was leaning forward with interest. “Maybe you better fill me in.”
It took less than ten minutes to update him, and in his usual manner, Luca got to the point. “What can I do for you?”
“Get me anything you can on Willard Fischer. I believe his father’s name was Hallet. I can use anything you find on him and the family, and I need it soon. If that girl is alive, time is of the essence.”
24
Shiloh appeared nonchalant, and O’Leary knew that his demeanor was a front. The pimp had never before been to the Claddagh Pub and had to be as anxious as a sewer rat in a bright light. O’Leary had not said a word since Shiloh shuffled into the office.
“Shy, how you doing?”
“Okay. We haven’t seen each other this much in years, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, ain’t that the truth? I was over at the Chelsea docks a few nights back collecting some money owed to me.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Probably nothing. However, I think you may have something I need.”
“What could I have that you’d need?”
“Information.”
“We been over this before. I don’t know anything except what I told you about the missing whores.”
“What do you know about illegal immigrants?”
“You need some landscaping done?”
“Don’t fuck around, Shy. I was on a ship that looked like it was set up for more than cargo. Now, you being black and all, I would think you’d have some feelings about slavery.”
“If it’s white slavery, I’d say it’s about time.”
O’Leary slammed his fist on the top of his desk. “Don’t yank my fucking chain, Shy. I’ve got word someone is importing women—the younger the better!”
Shiloh snapped back in his chair. He had never seen O’Leary this incensed. “This is too big even for you, Jimmy.”
“Really? Enlighten me, please.”
“This has been going on since the Soviet Union crashed. The economy over there was shit, and someone started recruiting girls—some as young as twelve and thirteen. They promise the young ones foster homes, the older ones jobs—husbands even. Anyway, here we are twenty years later, and it’s still going on. Matter of fact, it’s turned into big business for the Russian mob. They fly the girls into Mexico, and then they bring them in from there. If they’re destined for here they bring them by ship. If they’re going down South or out to LA, they use coyotes1 to smuggle them over the border with the Mexicans. Don’t you just love the shit out of NAFTA?”
“Only none of the promises are kept,” O’Leary interjected.
O’Leary lit a cigarette as the pimp continued talking. “The one about jobs is—only they aren’t secretaries to rich and powerful men as promised.”
“Let me see if I can fill in the blanks here. They’re forcing them to pay off their fare by being whores . . .”
“It wouldn’t be bad if that was all. Now this is all hearsay, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I heard they’ve even done some pornos and at least one snuff film.”
“Snuff films are a myth—there’s never been one that was proven to be real.”
“Hey, you want to know what I heard, and that’s one of the things going around.”
“Are any of these girls being forced onto the streets?”
“Hell no. They keep them in special cribs around the country. We aren’t talking fifty-buck blow jobs and no-tell-hotel quickies here. These girls, at least the lookers, are reserved for some powerful high-rollers.”
“Do you know if any of these places are local?”
“There aren’t any in Boston itself—although I believe there’s one close by, possibly on the Cape. They like them outside the city in remote areas. Like I said, the clientele ain’t the type that wants to be seen coming and going at a whorehouse.”
“Names, Shiloh. I need names if you got them.”
“Man, you shouldn’t stick your nose into this—like I said, it’s too fucking big even for you.”
“How big?”
“Nationally, they bring in about fourteen thousand girls a year—of that maybe five or six hundred a year will end up from New York north.”
“No goddamned way they can be bringing in that much flesh and staying below the radar.”
“If the people behind it control the radar, any number is possible.”
“You saying the government is involved?”
“Not officially, but people in high places are making a shitload of money.”
“Who’s the local guy?”
“Again, this is all street talk. I don’t know how reliable it is. But one name keeps coming up: D. Everette Halsey.”
“Halsey?”
“Yup, the same guy you hired when you beat the rap on those gangbangers that killed Latisha Washington.”
_________________
O’Leary and Winter entered a plush office. It was three times larger than Jimmy’s at the Claddagh Pub. Bookcases full of expensive matched-binding books lined two of the walls. Through the huge window behind D. Everette Halsey’s desk, they saw an impressive view of the water traffic in Boston Harbor and planes landing and taking off at Logan Airport. Halsey sat behind his huge maple desk, looking as regal and puffed up as a French king at court. His suit probably cost more than the average worker made in six months, and even though Halsey was sitting, not a single wrinkle was visible in the fabric.
O’Leary dropped into one of the overstuffed armchairs that fronted the desk. “Nice view.”
Winter moved beyond the desk and stood between the lawyer and his window.
Halsey cast an uncomfortable glance at Winter and then turned back to O’Leary. “I guess. I’m so busy that I don’t get much chance to enjoy it.”
O’Leary nodded even though he did not believe a word Halsey said. The man was vain if nothing else. If he were not the best criminal attorney in New England, he would not have a single friend in Boston. O’Leary thought he was an overpriced piece of fluff. Halsey was not a man to waste time unless it was billable time. His reputation was that he had never in his life pled a case out of court; there was not enough money in it.
“You want to have your boy move? He’s blocking my light.”
“Gonna look awfully fucking funny,” Winter said.
Halsey spun around in his chair. “What is?”
“Your tombstone, when it reads, ‘Here lies a fat fuck killed by a boy.’”
Halsey began to rise to his feet.
“I’d stay put if I was you,” O’Leary said. He grinned as Winter stood his ground, glaring at Halsey, who dropped back into his chair.
Halsey tried to save face by staring Winter down for a few seconds. Once he felt that he had sufficiently regained his lordly image, he turned to O’Leary and said, “So, Jimmy, what brings you here? I doubt you came by to partake of the view.”
“I need a favor.”
Halsey looked surprised. “You surprise me. You’re in the business of granting favors, not asking for them.”
“Well, this time I’m the one in need.”
“You name it, Jimmy. If I can help, I’ll be glad to.”<
br />
“I got some business men coming into town . . . people who could be instrumental in making a lot of money for me. You get my drift?”
Halsey leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. O’Leary knew he had just appealed to Halsey where he lived—in his wallet. No doubt, any favor the lawyer did for him would be, in the long term, expensive.
“If what you’re about to ask is illegal, I can’t be a part of it.”
“Listen to what I need before you get all worked up, okay?”
“Alright, that’s the least I can do.”
“Fucking right,” O’Leary said. “After all, I made several monthly payments on your yacht last year.”
“Cheaper than twenty-five to life, and if I remember correctly, we were looking at multiple counts. Four or five wasn’t it?”
“I’m not complaining about it—just reminding you that I paid you a pretty hefty fee.”
Halsey smiled. “If I recall how it all turned out, I was worth every penny.”
“Come on, Everette, let’s stop the shit. I’m serious here.”
“Alright, what is it you need?”
“From time to time, you and I deal with some pretty high rollers.”
Halsey’s pig eyes bored into O’Leary. He listened intently.
“The guys I got coming to town,” O’Leary continued, “they like to be entertained. You understand where I’m coming from?”
“I think I know where you’re going. I’m not a pimp. I would think you’re in a better position to know them than I am.”
“Everybody’s a pimp if the price is right,” Winter said.
Halsey snapped back in his chair as if slapped.
“Who is this gentleman?” Halsey asked O’Leary.
“Someone you don’t want to fuck with. You’ll get hurt bad no matter how much money, influence, and power you got.”
“Really?”
“Really. See money and that other shit only works on people who got something to lose or people who want to live. Now Gordon here, he doesn’t give a damn about anything. He’ll come at you with a vengeance. He’ll get you, too, because he has this unique quality—he ain’t afraid of dying.”
Throughout O’Leary’s little speech, Winter remained stoic, giving Halsey as much attention as he would an ant on a sidewalk. O’Leary knew Halsey would come around the minute he saw Winter stare into the attorney’s eyes with his face expressionless. He almost smiled when he saw uncertainty on the lawyer’s face. He did smile when Halsey turned back to the front, avoiding Winter’s cold stare.
“Now, back to the business at hand,” O’Leary said. “I got a lot of contacts in this town, as you well know. My contacts tell me that you know ways that people with more money than morals can be entertained. My associates are interested.”
“I may know some people,” Halsey said, still trying to keep an eye on Winter without seeming obvious or showing how nervous he was.
O’Leary said, “See, Gordon, I told you ol’ Everette would be the man with the plan. My business associates have specific tastes: young white girls, attractive, and willing to do anything. Price is no object.”
Halsey looked suspicious. “You wired?”
“Me? Do I look like a fuckin’ radio station—Gordon, am I wired?”
“Don’t know, but you did have three cups of coffee this morning. That’s usually enough.”
O’Leary smiled like a used car salesman approaching a potential customer. “You want I should strip, Everette? I’ll do it—right here, right now. But when you see I ain’t wired, I’m gonna turn Gordon loose on your fat ass.”
Halsey began to sweat. “I believe you. Jesus, Jimmy, I got to be careful, too.”
“All bullshit aside, you gonna help me out?”
“I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
O’Leary stood up. “I’m looking at a high eight-figure deal here, Everette. It could be as much as eighty, ninety mill. It would be worth, say, ten percent—might go as high as fifteen if the service is exemplary.”
O’Leary saw Halsey’s greed take over. The fat bastard had a calculator for a mind, and he was no doubt computing fifteen percent—no way Halsey would settle for the lesser price—of eight or nine million, especially if all he had to do was give up a name. “It may take a few days.”
“Well, don’t screw around. My people are due in town next weekend, and I’d like something arranged for that Saturday.”
“Where can I reach you?”
“You have my usual numbers.”
_________________
O’Leary and Winter walked out of the high-rise office building and onto Atlantic Avenue. The bright sun hurt their eyes, and they put on sunglasses.
“Think he’ll come through?” Winter asked.
“Halsey would sell his mother to a psycho for a shot at a million bucks. I got a hundred that says he’s on the phone right now.”
1 Coyote: Smuggler who brings illegal aliens from Mexico to the United States.
25
Houston and Bouchard were scanning the menu at a steakhouse when Sam Fuchs called. “Willard Fischer,” he said, “lives on Northeast Cove about thirty miles north of Portland according to the DMV. I checked with the Department of Marine Resources, and they said that he does both charter and commercial fishing. I have a number.”
Houston took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote down the number. “When you want to go fishing?” he asked Fuchs.
“Whenever you can arrange it.”
Houston disconnected the call and put his phone on the table. “We found him,” he said.
“Now what?”
“Now we go after the son of a bitch.”
_________________
Fuchs met Houston and Bouchard in a coffee shop across from the public library in Portland’s Monument Square. They sat at an outside table and watched a group of protesters standing along the sidewalk.
“What are they protesting?” Bouchard asked Fuchs.
“Probably the fact that they have nothing to protest about.”
Houston grinned, took a drink of coffee, and said, “So any suggestions on how we should go about this?”
“I figure we call and make an appointment to see him and his boat. That way we have an excuse to go there and see the layout. Hopefully we’ll see something that will get a judge to issue a search warrant.”
“Who’s the front man on this?”
“Don’t look at me,” Bouchard said.
“I’ll call,” Houston said. He turned to Anne and said, “I don’t want him to get suspicious, so I want you to stay out of it.”
She bristled. “You know I can take care of myself.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t, I just think you being there will interfere with my cover story.”
“What’s your story going to be?” Bouchard asked.
“We’ll keep it simple. Two old buddies out for a day of drinking beer and fishing,” Fuchs said.
“I’ll make the call,” Houston said.
_________________
Fischer placed the paint sprayer on the workbench. He stared at the truck, which was now a shade of light brown similar to that of split pea soup. He nodded, sure that no one would recognize it—not that it mattered that much. It was headed for retirement anyhow. He walked out of the barn and closed the door behind him.
He stood in the dark, smoked a cigarette, and stared at the window of Cheryl’s room. She had been here for almost a month, and he still did not know if she was the one who would finally appeal to him. As much as he liked this one, she had not been able to excite him.
He heard the phone ringing and tossed the cigarette away before he entered the house. Once inside, he grabbed the phone from its cradle on the wall and said, “Fischer Charters.”
“My name is Houston, Mike Houston, and a friend and I are interested in chartering your boat for a day of fishing.”
“Okay.”
“We’d like to visit you, see your b
oat—you know, stuff like that.”
“When you want to come?”
“Would tomorrow morning be alright?”
“What time?”
“Well, we’re driving from Portland, so how about ten o’clock?”
“Sure. You know the way?”
“I have a GPS.” Houston read the address.
“See you tomorrow at ten.” Fischer hung up. He looked at the staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs. He popped a breath mint into his mouth. Mum would go ape shit if she smelled smoke on him. He climbed the stairs and turned toward her room. He would take care of Mum and then make sure the boat was shipshape for tomorrow’s visitors.
26
“ Good evening, I’m Ariana.” Her native language accented her voice, and O’Leary guessed she came from somewhere in Eastern Europe.
The woman standing in the door of the expensive house was elegantly dressed. Her hair was done up in an intricate pattern of curls and waves that O’Leary was sure took hours in a beauty salon to perfect; then again, it could be a wig. The coiffure was too complex to be created every morning. The white evening gown she wore was top shelf. She looked like high society. All in all, he thought she dressed too expensively for a madam. A stocky man dressed in a tuxedo stood behind her. No matter how fashionable his attire, one look was all O’Leary needed to identify him as hired muscle. He looked past the woman and tried to see the interior; most likely Dapper Dan, the thug, would not be the only security in the colonial mansion.
O’Leary turned his attention to the madam. “I’m Jimmy O’Leary,” He motioned to Winter. “This is my associate, Gordon Winter. Pleased to meet you, Ariana.”
“Won’t you come inside, Mr. O’Leary?” The woman stepped aside and motioned them inside with a refined sweep of her left hand.
O’Leary looked around the foyer. He had never been inside a home of a Fortune 500 CEO, but he had always visualized one as looking like this. The furnishings were top of the line, and the floor was of marble so highly glossed you could use it as a mirror to shave. He forced himself to remember that regardless of the plush, expensive surroundings, this was nothing more than a classy cat house. He followed the woman as she escorted them to a sitting room, where she motioned him to a well-used but comfortable leather chair.
The Fisherman Page 14
