TRAFFICKED: A Mex Anderson Novel

by Peg Brantley

  “You coming in now to give a statement?”

  “Cut me some slack. I have to figure out what our next move is gonna be. While Miller will fit into the system, we’re no closer to finding Alexis.”

  “He didn’t give you a name?”

  “Pretty sure he never had a name. Just a contact number. And the minute you pick him up that number will be history.”

  “Give it to me now.”

  Mex gave the number to the detective. “Don’t count on much.”

  “While our hopes are high, our expectations are low.”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  We’re still in the Dark Ages with trafficking because, unlike incest, rape, and domestic battering, trafficking generates massive revenues—$32 billion a year worldwide.

  —Sex Trafficking of Americans: The Girls Next Door, by Amy Fine Collins

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ALEXIS

  I dream I’m walking through a town filled with people who’ve had various parts of their bodies amputated. Fingers and hands, arms, legs, ears. They stare at me because I’m different from them. As it goes with dreams, I’m suddenly no longer walking, I’m dancing down the street with nothing on. People continue to gawk. Then I’m dancing without arms. I’m still naked but people quit looking at me.

  I wake in a sweat and throw off the bedding. The sun is barely up.

  When I look at my body I expect to see bruises and there aren’t any. Apparently my captor knows how to inflict pain without leaving outward signs.

  I crave a shower even though I know there’s not enough scrubbing in the world that will ever make me feel clean again. But maybe with fifteen minutes of gentle water washing over me I can find renewed strength.

  Twenty minutes later I step out and reach for a towel. Nothing. I swear there’d been at least two big fluffy towels waiting on the shelf. I shiver to think that once again my faux privacy has been violated. The only thing available is one facecloth.

  I dry what I can and move back to the bedroom. The bed has been stripped.

  “What the hell?” And then I remember my toga. I finally figure out this fight might not be fair.

  I walk over to the closet and picture what my options might be. Little Bo Peep? Porn star Belladonna Black? More Xena or Mary Poppins? Maybe I can mix and match. I throw open the closet door.

  Empty, except for a pair of five-inch spikes.

  I fly to tear open the dresser drawers.

  Empty.

  The fabric window coverings are also missing, leaving only the shutters and blinds.

  An envelope lies on the floor by the door. Yeah, right, I think. Like someone slipped it under because he or she couldn’t friggin’ just walk in.

  I’m pissed. Maybe scared, but mostly pissed. I snatch up the envelope and retrieve the note inside.

  You will join me for breakfast in the main dining room.

  Eight o’clock.

  Wear something nice.

  I throw the note on the floor. It’s seven-thirty.

  Part of me wants to crawl into a corner and die, but a bigger part of me wants to strike out and cause him physical harm. It dawns on me that I don’t even know his name. And he knows a lot about me.

  Fine. I’ll suck it up and continue with what I started last night. Show no fear. Show nothing. Be bold and proud.

  I use the makeup provided and work to put on the best face I’ve ever drawn. He wants a challenge, I’ll give him a challenge.

  There’s something new in the makeup basket— my signature teal eyeshadow. I apply it carefully. While I put it on I wonder how they knew about it and then I realize someone had to have provided pictures at some point and my Facebook page is full of photos of me wearing this exact shade.

  Shit. Except for that one pair of sandals, and the rest of the makeup, everything here is new. The linens, the clothes, the shower gels. But the torture room didn’t feel new at all. And I get the feeling I’m the only female guest.

  But not the first.

  So what happened to them?

  I close my eyes and feel tears roll down my face, then move quickly to the toilet to throw up. Shaking, I sit on the cold tile floor.

  Hold yourself together Alexis.

  I stand up, brush my teeth, repair my makeup and slide my feet inside the stilettos.

  Who might be in that room? I mentally prepare for a roomful of fully-dressed people or leering men. What if there are children present? I prepare for the worst.

  My hair is long and loose. If I need to take a break, I can let it fall in my face for a second or two. It’s eight. Time to go.

  A quick check in the mirror reflects my absurd Emperor’s New Clothes situation. It proves I’m only pretending to have any control.

  When I leave the room, another guard is there to escort me to the dining room. He tries hard not to look at me.

  I stand before the closed double-doors, gathering as much strength as I can, and wait. The guard swings the doors open and the breath I’d been holding rushes out of my body.

  The dining room is empty.

  There’s one place-setting. A dress box and note are nearby. A wide selection of breakfast items is laid out on a sideboard, and I can see at least two camera lenses pointed toward me.

  As much as I want to rip open the box and remove whatever it might hold—and put it on—I help myself to a cup of coffee.

  In general, pimp “culture” among sexually exploited children and youth, is organized along the following lines: a) most pimps manage only 1-3 girls at a time; b) at least 50% of the pimps we encountered operate strictly at the local level—they are not part of larger criminal networks; c) approximately 25% of the pimps we encountered were tied into city-wide crime rings; d) about 15% of the pimps we encountered were tied into regional or nationwide networks; and e) approximately 10% of pimps in the U.S. are tied into international sex crime networks. This latter group of pimps participate actively in the international trafficking of children—including American children and children who are nationals of other countries. Typically, these pimps are connected in some way—directly or indirectly, peripherally or centrally—to international drug networks and frequently use children as “mules” in moving drugs into and across the U.S.

  —The Commercial Sexual Exploitation of Children, Executive Summary, by Richard J. Estes and Neal Alan Weiner, University of Pennsylvania 2001 (revised 2002)

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The waiter rolled in the room service cart and proceeded to set up the table for three. The only remarkable thing about it was that there were three pots of coffee.

  Darius looked at the spread. “This is it? Eggs?”

  The night before, Mex asked Cade to order room service for breakfast. He wanted it delivered to their suite at six.

  “Any special requests?” Cade had asked.

  “Definitely nothing special. I don’t want us focused on food. We have a lot to talk about and we’re against the clock.”

  “Do you sense a threat?”

  “Not directly, but it’s there. Physical and emotional. Every day and every night we don’t have those children back where they belong is another day and another night where their lives are hell.”

  Mex poured three coffees while he looked at his friend. “Yep, this is it. What we need is brain food, not great food.”

  “I guess I should be glad you didn’t order tuna for breakfast.”

  “I was tempted.”

  “Here’s what we know about what happened to Jayla Thomas.” Mex started. “She was sold about six months ago by someone she considered a friend, Chris Williams.”

  “Who,” Darius added, “had convinced himself it was a prank.” He plowed a fork under his scrambled eggs.

  “You can give him credit if you want,” Mex said. “I think he’s an opportunistic screw-up.”

  “He’s a kid.” Darius put a forkful into his mouth.

  “Okay, he’s a kid with a gambling problem who took the oppor
tunistic way out of his jam and pretended to himself, for enough cash, that he was playing a joke on his friend. Yeah, right.” Mex stirred cream into his coffee. Took a sip. “He admitted he knew what was really going on. He’s a screw-up.”

  “Have you been able to locate his contact?”

  “Haven’t tried. If we’re going to catch this worm, we come at him sideways. That’s something the kid can actually help us with. He’ll vouch for me. Let his buyer know I have something to offer.”

  “Or maybe you’re in the market to expand your stable.” Darius said.

  “Will he do it?” Cade asked.

  “At this point his guilt is so intense he’d do anything.”

  “You didn’t need to remind him of the sale of humans in our history,” Darius said.

  “Yeah, I did. Clearly he’d forgotten.”

  Cade cleared her throat. “On a different note, we’re getting quite a few hits on our Backpage ads. Let’s go through them and respond to the most likely leads.”

  “How many hits are we talking about?” Darius asked.

  Cade handed them each a printout that was several pages.

  “There must be a couple of hundred hits here,” Mex said as he flipped through the pages.

  “Three hundred and fifty-seven.”

  “Shit.”

  “I’ve never been more clean,” Mex said.

  “What are you talking about?” Cade asked.

  “This case has me wanting to shower hourly.”

  “If each of us goes through the list and highlights the responses we feel the strongest about,” Cade said, “I’ll put those we all highlight on a short list. We can start there.”

  “These ads are probably our fastest and best options to find the girls, but Darius, get Chris to arrange an intro to whoever took Jayla,” Mex said.

  “Will do. Even if we figure out how to bring the girls home without him, his ass belongs in prison.”

  “My feelings exactly.”

  Later, they finished their selections. Cade took the pages and retreated to the bedroom. When she closed the doors, Mex retrieved his medication. He shook a dose into his hand and swallowed it with a glass of water.

  “You keeping this from Cade?” Darius asked.

  “Don’t want her to worry.”

  “She should know if you’re exhibiting signs of depression.”

  “I’ve got this.” Mex thrust dishes out of the way. “Let’s talk about our meeting with the APD.”

  Darius checked his watch. “Give me a minute,” Darius said. He moved away from the table.

  “Why?”

  “I should check in with Pamela.”

  “Does she have a problem with you being here?”

  “We have three kids at home. Yes, she has a problem with me being here. But honestly? I think she’d have a problem with me being home. Besides, her mom is there to help with the kids. They can trash me together. A bonding thing, ya know?”

  While Darius stepped into his room to call his wife, Mex closed his eyes and willed his mind to go blank.

  In the last six years, the academic response team [at Metropolitan State University Denver] has helped 51 survivors learn about their educational options. Some have graduated; others have put their educations on hold. Seventy-five percent were born in the Denver metro area.

  —Moving in the Right Direction, by Leslie Petrovski, January 30, 2014

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “You’re not old bosom buddies with this cop too, are you?” Mex asked Cade. He steered the SUV into a parking space in front of the Aurora City Hall and the District 2 police station. More imposing than architecturally attractive, the lawn and trees did their best to soften the buildings.

  “I told you already, no.”

  “Thank goodness. Because if you were, I could get a complex.”

  Darius shook his head. “No way you could ever get a complex, kemo sabe. Your ego is too big.”

  “Only on my best days.”

  The trio walked into a long narrow room. Framed collages of shoulder patch insignia from police departments all over the country covered the walls. Wood benches, attractive only to those in dire need of rest, split the length of the space. The requisite public notice brochures were the only reading material available. In short, the space was depressing.

  Mex trekked up to the front desk and handed the desk officer his card. “We have an appointment with Detective Elizabeth Rider.”

  “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  A Hispanic woman and her young son sat uncomfortably on a bench near the front desk. The young boy fidgeted then jumped to the floor, energized and bored. A dangerous combination for a four-year old.

  Darius and Cade had wandered off to look at the insignia display. Mex moved against the wall opposite the mother and son and observed them without making direct eye contact.

  The mother sat texting and swinging the foot of her crossed leg. While in this moment the mother looked distracted and disengaged, her child was clean, wore clean clothes and was the picture of health. Mex knew a lot of people wouldn’t bother with all the information but would instantly judge the situation based on race and the fact they were at a police station. He’d seen it time and time again.

  The door opened and a young woman who didn’t look old enough to have any job let alone the job of a detective, greeted them. “Hello, I’m Detective Rider. Please, follow me.

  “We’ll meet in this conference room.” She ushered them into a room right inside the entrance.

  Mex made the introductions and decided immediately he liked this cop. Detective Rider was wearing red jeans, a blue and white striped t-shirt and sparkly slip-on canvas shoes. Her eyes were clear and direct. His kind of law enforcement officer.

  Plus, it was clear she didn’t know Cade.

  They settled down around one end of the conference table.

  “You know why we’re here,” Mex began.

  “I do,” Detective Rider said. “You’re trying to track down two missing girls.”

  “Three,” Darius said.

  “The Aurora girl?” Detective Rider asked Darius.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then. That puts us on the same page. How can we help?”

  Cade leaned forward. “We’ve placed a couple of personals on Backpage, but we could really use your help if you have a way to filter through the photos to see if these three girls are listed there.”

  Detective Rider nodded. “We’ve tried to lure people in through Backpage, but we haven’t had a lot of success.”

  “I can understand why,” Cade said.

  Detective Rider shot her a glance.

  Cade smiled. “When this is over, I’d be happy to work with you on your ads.”

  “But you do have newer facial recognition software?” Darius asked.

  “Homeland Security has the next gen software—”

  Mex held up a hand and looked at Darius.

  “Next generation,” Darius explained.

  “We don’t have access to it as a matter of routine. It’s not perfect,” Detective Rider continued, “but it’s light-years ahead of what everyone else has.”

  “Can you use it to find our three girls?” Mex asked.

  “No way. Not unless one of them is a threat to national security. The technology is available, but we don’t have enough of it, nor the manpower to run it.”

  Mex understood. Lack of funding was the lamentation of law enforcement agencies everywhere.

  “In the meantime,” Cade said, “can we share the list of responses to our ads? We’ve narrowed them down but I’d hate to miss the important one because it didn’t make our cut.”

  “How many responses did you have?”

  “Three hundred and fifty-seven,” Cade said.

  “For three girls? That’s amazing. Do you have the contact information?”

  “I can email them to you.” Cade got out her phone, held Detective Rider’s business card in front of her and h
it a few keys. “I’m sending you the complete lists of responses, two each for the girls as placed by the alter-egos of Mex and Darius. Those highlighted are ones the three of us identified independently as being prime. Of course, that was before we thought we might have help from the APD.” Cade watched as Detective Rider thumbed through the information now on her phone. “Can we count on your help?”

  Detective Rider fingered a few keys on her phone. “I’ve sent this to two of our staff members to investigate and collate. I’ll meet with my supervisor this afternoon after they’ve had a chance to do the initial research.” She looked into Cade’s eyes. “You have our help.”

  Cade huffed out a breath that Mex felt she’d been holding for ages. Her eyes filled with tears.

  God, he loved this woman.

  He’d thought of his wife, Maria, as his soulmate. His Only. They’d had two children together, a son who he loved beyond reason, and a daughter with Down syndrome who’d gifted them with her uncompromising, judgment-free love. A third baby had been on the way.

  Then in one horrendous afternoon, they were all gone. Thanks to his idea of honor. His refusal to corrupt his name as a law enforcement officer in Mexico. His pride.

  Now, many years later, he could see it was also his failure as a professional. He should have been suspicious of the call saying there’d been a break-in. At the very least, he should’ve sent someone else to investigate.

  His sister Sedona had survived, supposedly by hiding in a barn. Instead, as it turned out, she had helped orchestrate the murder of his family. He hadn’t seen it coming. And didn’t know about it for years.

  One more failure.

  Tonya spent night after night in different hotel rooms, with different men, all at the command of someone she once trusted. She was held against her will, beaten and made to feel like she had no other option at the time, all by the man she thought she loved.