Leine knew if she walked into any one of the “Gentlemen’s” clubs in the border town she’d have a good chance of finding several women who had been trafficked in some form or another. Security was tight in these places, and unless she wanted to stir up a hornet’s nest of pissed-off cartel members and protection racketeers, Leine would have to avoid them. The women themselves were often drugged or beaten or both, with their identification confiscated by their handlers to ensure compliance. Many refused to accept offers of help for fear their families would be targeted, or they’d be hunted down and dragged back to work, or even killed for their trouble. Others believed their lifestyle was the best they could hope for, or were too addicted to see beyond the syringe or pipe in their hand.
The problem didn’t have an easy, one-size-fits-all solution.
Leine admired the agencies that worked tirelessly to win over the women, to convince them they were worth more than what they’d been brainwashed to believe by the ruthless men and women who controlled their destinies. Diplomacy and patience were not words Leine would use for her approach to the scum-sucking parasites who ruled the sex trafficking underworld. Hand grenades and a flamethrower made more sense.
The sights and smells of downtown Tijuana brought back deeply buried memories: the seared meat juices soaking the drip pan at the ever-present food stands accompanied by the familiar smell of refried beans and handmade tortillas; overripe melons and strawberries and pineapples piled high on top of fruit carts; spilled cerveza and tequila mixed with the faint (and not-so-faint) odor of exhaust and urine.
The garishness of the city at night with its blatant neon and blaring music blended seamlessly with the hive-like drone of hundreds of hustlers and entrepreneurs, all working the system and tourists to make a buck. This was not the place to come for a quiet siesta or to find quality time alone with your sweetheart. Tijuana after dark existed for the fast and reckless, for the alcohol-fueled folly of thousands of daily visitors hell-bent on experiencing something different from their privileged American lives—addictive entertainment that smacked of the vaguely dangerous.
Elise and Josh found dangerous all right, Leine thought.
She located the Blue Manatee down a side street, the door unmanned and wide open to the balmy night. She walked into the cool, dark club, empty of customers except for a man sitting at the far end of the Lucite-and-chrome bar nursing a beer. Disheveled and probably hung over, he acted as though it was too much effort to acknowledge anything other than the cigarette in his hand. He had the look of someone who had become disillusioned with life, moved to Mexico, and now found himself drinking alone in Tijuana. He could have been thirty. Or sixty.
A large screen at the other end played a music video of the pop star du jour. Blue laser lights flickered at random intervals, attempting to give the impression of an electrified, high energy interior. The club’s namesake—an enormous, plush blue manatee—hung above the bar.
A dark-haired man who Leine estimated to be in his early twenties was stocking bottles on the shelves behind the bar. She approached him and sat on one of the padded Lucite stools. He turned to her with a smile and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. A tattoo of a rattlesnake devouring a scorpion was visible on his neck.
“What can I get for you, señora?” he asked. His name tag read Jorge.
“I’m looking for some information, Jorge,” Leine said in Spanish. “By any chance did you work the bar last Saturday night?”
“Sí—I always work,” Jorge answered with a practiced grin.
Leine reached into her pocket and pulled out the photographs of Elise and Josh that Gunderson had included in the report. “These two were in here last Saturday evening. Do you remember them?”
Jorge leaned over the bar and squinted at the pictures. He cocked his head to one side and frowned.
“She looks familiar to me, but I can’t be sure,” he said. He stepped back and shook his head. “He does not. I see so many people each night. They all begin to look alike after a few hours.”
Leine contemplated offering him money to jog his memory but rejected the thought. The possibility was too great that he would just tell her what she wanted to hear. “Did anyone else work the bar that night?”
Jorge nodded. “Guillermo is here every Saturday.” He glanced at his watch. “Tonight he is at another club one street over. The Gypsy.”
“Thank you, Jorge.” Leine slid a business card with the name Lana Turner and her cell phone number across the bar. “If you remember anything, would you give me a call?”
“Of course. May I ask why you are looking for them?”
“They never came home.” She rose to leave and held out her hand. Jorge shook it.
“I appreciate your time,” she said.
“No problems. I hope that you find them.”
Leine left the Blue Manatee and headed for the Gypsy. Tucked in the back of a small outdoor mall with several shops surrounding it, the place appeared to be less nightclub than restaurant, serving food at low prices to the locals. There was a bigger crowd than the Blue Manatee, with several tables full of diners.
She walked over to a man standing behind the counter wearing a white linen guayabera and a pair of khakis. Tortoise-shell glasses perched on top of his head.
“Is Guillermo working tonight?”
“Who wants to know?” the man asked with a disarming smile. He reminded Leine of a younger version of an actor she’d seen in movies from the 80s named Raul Julia.
“My name is Lana Turner. Jorge at the Blue Manatee told me that I would be able to find him here.”
The man’s smile widened into a grin, revealing even white teeth. “I am Guillermo. What can I do for you, Lana Turner?”
Leine returned the smile and pulled out the photos.
“I’m looking for someone who remembers either of these two people. They were at the Blue Manatee last Saturday night.”
Guillermo slid his glasses down and leaned in to take a closer look at the photographs. His cologne had a deep, exotic scent.
After a minute he nodded, tapping the picture of Elise with a well-manicured fingernail. “Yes, I remember her.” He leaned back and smiled. “She was a vision in a white beaded dress and fabulous shoes. Christian Louboutin, if I’m not mistaken. He wasn’t so bad, either,” he added with a wicked grin.
Bingo. “Do you remember if they were with anyone?”
Guillermo nodded. “I do, because he was so striking. A big man with an accent—maybe Russian? Tall and muscular with white hair and light blue eyes. He looked kind of like an actor I’ve seen before.” He paused for a moment, frowning in concentration. Frustrated, he shook his head. “I can’t remember who, now. He and the boyfriend took off and left her alone at the bar.” He made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Poor thing. She waited a long time. When he didn’t come back, she became angry and walked out.”
“So she didn’t leave with him?” That complicated things.
Guillermo shrugged. “I don’t know. The boyfriend returned to the bar not long after she left and asked me if I knew where she’d gone. I told him no, but that she looked angry and had only left a few minutes before. After that he disappeared into the crowd.”
“Was the Russian man still with him?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t see him.” Guillermo watched Leine for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. “They are missing, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then I hope you find them.”
Leine reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded fifty-dollar bill and a business card. She placed them on the counter, covering the money with the card. “Thank you, Guillermo. If you see them or hear anything, would you give me a call?”
Guillermo smiled and nodded as he pocketed the cash. “My pleasure, Lana Turner.”
Leine walked out of the Gypsy and into the warm evening air, thinking about what Guillermo had said. Obviously, Josh had caught up with Elise and talked her into goi
ng with him to the party. What Leine didn’t know was the part the Russian played in their disappearances. It was possible he had nothing to do with it. It could have been a cartel kidnapping.
The noise on the street had increased and the growing energy was palpable. Leine stood on the busy sidewalk watching the human carnival drift by, absorbing the place. Normally, she would have changed her appearance in order to blend with her surroundings, but the trip had been unexpected and she hadn’t felt the need. She would have liked to have been a bit more anonymous. As it was, people glanced at her as they passed but didn’t engage.
Worked for her.
Not wanting to attract attention, she headed back to the secure parking lot and her rental. Lou had made hotel reservations a few miles out of town at a place called the Vista Inn, which wasn’t far from the abandoned housing development where they’d found Josh’s phone. An early night followed by an early start meant better odds of being home in time for dinner.
But first she wanted to connect with the DEA agent Santa had told her about, Bob Herrera. If the Russian had been hanging out for any period of time, he’d more than likely heard of him.
She kept to the shadows and moved along the back streets before cutting between buildings to reach the parking lot. No guard greeted her at the entrance. As she approached her rental a prickle of awareness tracked up her spine.
Someone was watching her.
Chapter 10
Adrenaline spiking, Leine slowed down and took stock of her surroundings. The absence of the guard gave her pause. The parking lot, though touted as secure, held several dark spaces from which a person could attack. She stopped mid-stride and reached for the switchblade secured to her calf, acting as though she were adjusting something on her shoe. She straightened, careful to conceal the weapon in her hand.
Without appearing to, Leine scanned the area as she skirted her vehicle, alert for anything out of the ordinary. She turned left as she exited the lot and jogged to the end of the street. She checked behind her and, seeing no one, slipped around the corner. As she continued along the dark boulevard, she pulled out her phone and hit speed dial.
“Herrera,” a man’s voice answered.
“Agent Hererra, my name is Leine Basso. We have a mutual friend—Detective Santiago Jensen?”
“I’ve been expecting your call. Santa contacted me earlier, letting me know you were going to be in town. What can I do for you?”
“Did he fill you in on why I’m here?”
“It’s about the two missing teenagers, right?”
“Right. Can you think of any reason I might be followed?”
“Not unless the police were given advance notice. Have you spoken with anyone in town regarding the case?”
“Yes. Two bartenders. One from the Blue Manatee, one from the Gypsy. But I haven’t been in town long. Less than an hour.”
“A local businessman named Felix Otero is majority owner of the Blue Manatee so he’ll know you’re here, eventually. He’ll probably have his guys keep an eye on you. Anybody asking questions about something as potentially explosive as a murder and kidnapping in this city is going to be subject to intense scrutiny. An hour’s pretty fast for them, though.” Herrera paused. “We should meet. There’s a carne asada place about two miles outside of town on the free road. Has a big white sign with the picture of a happy cow on it. Meet me there in half an hour.”
“I’ll be there.” Leine disconnected the call and continued along the sidewalk. She reached the end of the block, crossed the street, turned right, and then continued to the corner. There, she turned right again and entered an alley. She stepped behind a dilapidated pickup parked next to the building and waited. Sirens wailed in the distance. Somewhere a dog joined in with a low howl.
Several minutes ticked by before a shadowy figure with an unsteady gait walked past the entrance to the alley. A few moments later the same figure reappeared and stopped on the sidewalk, hesitating as he peered into the darkness. Leine waited patiently, willing him to step under the lone streetlamp so she could get a better look at him.
The man glanced both ways before proceeding slowly into the alley. Something about him seemed familiar. She took a step back into the shadows as he approached. He passed the pickup, unaware she waited nearby.
Leine grabbed both of his arms from behind. He stiffened and struggled to break free of her grip as she wrenched one hand up between his shoulder blades.
“Hey—what are you doing?” he said in English, his voice ratcheting up an octave as he continued to resist.
“I might ask you the same question,” Leine replied through her teeth. She forced him behind the truck and shoved him face first against the alley wall, pinning his free arm with her body. She gripped his elbow, letting him feel the tip of her knife next to his left kidney.
An American accent, she thought. Probably not cartel. Realizing her captive was overweight with virtually no muscle tone, Leine relaxed slightly, allowing the adrenaline in her body to ebb. He probably wasn’t somebody’s enforcer. The smell of cigarettes and stale beer mixed with sweat and body odor wafted between them. Not a pleasant combination.
“Why are you following me?” she asked as her gaze cut to the alley entrance and back again.
“Let me go and I’ll tell you,” he said, panting. He inched away from the knife, attempting to become one with the wall. “I have information.”
“How about you tell me, and if I like your answer you live,” she replied. “And stop moving. This knife is hella sharp.”
He stopped moving.
Leine sighed and glanced at her watch. I haven’t got time for this. “Let’s try something simple. What’s your name?”
“Willy. Willy Flint. You may have heard of my blog—Flint’s Stones?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” She pushed his arm a few inches higher, eliciting a grunt of pain. “Why are you following me, Willy Flint?” she repeated, watching the entrance.
He turned his head so his cheek rested flat against the wall. “I heard you asking the bartender in the Manatee about those two kids.”
“You were the one drinking a beer at the bar.”
Willy nodded, his breath coming out in a wheeze. Leine let up on the pressure slightly.
“How long have you been following me?” she asked. How did she not notice him?
“Jorge told me he sent you to the Gypsy.”
“Why would Jorge tell you anything?”
Willy hesitated. Leine gave his arm a twist.
“I told him I wanted to ask you for a date.”
Is this guy for real?
“Why not tell him you had information?” she asked.
“I can’t just tell everybody what I know. It’s very sensitive.”
“Such as?”
“Let me go and I’ll tell you.”
She gave his arm another push. Willy gasped in pain.
“Okay, okay. I have a friend,” he said, between breaths. “In the police department. He told me everything.”
“And?”
“I know about the cell phone and the blood.” Willy closed his eyes and tried to swallow.
Leine backed off a little more, releasing some of the pressure. “And you want to help me, why exactly?”
“Why else?” he replied. When she didn’t respond, he continued. “Money. I saw you slip some to the guy in the Gypsy and figured there was more where that came from.”
“I take it Flint’s Stones isn’t cutting it on the affiliate links.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.”
“What makes you think I gave him money?”
“What else would you slide across the counter that would give somebody a shit-eating grin?”
“He’s an old friend.”
“Right. An old friend who just happens to be a bartender who works Saturdays at the Blue Manatee.”
Leine released her hold. He started to turn but she stopped him. “Stay where you are and put your hands on your head.”
>
Willy slowly raised his hands. Holding the knife in her right hand Leine frisked him with her left. When she didn’t find any weapons, she stepped back.
“You can turn around,” she said.
Willy faced her and leaned against the wall, his gaze riveted on the knife as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.
“What’re you going to do with that?” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.
Leine glanced at the knife and back at him.
“That depends on you,” she answered.
He visibly swallowed. “I suppose you want me to tell you what information I was referring to earlier?”
Leine blinked. How drunk is this guy? “You’re wasting my time.”
He hesitated.
What the hell is he waiting for?
Money. This idiot still thinks I’m going to pay him. Wow. She shook her head.
“Listen, Willy. You made the mistake of following me,” she said, making sure she enunciated the words slowly. “Now, I know you aren’t familiar with the way I work, but that isn’t how I do things. You’ll be lucky to walk away from this encounter with your appendages intact, so I’d advise you to tell me what you know and be on your way. No hard feelings.”
Willy gave her a blank look.
“No dinero. Get it?”
Understanding lit his face, followed by consternation. He met her gaze.
“But I—”
Leine rolled her eyes and stepped back. “You need to leave.” She nodded at the street beyond the alley. “Now.”
“Wait. What if I tell you what I know, and if you think it’s worthwhile, you pay me for the information?”
“Fine.” Leine glanced at her watch again.
The Body Market: A Leine Basso Thriller Page 6
