Suitcase Girl (Abby Kane FBI Thriller - SG Trilogy Book 1)

by Ty Hutchinson

  I filled them in on the identification number that Xiaolian recalled and set them loose.

  “Are they in?” Kang asked when I returned.

  “Yeah, that’ll free you up.”

  Kang and I talked a bit about what I had learned that morning and the previous night.

  “The doctor…” Kang scratched his chin. “Maybe it’s nothing more than for health reasons. You know, to check for pregnancies or STDs.”

  “Could be, if they had plans to sell the girls to another ring.”

  “Of course if we introduce the suitcase back into the picture—”

  “I know, I know. It doesn’t jibe with the trafficking angle.” I leaned back in my chair and slouched.

  “Maybe what Sokolov said earlier was true,” Kang proposed.

  “What? That she should have been found dead?” I crossed my arms over my chest and let out a breath while I mulled the possibility.

  “Yeah, maybe she wasn’t working out so well and they decided to get rid of her.”

  “If that’s really the case, they could have dumped her anywhere. Why at our offices?”

  “Million-dollar answer, question?” Kang scratched his cheek.

  “I also find it hard to believe that these guys tried to kill her by injecting a sedative in her body. It’s a bit sophisticated. A gunshot to the head I would buy. Feeding her enough drugs so she overdoses, sure. But propofol?”

  “So it was to calm not to kill?”

  “Would you willingly let someone lock you inside of a suitcase?”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  “You know.” I wagged my finger at Kane. “I think we’re coming at the suitcase the wrong way.”

  “How so?”

  “We keep asking why they left her. Maybe they wanted us to find her.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Reilly removed his glasses, placed them on his desk, and rubbed his eyes. “Let me see if I got this straight. You’re saying the person who did this to the girl wanted us to find her. Wait, strike that… investigate her.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. We kept thinking it was the trafficking ring that left the girl, but what if it wasn’t the trafficking ring? What if it was a person who had no connection with them?”

  “Someone who wants to take down the ring? A vigilante?” Reilly questioned.

  “That’s a possibility. We don’t know the connection as of yet, but it’s the only way we can plausibly fit the suitcase into all of this.”

  “Look, based on what you’ve discovered, I’m inclined to think the same. Suitcase Girl is—”

  “Her name’s Xiaolian.”

  “… It appears that Xiaolian was trafficked, along with a bunch of other girls. She may have escaped or perhaps a customer felt sympathetic and helped her escape but didn’t want to get more involved, so he dumps her outside our office.”

  “That’s a scenario that works.”

  “Where are you guys on finding this mystery tractor trailer?”

  “We’re digging. I have Hansen and Pratt helping.”

  “Housing that girl paid off, Abby.”

  “Every time we speak, she remembers a bit more. Slowly this puzzle is putting itself together.”

  Reilly slipped his glasses back on. “All right, the two-day restriction is lifted for now, but I want daily updates.”

  We were just standing up when Hansen suddenly appeared outside Reilly’s door.

  “Good news. We figured out the problem with that tracking number. It’s not associated with tractor trailers. That’s a standard identification number associated with cargo containers.” Hansen held up a tablet with the number on the screen. “The first three letters identify the owner, the next one identifies the type of container, and the numbers essentially identify that specific container.”

  “Cargo containers are long and narrow like a tractor trailer,” Kang said. “Easy mistake for the girl to make.”

  “So, wait, that means they were aboard a cargo ship?” I asked.

  “Yes and no,” Hansen said. “Cargo containers are a standard shape, so not only can they be stacked on any ship, they can also be loaded on trains and hauled by semi-trucks.”

  “Traveling across the ocean in a cargo container?” Reilly mused. “How is that even possible?”

  “Maybe it’s a cargo container being hauled by a truck,” I said. “Maybe that’s just how they were transported over land.”

  “If the last thing she remembered before being put in the suitcase was being in that container, it could be any of the three scenarios: a truck, a train, or a ship,” Hansen said. “Cargo ships are offloaded in the Port of Oakland. Union Pacific Railway also has a transloading terminal in Oakland, as well as in South San Francisco and in Richmond.”

  “So a truck could have been her final transport to our offices that morning.”

  “Technically, yes, but we just learned that trucks hauling tractor trailers are usually longer than sixty-five feet. To drive within the city, they’re required to have an extralegal truck permit. Also, most of the streets in the surrounding area restrict commercial vehicles over three tons.”

  “So she was transferred from the container to another vehicle and then transported to our offices.”

  “Most likely that’s what happened. Pratt is already on the phone with the Port of Oakland to see if that container arrived there via a cargo ship.”

  “I’ll get on the phone with Union Pacific and see if they offloaded the container there,” I said. “Hansen, you handle the railroad terminal in Richmond. Kyle, South San Francisco railroad terminal is yours.”

  We hurried out of Reilly’s office and back to our desks. Pratt was still on the phone when I saw him. He waved me over to his desk.

  “Yes, that’s correct. Do not let that ship leave,” he said to the person on the other end of the line. “I understand, but there is a container aboard that is a part of a federal criminal investigation.” He wrote the dock number and other information down on a piece of paper. “We’re on our way.” He hung up his phone. “The number checks out. That container is on a ship about to leave the port and head back to China.”

  I glanced at my watch. “If traffic plays nice, it’ll take us at least forty-five minutes to get there.”

  “There’s a Customs and Border Protection office there,” Pratt said.

  “Call them, see if they can help stop that ship.”

  “I have a contact with SFPD’s Marine Unit,” Kang said. “I’m not sure what they’re capable of, but if push comes to shove, I bet they can have their boats block the exit of the bay.”

  I grabbed my cell phone from my desk and dialed Agent House at the Oakland FBI Field Office. “Yes, that’s right. Agent Hansen will text you all the information; we’re also notifying Border Protection. We’re on our way. Just make sure that ship doesn’t leave.” I turned to Kang. “House is heading over there now.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Pratt asked as he stood next to Hansen.

  “Call the garage for an SUV. You two are coming with us. This investigation is officially a go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Agent Frankie Ray with US Customs and Border Protection met us at the main entry gates to the port. He waved at us with squinty eyes as he walked over to our vehicle.

  “I’ll ride with you, if that’s all right,” he said, peeking in through the window. He eased himself into the back seat and, once settled, gave us directions. “We’re heading to the Charles P. Howard Terminal. So just follow this road for now.”

  “Do you often have to turn a ship around?” I asked.

  “No, it’s a big deal to do that. If we have questions or concerns regarding cargo, we flag it immediately and notify the captain and crew. At that point, nothing is unloaded or loaded until we say so. I pulled a file on that ship. It’s an independent freighter. The name is Hong Long.”

  “That means ‘red dragon,’” Kang said.

  “This isn’t th
e ship’s first visit to the port. It’s had numerous visits over the last three years. Turn left up here,” Ray pointed. “It arrived in our port two days ago. According to the shipping manifest, the container held a mix of consumer goods: electronics, toys, appliances, and clothing. There were also a fair amount of dry and perishable goods. Average turnaround time for a typical vessel is two to three days, but this ship wasn’t that big so it barely took two days.”

  “Do you know if the container was empty when it was loaded back on?”

  “According to the manifest, it is. You guys were lucky. Just a couple of hours later and the ship would have been out of the bay and in international waters. It’s my understanding that you believe the cargo container in question was used for the purposes of human trafficking?”

  “That’s correct,” I said.

  “I’d be surprised if it were true. The conditions in the containers can fluctuate widely out on the open ocean. Then there’s the question of basic necessities like food and water. The ship had a stop in Hawaii, but even the journey from there to Oakland is a week and a half. It’s a long time to be cooped up.”

  “I’m assuming you can’t inspect every cargo container that comes through here.”

  “You’re absolutely right. The Port of Oakland can handle any ship, and we get all kinds. Ninety-nine percent of all containerized goods moving through Northern California are loaded and discharged here. The way we prioritize our inspections is by looking at the cargo manifest, the past history of the ship or the company that owns it, tips we receive, and lastly, our gut instinct. Keep driving straight. The berth is just up ahead.”

  “No red flags obviously with this cargo ship.”

  “Nope, but I’m extremely interested in seeing this container. We try to learn from every experience.”

  Containers stacked four high covered most of the dock with the exception of the area near the docked ships. Agent House was leaning against her vehicle when we arrived.

  “That’s the container,” she said, pointing upward.

  A cream-colored steel box was locked in the claw of a container crane and moving slowly above us. A stevedore with his neck cocked back radioed instructions to the operator.

  All eyes followed the path of the container. We had no idea what, if anything, we would find inside of it. I just knew the number stenciled on the outside matched the number Xiaolian had given me.

  The container was forty-feet long, eight-feet wide, and six-feet tall. Aside from the identification number, there were no other markings. No company name or logo. Nothing.

  The container touched down on the pavement. A couple of longshoremen quickly unhooked the four cables securing the container to the claw. One gave the operator of the crane the thumbs-up.

  A black lockbox secured the front door of the container, and the stevedore asked one of the longshoreman to retrieve a bolt cutter. Minutes seemed like hours as we waited. Kang stood next to me and kept dipping his hands in and out of the front pockets of his slacks.

  “Would you stop fidgeting?” I whispered. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “Sorry, it’s just that we know it’s empty, so I’m wondering what is it we hope to find.”

  “Answers,” I said.

  The longshoreman returned and quickly snipped the lock off before pulling the door wide open and revealing the inside.

  No one moved.

  We just stared.

  Even Agent Ray stood dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” He was the first to say anything as he took a step forward.

  We all did the same for a better look. From what we could tell from the outside looking in, the container appeared to have been transformed into a highly sophisticated living space. I saw bunk beds, chairs, a refrigerator… There were even a few stacked cases of bottled water and dry food.

  Agent Ray called for backup from his agency. They would take the lead on questioning the captain and crew, and we were to handle the longshoremen involved with unloading the container. We agreed to reconvene later and share what was learned.

  The stevedore in charge introduced himself. “My name’s Neil Tate. I’ve radioed the office for a list of the men who were assigned to the unloading of the ship.” Just then, a voice on the other end of the radio rattled off a few names and said those men were on their way to his location.

  “Not everyone is working today,” he said.

  “That’s fine, we’ll question the ones here. It shouldn’t take very long. If you could compile the contact information for the others, we’ll reach out to them ourselves.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  One by one, men appeared wearing yellow hard hats, jeans, and long- or short-sleeve shirts with red reflective safety vests over them. Hansen and Pratt took the first two. House and Kang took the next two. The last one came from another direction, from behind a few stacked containers.

  “That’s the last one,” Tate said, pointing.

  When the man’s eyes met with mine, he literally stopped in his tracks.

  You’re going to run, aren’t you?

  He did.

  “We got a runner!” I shouted out as I took off after him.

  Kang and the rest of my crew were right behind me as I ran into the maze of containers.

  “Spread out,” I shouted. “Try to flank him.”

  He was heavyset—no way he could outrun me. Even with numerous left and right turns, I closed the gap with each step. Down a narrow pathway he ran, where the containers were stacked even higher, eliminating any direct sunlight.

  “FBI!” I shouted. “Stop now!”

  He glanced back. Fear shot from his eyes. But he didn’t stop. In fact, it seemed he ran faster. Up ahead was a T intersection.

  Which way are you turning?

  He turned left.

  A second later, Kang appeared from the right of the intersection like a speeding bullet. He had his arms stretched out as he leaned in with his shoulder. He hit the guy from behind with such force they both were airborne for a few feet before hitting the pavement hard.

  When I caught up, I slammed my knee straight into the guy’s back, pinning him facedown. Within seconds, I had his hands cuffed securely behind his back.

  “Nice hit,” I said as I helped Kang to his feet.

  “I played defensive tackle in high school.” He smiled and brushed his hands together. “His blindside was wide open.”

  The runner’s name was Carlos Medina. I had him kneel next to our vehicle. He was still breathing heavily, and a ring of sweat had soaked the collar of his shirt.

  Kang and the other agents had returned to finish questioning their men.

  “Why did you run?”

  “I need the exercise.”

  “You see that container over there? Two nights ago it was unloaded from a ship named the Hong Long. Your supervisor tells me you were the forklift operator who moved it to the holding location.”

  “Yeah, so? That’s my job. I move a lot of containers. This is a shipyard. What do you expect?”

  “According to the manifest, this container was supposed to be carrying a bunch of consumer goods and food.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Funny thing is, it wasn’t. Instead, it was used to smuggle underage Chinese girls into the US for the purposes of sex. You know what the federal sentencing is for human trafficking? The trafficking of a minor alone is a minimum of four years. We’re pretty sure some sort of rape charge can be added, so that’s probably another nine years. Add in kidnapping and prostitution of a minor—another ten years. Of course if we can prove kidnapping to commit sexual crimes with a minor… Wow, that’s life in prison. Talk about a life-changing experience.”

  Medina avoided my eyes as he chewed on his bottom lip and continuously wiped the streams of perspiration running down his face with his shoulder.

  “That’s a lot of time for one victim, which we have already identified. In the next hour or so, my for
ensics team will start working on that container. They’ll find DNA, and we’ll identify the other girls who were in there. That’s really when the time will start to add up for you. Are you hearing all of this?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t kidnap or traffic any girls. All I did was move the container.”

  I shifted my weight to one foot and shook my head slowly. “I’m really having a hard time believing you right now, because earlier, you and I,” I pointed at him then at myself, “we had a moment. Remember making eye contact and then running away? Sure you do. But if it helps, I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Four other FBI agents noticed, as did the agent with Customs and Border Protection, your boss, and your coworkers. That’s a lot of people testifying against you.”

  “I’m telling you, I didn’t do anything,” Medina said with a raised voice.

  “Well, if I’m wrong, that would be a travesty for you to take the fall for crimes you didn’t commit. A damn travesty.” I scrunched down and whispered in his ear. “But that’s what will happen. Believe me when I say that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I left Medina alone for a bit so his imagination could run wild as he pondered his fate. Kang had just finished questioning his guy.

  I bounced my eyebrows at him. “Anything?”

  “He remembers unloading the container but says that’s all he did… said your guy was the forklift operator that hauled it away after telling him he could handle it on his own. I don’t think my guy knew what was in that container.”

  Hansen and Pratt had received the same answers from the men they questioned, and so had House. I filled them in on my conversation with Medina. “He could very well be working alone. Hansen, Pratt, I want you two to pull records for every visit the Hong Long has made to port. See if this container was on board, and if it was, find out the name of the forklift operator. Also, Agent Ray mentioned this ship docked in Hawaii. Reach out to our field office there and see if they can poke around. Someone probably helped there as well, maybe checked on the girls or provided a new supply of food and water.”