The Girl in Dangerous Waters (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 8)

by A J Rivers

  But it's not the aesthetics I'm worried about right now. Instead, I'm focused on how the staggering of the balconies makes the distance between them harder to navigate.

  I stand up on my toes and reach as far as I can, moving in slow, careful strides to the balcony just diagonal to mine. The door is dark, so I'm less worried about somebody being inside and noticing me pull myself up onto the balcony and walk across it. From there, I choose the next dark door I can access and drop down into it.

  I make the mistake of looking down for a second while moving from one balcony to the next. I’m not on a skyscraper or anything, but I’m still several floors up. A fall from here would not be pleasant. A sudden dizzying sensation washes over me, but I take a deep breath. Relax, Emma. I redouble my grip on the wall and keep walking. The progress is slow, but eventually, I'm able to maneuver my way from balcony to balcony until I reach Emmanuel's room.

  I finally reach his and scamper down from the ledge and sit down on the balcony, trying to regain my calm. I've never had to play Spider-Man during an investigation before. No one below started screaming about my being overhead or seeing me jump between the balconies, so I think I’m safe.

  I stand up and go to the door. The curtain is pulled closed over the glass door, but I can see the glow of a light beyond it. I knock on the door, but there's still no response. The tip Graciela gave me the day I checked into the resort is the whole reason I'm on the balcony now. I need to get into Emmanuel’s room, even if this is what it takes.

  Obviously, whoever was taking care of Emmanuel's room didn't work at the resort long enough to know the trick to the doors. All it takes is a little pressure and a slight movement of the handle, and the door slides right open. I slip inside, and the second I move the curtain aside, I understand why Emmanuel didn't open the door when I knocked.

  Blood is pooling in the middle of the floor, creating a trail through the room. It's not bright red, but a rusty brown, the results of oxidation after being exposed to the air for some time. Careful not to touch anything or step into any of the blood, I follow the trail through the room into the bedroom and to the master bathroom.

  The door is partially closed. I use my elbow to nudge it open. Emmanuel is sprawled on the floor, the tile beneath him soaked in blood that seems to have flowed out of deep gashes stretching from the heels of his hands down to the middle of his forearms.

  I take a step closer and note bruises on one upper arm and on the side of his neck. There is some redness on one cheekbone and a towel in one hand. Walking back out into his room, I notice the blood trail forking off. Smaller drops lead to the door that opens out into the hallway.

  Lying just in front of the door is a menu. There's nothing I can do from inside the room. I don't want to touch anything, including the phone, and even if I was to call for help, me being inside the room without authorization could cause serious problems. I have to get back to my room.

  The only way is along the balconies again. It's easier this time, with adrenaline fueling me. If someone sees me, I'll deal with the consequences of breaking into the room. It would cause complications, but that's not what matters right now. All I'm thinking about is getting to Eric.

  He's already on his feet when I get back into my room.

  "You need to call security," I tell him.

  "What's going on?" he asks.

  "Call Desmond and tell him you heard reports of noise in room 502, and after I haven't been able to get in touch with Emmanuel, you are concerned and want to run a welfare check. Pull the FBI card. Get pushy about it if you have to. You need to get in that room."

  "Emma, what is going on?" he repeats.

  "He's dead. I got into his room, and there's blood everywhere. He's on the bathroom floor, and his wrists are slit," I explain.

  "He killed himself?" Bellamy asks.

  I shake my head. "No. He's bruised, and the blood suggests a struggle. Even if whoever did this was trying to make it look like a suicide, they did a seriously piss-poor job of it. They got the direction of the wrist slitting right, but people don't generally slit their wrists in the living room and then make their way to the bathroom. There's also a towel in his hand."

  "He was trying to stop the bleeding," Eric notes.

  "He just never got a chance."

  "I'll make the call."

  Twenty minutes later, we're standing in Emmanuel's room again. Desmond and two other security guards stand back while Eric and I walk through the space. All three look drawn, more convinced than ever of their life choice to do security at a resort where they have little to do rather than actually going into law enforcement. None want to look at the blood. They keep their eyes focused on other places, occasionally looking at Eric or me, but not venturing closer to the body.

  Eric takes pictures and speaks notes into the recorder on his phone. I get his attention to show him the menu at the door, and he takes a picture of it.

  That's the image still in my head later when we're back in my room. The local police have come from the mainland to handle the newest death at the resort. Eric spent almost two hours with them after a couple of harried phone calls to Bureau higher-ups to get them started on the necessary paperwork as to not cause any legal issues.

  It doesn't surprise me that their initial reaction is that Emmanuel killed himself. I've seen it before. Far too many times. But in this situation, it makes sense. Two staff members came forward during the initial investigation and mentioned the rumors about Emmanuel and Rosa. Though neither seemed willing to straight-out say they were having a relationship, there was enough suggestion and hearsay to all but confirm it.

  Obviously, in his devastation after her death, Emmanuel couldn't take the grief and killed himself.

  It's an easy conclusion for local police, but one that could be quickly discounted by investigators reviewing the case. They'll see the same things I did and know someone else was responsible for his death. What they might not see is the significance of the menu.

  "Constance said he called for medicine this afternoon because he wasn't feeling well," I point out. "She sent some up from the infirmary. That can't be possible."

  "Why not?" Bellamy asks.

  "The menu on the floor is from this morning. Yesterday morning? I don't even know what time it is. It was on top of the blood. He was dead before he supposedly called for medicine."

  "Could the menu have moved?" Bellamy asks. "Maybe he didn't pick it up, and the killer walking past it made it move into the blood."

  I shake my head.

  "Look at the way the blood is gathered at the top of the paper. It had already started to coagulate when the edge of the menu hit it and slid forward, gathering it. Emmanuel was dead before he supposedly called for medicine.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I'm starting out of the room when Bellamy stops me.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “I have to go talk to Constance or somebody at the desk. Whoever can tell me who called for medicine, and who delivered it,” I tell her.

  “Emma, it's after two in the morning. You need to sleep,” she says.

  “No, I need to find out what happened.”

  “You do need some rest,” Eric insists. “Even if there is someone in the lobby right now, it's not going to be the same people who work in the morning. They might not even know who handles something like that. You need to get at least a couple of hours of sleep before you do anything else.”

  “Fine,” I finally relent.

  “Good,” he says. “We’re staying here in the room with you. You're not going to be alone at night until we figure out what happened.”

  I want to argue with him, but he's right. Someone killed Emmanuel, and I can only imagine it's because of what he knew. It's not going to take much for them to know I'm unraveling what's going on here at the resort, and that means I'm dangling by a thread.

  Eric gets an extra pillow and blanket and stretches out on the couch in the living area while Bell
amy comes into the bedroom with me. It doesn't take her too long to fall asleep, but I lay awake, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything. Finally, I can't take it anymore and climb slowly out of bed. Moving as quietly as I can as to not wake up Bellamy or Eric, I get my computer and curl up in a chair.

  I send an email to Sam, promising to call him the next day to explain everything. Even though I don't get to hear his voice, somehow, just sending him a message is comforting. I close my computer and climb back into bed. This time I'm able to drift to sleep, but it's thin and fitful. I only manage to scrape together a couple of hours over the rest of the night.

  I'm startled awake by the sound of someone knocking on the door. For a brief second, the thought that it must be Emmanuel flashes through my mind, quickly chased by the reality of what happened last night. I'm out of bed in an instant and throw on the first clothes I can get my hands on. By the time I open the door to the bedroom, I hear voices coming from the front of the room.

  “Oh, good morning. I came to speak with Miss Griffin.”

  “You can speak to me,” Eric says.

  But he doesn't need to defend me. The second I heard those words, I knew who was standing on the other side of the door. I'm across the room in a flash. Alonso's eyes widen slightly when he sees me, and I grab him by the front of his shirt to yank him into the room as I kick the door closed.

  “Where are they?" I demand.

  "Emma," Eric warns, trying to step up to me, but I maneuver around him and force Alonso further into the room.

  "Who?" the manager asks.

  "You know who I'm talking about," I snap. "Where do you have them?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I came to check on you."

  Eric carefully disengages my hands but keeps himself positioned between Alonso and the door. It's a careful balance, not wanting me to lose control, but also not being willing to let him get away.

  “Check on me?” I ask incredulously. “Why? Because you wanted to see how much I figured out?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” he says again. “I was worried about how that man's death might be affecting you. Desmond let me know you aided in the investigation.”

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I did. It only felt right considering Emmanuel— which was his name, by the way— Emmanuel, not 'that man', was going to tell me what he knew about the girls.”

  “What girls?" Alonso asks.

  He moves out of the way as I lunge toward him.

  "Drop your act.”

  His eyes flicker back and forth like he's trying to find someone who can help him.

  “Are you asking about Graciela? I don't know where she is. I'm as shocked as anyone about what happened,” he tells me, doing his best impression of honesty.

  “What do you mean about what happened? Noelle told me she took a couple of days off.”

  “She wrote me a note,” Alonso says. “It said she was going back home to help her family, that her mother said she needed her.”

  I fall back a step, my hands coming up to cover my mouth as my head shakes.

  “They have her,” I mutter.

  “What is it, Emma?” Eric asks.

  “Graciela didn't take a couple of days off. They have her. Wherever the other girls are, they have her. She never would have quit this job. Especially not like that. Coming to work here on this island was her dream. There's no way she would have just walked away from it. And her mother wouldn't have told her she needed her help. Her mother is the one who encouraged her to go out into the world and follow her own dreams. She's the one who told her to be true to herself and go out and make the most of herself. Whoever wrote that note didn't know her well enough,” I say.

  My teeth clench so hard my jaw hurts as I turn back to Alonso. “Where is she?”

  “I told you, I don't know. I got that note and that's it. I haven't been able to get in touch with her.”

  “You need to stop pretending,” I tell Alonso, my voice made of gravel. “You aren't convincing anyone. I know this resort is a cover. You're offering your guests the same drugs you're using to keep control over the women you're treating like bottles of liquor in a minibar. You churn them through your little prostitute training academy, then turn them out to entertain your VIP guests. Six of them are being held right now. The five you have marked as being on leave and Graciela. I don't know how you got your hands on her, but she better not be hurt. Tell me where they are.”

  “You have to believe me when I tell you I don't know what you mean.”

  "I don't have to believe a word that comes out of your slimy mouth. You need to stop thinking about your cover because I already know it isn’t true. What you should actually be worried about is that if there is a single hair hurt on any of those women, I will personally see to it that you are put on a small platform and gradually lowered into prison while guards announce that you traffic women and pump them full of drugs to keep them compliant. Then they'll bring you back up, let you recover a bit, then dip you back down. Over and over again until there's nothing left to bring back up. Do you understand me?"

  Alonso cracks, his face going red then pale and his hands shaking.

  “Okay, I'll admit it. I know about the drugs. They’re offered in the spa and lounge, and to specific vetted guests in their rooms.”

  "Or the cabins?"

  "Yes. Occasionally our elite guests will want more privacy and will request one of the cabins for the night. Their choice of drug is delivered to them there along with anything else they might require."

  "Like a woman who fits their description of choice?" I ask.

  He shakes his head hard.

  "No. Nothing like that. All I know about is the drugs. I don't know who orders them or how they get here. All I'm responsible for is collecting guest requests, ensuring they are authorized, and having their choice delivered to them. Yes, that is done by the women on the staff, but that's it."

  "Get off it, Alonso. I heard you talking to Rosa. You told her a guest was renting cabin three for the evening and that you wanted her to fulfill his expectations."

  "Mr. Coltrane," he replies with a nod. "Three lines, a bottle of whiskey, classical music, and fruit tarts. It's the same thing every time he visits. The last time he was disappointed because the room was not set up to the specific way he requested it, and it had to be redone, which cut into his time. I was emphasizing to Rosa that she needed to be prompt and ensure everything was done the right way. No one else was in that cabin with him."

  "You talked to Frederick about the girls going on leave," I point out.

  "The women who are on leave are taking time off from work. It's part of the benefits offered to them when their manager hired them.”

  Alonso sounds confused, and his wide eyes are getting bloodshot.

  "Graciela was never offered leave."

  "I know that. It's not something I offer when hiring new staff."

  That strikes me.

  "You didn't hire Rosa?" I ask.

  "No. She was brought in by the staffing company."

  "What staffing company?"

  "The resort is constantly looking for new staff, exactly like I told you. Many of the people who come to work here think it sounds amazing until they understand the full pressures and responsibilities."

  "Like being expected to fulfill the sexual requests of strangers?" I ask.

  "No," he says firmly. "Being away from home. Not having access to social media, as is the policy of the resort for all staff. The formality and standards. It's easy to think working on an island will just be about partying and relaxing, but that's not what is required of our staff. Those who leave have to be replaced, and we like to have a larger staff than we need to ensure there is never a guest left waiting. A staffing company is used to fill those spots in addition to hires by the resort itself.

  "Oh, God," I gasp, looking at Eric. "The note from Emmanuel. It said, 'he didn't hire her.' He was talking about Alonso. Alonso didn
’t hire Rosa. Graciela must have told him I asked about the two of them talking. He wasn't having a relationship with her. He was trying to warn her. Rosa had probably agreed to leave, and he was trying to help as many others as he could."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  "Rosa's death wasn't accidental," Alonso gasps as the words formed in his head.

  “No, it wasn't,” I explain. “Just like I told you the morning she was found. She was murdered. Somebody bashed her brain in and tossed her in the pool to send a message. Every other one of the girls being trafficked through here saw that and knew what it was. She said the wrong thing. She was trying to get out, and they wanted to make sure no one else tried that. And the only man around here who cared got beaten and his wrists slit for it.”

  Alonso's legs buckle beneath him, and he drops down to sit on the couch behind him. He puts a hand to his mouth in shock but doesn’t say anything.

  “He stayed here to try to help. He wanted to tell me what was going on, and the disgusting people treating these girls worse than animals slaughtered him to make sure every other man who ever stepped foot in this resort knows to keep his mouth shut. And the same thing is going to happen to every one of the other girls if you don't tell me where to find them.”

  “I don't know,” he sighs. “I would never do something like that.”

  “You’ll traffic drugs but not girls?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says emphatically. “A person who wants to do drugs is making a personal choice. It's recreational. Something to enhance their trip. Many of our clients come from all over the world, where such drugs are perfectly legal. This is not the United States. I don't do it, but it's not my choice. It's theirs. But I would never sell them a person.”