by Toby Neal
He flipped the phone open and put it to his ear. “Hey, Freddie. Haven’t heard from you in awhile.”
“Yo, LT.” Freddie was a military veteran, a semi-homeless day laborer who hung around Kahului Harbor and picked up odd jobs. “Got a tip for you.”
Stevens held up a finger to Mahoe to ensure the younger man’s silence, then put the call on speaker and set the phone on his desk. Mahoe set aside his laptop and rolled his office chair closer to Stevens’s desk to listen in.
“What’s up, Freddie?”
“Got some work setting up a Matson container for human cargo. What’s that worth to you?” Freddie’s voice had the rusty timbre of a smoker.
Human trafficking was an evil they kept coming across, and sometimes in the oddest places. “A c-note to start. More if you give me something that leads to the arrest of the traffickers.” Stevens’s heart beat faster. An interagency task force was working on a rumored trafficking ring that operated out of the Kahului docks, but that trail had gone cold in recent weeks.
“Good enough to start. PayPal me the hundred bucks,” Freddie said.
“Modern times, man. Everyone wants their money, and wants it now. Gimme a minute. I still have you set up from last time,” Stevens said.
Mahoe rolled his eyes, but Stevens ignored his partner. The young detective had a streak of morality a mile wide and, while appreciating the necessity of CIs, basically despised them as junkies and snitches.
Stevens used his phone to log into an email proxy connected to the station’s petty cash PayPal, and with a few taps of his finger, transferred the funds. “Sent.”
“Got it,” Freddie said, a minute later. “Okay. So, me and my friend Kimo got a call from a guy who gives us work. You know, off the books.”
“Yep.” Stevens tipped his chair back and laced his fingers over his belly. “Get to the part I’m paying for.”
“Well, the guy had something different than our usual offloading trucks or whatevahs. This time, we fixed up the inside of this Matson container. Had to line it with soundproofing and insulation. Cut a hole in the side for a portable air conditioner. Brought in a small kine generator, like for a recreational vehicle. We put in two bunk beds and a portable toilet, a water dispenser too. I asked who was goin’ ride in this fancy hideout, and the guy, you know what he said?”
“I’m waiting to hear.”
“He said, ‘Mind your business, Freddie. Zip your lip and get back to work.’ So I did, but was grumbling cuz he nevah like treat me with respeck. After he left, my buddy Kimo, he tol’ me he heard this was for ship women overseas. Four blondes and a brunette. Three of the blondes was young, just girls, but ‘ready for get broke in,’ Kimo said.”
Stevens’s heart rate spiked, and he exchanged a glance with Mahoe. These could be the missing women from the Sea Cloud!
“What else do you know?” Stevens shot forward to lean on his desk, pulling his little spiral notebook with its tied-on stub of pencil out of his hip pocket.
“I know where the container stay, down in the storage yard by the docks—when we pau working, they moved it down there, but I track ‘em. Kimo nevah know nottin’ bout when it would be used, and the guy wasn’t saying, so that’s all I got for you.”
Stevens stood, picking up his shoulder harness as he replied. “I’ll meet you at the Cash N’ Carry in twenty minutes, and you can show us.”
“Oh hey, I no can go,” Freddie whined. “The guy, he likes breaking thumbs. You evah get one broke thumb?”
“Two hundred bucks, but I won’t give you that second hundred until you show me the container,” Stevens said.
“Deal. See you in twenty.” The burner phone shut off.
Stevens scooped the cheap phone up and slid it into its holster. “My car this time, Mahoe. Get on the horn and let the Captain know we won’t be going to the meeting. I’ll call Lei and leave her a message. We’re going after five women who might have been taken from the Sea Cloud.”
Chapter Thirteen
Stevens pulled his battered old Bronco into the Cash N’ Carry parking lot. The run-down discount grocery store, tucked behind the industrial warehouses near the Kahului docks, provided the ideal place for the comings and goings of people who did not want to be observed.
Freddie was lurking near a dumpster. A wiry little man closing in on fifty, he still kept his hair military short, but that was the only remnant of his past as a soldier. Grimy secondhand clothes hung on his frame, and he reeked of sweat and alcohol as he opened the back door of Stevens’s SUV. “Hey, bruddah.”
“Hey yourself. Got started on the Primo beer early today, eh, Freddie?” Stevens swiveled in his seat to make eye contact with the CI as the man fussed with his seatbelt. “This better be a legit tip.”
“Oh, it’s legit. Drive to the barge dock.” Freddie tugged a folded ball cap out of his pocket and drew it down on his head, lowering it to cover his eyes. “I no like get made.”
Mahoe’s cell rang and he picked up the call on Bluetooth as Stevens navigated out of the Cash N’ Carry’s parking lot. He frowned and held the phone out to Stevens. “Captain wants to speak to you.”
“Tell her I’ll call back.” Stevens pulled onto the narrow, two-lane road leading to the dock area.
“She says pull over. She wants to talk.”
Stevens grunted with annoyance. He navigated over to the dusty side of the road, his mouth tight. He put the Bronco in Park and took the phone from Mahoe, putting it to his ear as he got out of the vehicle—he couldn’t have Freddie listening in.
Stevens walked a few feet away, glancing out at the wind-whipped ocean, waving ironwood trees, and dusty naupaka bushes that lined the frontage road. “Yes, Captain? I have my CI in the car. I was about to search for the container Mahoe told you about.”
Captain Omura’s voice was brusque. “I want you to assess if anyone’s inside. If it’s empty, we pull back and surveil. I want to catch whoever’s orchestrating this thing. We’ve been hearing rumors for months about trafficking; this could be the break we need.” Omura’s tone softened. “I know you’re hoping to rescue those women, but chances are, they’re being stored somewhere else until right before the ship is loaded. I already called Thomas, the Coast Guard investigator who’s been working with Lei, to alert him that there’s a ship that will be carrying that container coming into harbor. Ideally, we’ll seize the container as it’s being loaded with human cargo, and then we can scoop up the perps on the ship too.”
“That makes sense. Anything else?”
“Team meeting when you get back to the station. Lei has a little more info from Dr. Gregory to share.”
“Copy that.” Stevens ended the call and hopped back into the Bronco. A drift of rust sifted onto his black athletic hiking boots as he slammed the door. He really needed to upgrade this bucket of bolts, but it was one of the few things he’d been able to hang onto for so many years, and since they’d lost so much in two fires, he’d become weirdly attached to it. “Where from here, Freddie?”
“I’ll show you. Just a few blocks ahead.”
Freddie directed Stevens through a warren of streets to the wharf area. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the container zone, but the main gate was open for the business day. Stevens drove in, circling around to an employee parking area. “I’ll show my badge if anyone stops us.”
“I don’t want to be seen walking around with cops. I want to stay here.” Freddie folded his arms and sat back, a mulish set to his mouth.
“There’s no way we’ll find this container without you showing us where it is.” Stevens gestured with his head to the maze of stacked metal containers lining the storage area. He pointed to a rumpled pile of clothing on the back seat. “There’s a hoodie and a hat back there, and you can borrow my extra sunglasses. No one will recognize you.”
Grumbling, Freddie put on the makeshift disguise. The three men got out of the Bronco. Heat shimmered off the metal containers and the freshly tarred b
lacktop of the parking area, as Freddie led the way into the stacks of huge, rectangular boxes.
Even with a portable air conditioner and generator—what if the women ran out of fuel, or something went wrong with the air circulation? They’d overheat and suffocate within hours. Stevens had seen crime scene pictures from other trafficking cases—that kind of mishap wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, and it could lead to mass murder.
His belly clenched and so did his fists as he stalked after Freddie’s stooped form in the shapeless, oversized hoodie.
The pirates had likely killed the other two men after Chaz, and then they’d caged the women like animals to sell for profit. Whoever had taken down the Sea Cloud “needed to get got,” as Pono would say.
Freddie peered around the corner of a stack of containers, seemingly getting his bearings. “It’s off by itself. I think whoever set this up had it put there so they could sneak the women in by cutting the fence.”
Mahoe swiped his forehead with a meaty forearm. “How did you get the job? Get paid?”
Freddie shrugged. “It’ll cost ya.”
Mahoe tossed up his hands in frustration, and Stevens kept a rein on his temper with difficulty as well. “Just show us the container, Freddie. When I know that this is a legit tip, we can discuss more.”
Freddie squinted angrily over his shoulder. “It’s legit. Follow me.” The little man darted forward, and this time Stevens had to stretch his long legs to catch up as Mahoe jogged, bringing up the rear.
Freddie reached the end of an aisleway formed by the giant metal rectangles. “Straight ahead, there.” He pointed.
Painted rust red and emblazoned with “Matson”, the name of one of Hawaii’s top shipping companies, the container was set near the chain-link fence, indistinguishable from the rest except for its isolation.
Freddie took off the cap and wiped his sweating brow on his shoulder, his head swiveling as he checked for anyone around. The area was empty but for heat shimmer, the sound of the wind in nearby coconut palms on the other side of the fence, and the occasional raucous call of a mynah bird.
“Nobody questioned you guys working on this thing here?” Mahoe asked. He was still trying to get more out of Freddie without paying for it.
“We didn’t work on it here, like I said. We worked on it at . . . another location. It’s gonna cost ya more for that.”
“We’ll see.” Stevens grabbed Freddie’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. “This better be for real, man. Show us the alterations you made.”
Freddie twisted out from under Stevens’s fist, leaving him holding a handful of loose shirt. “No need fo’ get aggro, brah. You’ll see.” He hurried out into the open. Stevens followed closely, ready for Freddie to run or try to pull something. The guy was a weasel, through and through.
Freddie reached the container first. He peered around the side positioned away from them, close against the fence, and gestured for Stevens to come closer. He pointed. “See? The white edge sticking out near the top of the container? That’s the air conditioner.”
The size and shape were right—a slightly protruding rectangle. Freddie was telling the truth.
Stevens turned to face the padlocked double doors locking the container shut. He wanted to pound on the hot metal surface and yell, “Anyone in there? Maui Police Department. We’re here to help you!”
But if there was any security around, they’d come running and the Captain’s surveillance idea would be blown . . .
“We need to check if anyone’s inside. The opening between the container and the fence is narrow for me or Mahoe to get through. I want you to squeeze in there, Freddie, and see if the AC unit is on. If it is, we’ll get this container opened. If it isn’t, it’s empty and we have no case until it’s got someone inside. The way to tell is by checking that air conditioner. No one could last more than a few hours in this heat with no air circulation.”
“It’ll cost . . .” Freddie got no further before Stevens grabbed his hand, twisting it up behind the man’s back as he bent Freddie’s thumb backward.
“This is all part of our initial payment, you little piece of shit. There could be women and girls inside there, right now, dying. Get over there and check that AC unit.” Stevens let go and stepped back.
Freddie stood up, rubbing his hand, but said nothing more. He turned sideways and sidled into the narrow opening. They watched as he reached the AC unit. He rose up on his tiptoes, straining to get near it. “It’s off. Nobody home. There’s a vent in the roof, too. If we could get up there, you could see inside . . .”
“No need. Let’s go,” Stevens said.
“But what about . . .”
“We’ll talk in the truck,” Mahoe snapped.
The three of them retraced their steps through the maze of containers.
Near the entrance, they passed a man driving a forklift with a big wooden box loaded on the carrier.
It’d be so easy to pack the women in some kind of transport box and drive them on a forklift right into the container . . .
Stevens rubbed gritty eyes as he walked back to the truck. If only he didn’t know too much about this kind of thing. Human trafficking hadn’t bothered him quite this way before he’d married and had children. Imagining Lei, Kiet or baby Rosie trapped in a hot metal box, sold to human predators, made his blood pressure soar.
He got in, fired up the engine, and cranked on the Bronco’s aging AC. Its feeble breeze fanned his overheated cheeks.
Five women, trapped in a hot container.
They had to find them.
Chapter Fourteen
If only she had one of those microphone headsets, instead of the clunky old departmental phone. Lei’s neck had begun to ache with tension from holding the plastic handset between her ear and shoulder when Peterson’s partner John Ramsey finally came on the line. She gazed down at a printed copy of Ramsey’s driver’s license photo in the case file before her. Ramsey had a boyish grin bracketed by a strong jaw, dark hair brushed with silver at the temples, and a little swatch of hipster beard on his chin.
The guy looked friendly, but so far, the interview wasn’t going well.
“You need to speak to my attorney,” Ramsey said, for the second time.
Lei clenched her jaw. Time for a little sweet-talking. “Mr. Ramsey. You are quite the brilliant inventor. Please. I’m asking you simple questions that your attorney cannot answer. Such as, how did you and Peterson meet? When did you come up with the idea for your invention?”
A long pause from Ramsey. Finally, “I guess it won’t hurt to tell you that.”
Lei bit her tongue on a threat to arrest Ramsey for obstruction of justice—but the guy would just lawyer up harder and drag his feet, and that wouldn’t be good for the case. “Oh, thank you so much for your time and help.”
“Pete—he goes by Pete, short for his last name—Pete and I met in college. We were engineering students together at MIT. Both scholarship kids.” Ramsey had a tenor voice that sounded younger than his forty-something years. This was familiar ground for him, and Lei could feel him relaxing.
“Ooh, MIT. Please go on,” Lei gushed. “I can just see the two of you, cooking up inventions in the lab!”
“We were roommates. BFFs, I guess you ladies call it. We wanted to do something to help the world and the planet. Early on, Pete was obsessed with plastics in the ocean and what they were doing at the cellular level to fish and wildlife. I was more interested in alternative fuel sources, and how that could help the global environment as a whole.”
“Wow. When did you two begin working on your invention?” Lei kept her voice warmly enthusiastic. “That’s so great.”
“We came up with the initial concepts early in our college years together. We began trying to angle all of our class projects into research and development of our joint idea, a small engine that could run on recycled plastic.” Ramsey sighed. “We started our company after graduation. I did more of the business’s administration because Pet
e got married and began a family right away. I got so focused on solving the problem of the fuel converter, I stopped paying attention to Pete’s part of the project, but we finalized our segments around the same time. I solicited funders and backers. And that’s when my part of the invention first got a big offer from a major auto corporation. They were less interested in the raw plastics harvester and fuel cube maker that Pete had completed.”
“So that’s what prompted you to call a halt to the public offering.”
A pause. “My attorney suggested a cooling-off period while we worked toward a mutual agreement.” Ramsey said.
“Let’s switch gears. Did you and Pete spend time together socially?”
“Not much. Pete has three daughters, and I’m on my second marriage with no kids. We aren’t college roomies anymore.”
“Sounds like you grew apart.”
“You could say that.”
“Second marriage, huh? I bet that got expensive,” Lei fished.
Ramsey did not reply.
She had to schmooze this guy, not that she’d ever been particularly good at it . . . “These things happen in life. I understand growing apart from a friend, and I’ve been through some tough marriage times myself. So, your lives were heading in different directions . . . Did that affect the business?”
“It did. I felt like Pete wasn’t pulling his weight with the company.” Old resentment colored Ramsey’s tone with bitterness. “Always with a sick kid, or a soccer game or something, while I stayed at the office to work long hours.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Ramsey’s tone hardened. “I have to get to an appointment. I fail to see how this has anything to do with Pete’s disappearance.”
