by Debra Dunbar
“I need to go.” I stood and leaned over to kiss Bea on the cheek.
“Get something to eat before you leave,” she told me. “And I got the phone working again. Call me if you’re not coming home tonight.”
That was one of the benefits of good old-fashioned landline phones that didn’t need electricity to work. They were sturdy. Evidently it took more than ripping the cord from the wall and throwing them across the room to break them.
I left Sadie to Bea’s care, changed my clothes and cleaned up. Then I headed down the hallway to do as my foster mother said and grab a bite to eat, noticing my surroundings for the first time.
The house looked…great. I may have had my doubts about Javier, but the kid could hang a door. And replace windows. Everything was unpainted. A few of the windows were smaller than the original ones, so Javier had built in the frames with layers of two-by-fours. No trim had been put on, but everything was sturdy, safe, and weatherproof. He’d even repaired the broken coffee table with a combination of wood glue, putty, and screws.
It would do. And I was grateful—grateful enough that I was glad to see that Bea must have given the boy one of the industrial-sized cans of chili and a packet of toilet paper to take home to his family.
When I walked into the kitchen I was even more shocked. Not only had Javier replaced the shot-up cabinets with a collection of mismatched doors and drawers, the other neighbors had obviously been by as well. The food… I was pretty sure that the chicken, noodle, and cheese casserole had come from the Rickards down the block since Shelly was famous for her casseroles.
Besides that, there was a plate of empanadas, a hot pie that smelled of steak and onions, three loaves of banana nut bread wrapped in cellophane, and a tin of snickerdoodles.
All this time I’d been ignoring our neighbors, feeling as if we could rely only on ourselves, but when tragedy happened, they’d come through. Javier had been sent over to make repairs. A neighborhood watch had been formed. Everyone up and down the street had come over with food.
They cared. Or maybe they just figured there was safety in numbers, and if they helped us, we’d help them when they needed it. Probably the latter.
Yep, that was my suspicious, paranoid nature kicking in once more.
I opened the fridge and saw a gallon of whole milk. Beside it was a bar of chocolate with a little bow on it and a hand-written note in a childish hand that said “get well soon, Sadie.” For the second time, I felt tears welling up in my eyes.
I didn’t really know these people, and I hadn’t wanted to. I’d called this house home since I was thirteen, and I’d recognize most of the neighbors if they walked past me on the street, but that was it. Whether it was curiosity, self-interest, or kindness that had brought them to deliver gifts of food to our house, I was grateful.
The electricity was on so I warmed up a bowl of the chicken noodle casserole and a couple of empanadas in the microwave, eyeing the clock and estimating my travel time to Pasadena.
A vibration in my pocket made me jump and about gave me a heart attack.
The phone. It was amazing how I’d gotten used to not having one. I pulled it out of my pocket and checked it hoping it was Piers telling me he’d set up a meeting with Desiree.
The text wasn’t from Piers but someone named Amanda who wanted to know if I’d be home late since she wanted to make reservations at Guido’s for dinner.
Guido’s. Damn. I hadn’t eaten out in years, and a mid-level place like Guido’s sounded like a royal banquet to me. I texted Amanda back, telling her I’d be home on time, feeling a twinge of envy for the phone’s owner.
It might have been a long time since I’d eaten out, but that chicken casserole and the empanadas were better than I’d had in a long time. I rinsed and wiped my bowl, checked once more on Sadie and Bea, then headed out.
Chapter 14
Detective Juke didn’t look anything at all like a Sarah. She didn’t look much like a Juke either. She was tall and lean with olive skin. Dark freckles scattered across a round face and broad nose. Her hair drew the eye and held it, a bright red teased out into an afro. She wore black leather pants, a white silk shirt with a low V of a neckline, and a black leather vest. A matching shoulder holster held a pistol whose make and model I couldn’t quite determine. Her belt held a coiled bull whip on one side and a set of handcuffs on the other. I blinked wondering if she was perhaps the secret love child of Zorro and Little Orphan Annie.
“Alvaro.” She stood and shook my hand, which wasn’t something I was used to. Then as I sat, she waved the waitress over and ordered us both coffee and some blueberry scones.
I wasn’t used to that either.
Before I could orient myself to the strange turn of events, this woman who looked nothing like a cop suddenly became one.
“Let’s get started on your missing person’s report.” She pulled a sheet of paper out of nowhere, like a magician and clicked a pen. “Name, address, and phone number.”
She knew my name, but I gave it to her anyway. My address? I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. I’d used my real address on my licensing paperwork, and that’s how the Fixers had gotten to my family. I hesitated, trying to think of a fake one to give her, and before I realized it I’d given her the address to Suerte.
Ha. I envisioned the cops showing up at the bar to arrest me and being chopped to mince by Bishop, his staff, and the patrons. They’d probably feed the body parts to Bob.
The detective took down the information, including a description of Nevarra. I was careful to skirt over what exactly had caused the Fixers to perform a home invasion and kidnapping, even though she already knew about my issues with the tax collectors.
When I was done, Juke had me sign the form, then slid it somewhere under the table.
“It’s been a crazy few days. Three members of the Disciples got whacked at the old auto parts store over on Sutter Avenue.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “A brunette woman was seen running from the area right after a gunshot killed one of their lieutenants—Crow, was his name. Someone blew his brains out and left him with his dick hanging by a tendon.”
“That sounds terrible.” I tried to compose my expression into one of shock and horror, like a normal person at hearing of such a thing. I’m pretty sure I failed.
“Word on the street among the Disciples is the killer was a Russian woman who’s the girlfriend of a lower level member and whom two guards had decided to rape. The guards are dead, so that does seem to point to this Russian woman. Although how she managed to electrocute one of them, and why she stuck around to blow Crow’s brains out and emasculate him while he was taking a piss seems a little perplexing.” Juke shrugged. “Personally, I don’t find it perplexing. A woman raped by members of her boyfriend’s gang might be angry enough to take out the lieutenant who had sanctioned the rape.”
I cringed a little, hoping the Russian woman didn’t end up dead in an alley because of what I’d done. If she was smart, she’d have taken that money, ditched the low-level Disciple boyfriend, and headed out of the city.
“How the heck do you all know any of this?” I asked. “I can’t imagine the Disciples calling the police to report a homicide, or in this case three homicides.”
At that time our coffee and pastries arrived. Juke smiled thanks up at the waitress and took a sip, waiting for the other woman to leave before she continued.
“Employees at a store across the street called it in. Between you and me, no one gives a rat’s ass about three dead Disciples. Or about two other Disciples and two Fixers that got iced during a supposed robbery at a warehouse last night. But it’s important to stay aware of these things, just in case they connect to something we do give a rat’s ass about.”
I liked this woman. She was a cop, and I was predisposed to hate cops, but Juke seemed a really unusual cop. I guess in order to remain a member of the police force in New Hell, you kinda had to be weird.
“I don’t know anything about the
se shocking crimes,” I lied, “but I have come into a bit of information. I’ve learned that a Disciple named Fender most likely handed my sister over to someone named Desiree, who supposedly handles their prostitution and human trafficking businesses.”
Juke snorted, then picked up a blueberry scone. “I could have told you that without you needing to slaughter three gang members. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was nowhere near that auto parts store today,” I continued to lie.
She ignored me. “If you’d have told me two years ago that I’d be turning a blind eye to vigilantism, hell, even encouraging it, I would have laughed until I passed out. This is one crazy fucking world we live in now. Do we follow the constitution even though we’re no longer part of the U.S.? Do we even bother to Mirandize suspects anymore? How do we prioritize cases when no one gives a shit and our budget has dropped to pretty close to zero because there’s no government, no property taxes, no nothing.”
“We’ve got government,” I pointed out. “I voted last year.”
I hadn’t voted last year. Why bother? I was pretty sure most of New Hell felt the same. And I wasn’t about to discuss tax revenue. Nope, that was definitely a topic I wanted to avoid at all costs.
“Desiree.” Juke finished chewing the last of her scone and wiped her hands on a little white napkin square. “First thing you’ve got to understand is none of us is really sure who Desiree is. We’ve never seen her. We’ve never had a good lead on her. All we know is that whoever the hell Desiree is, she’s been heading up this operation for almost a decade.”
A decade. If Desiree really was a demon, then she’d been here long before most of us even knew demons existed.
“Look.” Juke slid a messenger bag out from under her chair and put it on the table. It was black leather. Of course. “Let me show you how these auctions are done, and then you’ll realize that trying to stop these fuckers is like cutting the heads off a hydra. I’m not saying we shouldn’t keep at it, but that it’s something we’ll probably be fighting forever.”
She pulled out a folder and slid it over to me. The first few pictures were screen shots of what looked like the home page of an exclusive dating site. “This is from a bust eight years ago we did in conjunction with an FBI task force. It took the federal UC almost two years to infiltrate the group and get onto the site as a buyer.”
I had no idea how long undercover operations lasted or how they worked, but two years? These trafficking groups were very careful who they did business with. They likely had a group of known buyers and were reluctant to allow new ones in even if they were throwing a whole lot of money around.
I didn’t have two years to build their trust, or the money to support a cover. I’d need to instead rely on brute force and the fact that I was crazy and motivated enough to lose my life bringing Nevarra back.
I looked at the pictures of the website. “So your UC made contact and worked his way in all through the internet? Or did he have to meet people in person at some time or another?”
“He had to socialize with the right people so they could vouch for him, but this entire operation was done over the internet. He met one of the sellers in person. That’s how we knew the Disciples were involved. One of our Vice guys made him. It was a lucky break, because the gang keeps their human trafficking as a stand-alone business so a drug raid wouldn’t normally have exposed it.”
“But that was eight years ago,” I mused.
She nodded. “They kept that side of their business separate due to logistics back then, but I’m not sure if they bother anymore. We’ve got no feds to rely on now, and we’ve got the budget of a neighborhood popsicle stand.”
That meant crime was nice and comfortable out in the open, and the cops needed to pick their battles. I thought about the hit on the jogger, and all the cases of bullets in the trunk of that car. With everything that had happened in the last two years, cops with an inclination to be dirty felt free to do whatever they wanted.
I turned to another photo and saw a sheet of mug shots. None of them looked familiar, although eight years later they could have been dead, still in jail, or operating out of the city.
“Someone tipped the Disciples off,” Juke explained. “We had to move early and didn’t get their top tier. We snagged enough people and evidence to make them suspend their human trafficking operations for a while. They focused mainly on the other sides of their business until two years ago.”
When the demons came and all the criminal elements flexed their muscle and felt confident bringing their doings out into the sunlight.
“These guys,” she tapped the sheet with the mug shots, “were guarding a group of kids. We caught them and rescued the kids. We also found a photo studio with equipment to do stills and video that they could post onto the ’net. They had a pay-per-view site and would use the less ‘pristine’ kids for that. Runaways and teen prostitutes. Buyers could still place a bid on them if they liked what they saw, but the real money was selling the ones that looked like they came from nice wholesome families and had never been touched. Those were just posed in their photos and carefully guarded until they were sold. We got eight kids out of there with this bust.”
She reached over and turned the page to three photos of missing child alerts. Just three? Did no one care about the other five?
“Four arrests at the scene. We hammered them hard and managed to get them to turn on two more, plus we got the names of three buyers. Two of the buyers slipped through the cracks. There just wasn’t enough evidence, and they had expensive lawyers. The six Disciples were convicted. We offered deals left and right, but no one would give up the top dogs. They were terrified. The only thing we got out of them was that the operation was run by someone named Desiree.”
“No one even gave a description of her?” I asked.
Juke shook her head. “None of the guys we arrested had ever seen her in person. All they knew was that she went by Desiree. They didn’t even know her last name. I don’t know if she’s black or white. I don’t really even know if she’s a she. That’s it. Two-year-long operation. Six guys in jail. Eight kids returned to their parents, although I’m pretty sure a few of them were back out on the street within a week.”
I turned the page and saw a photo array of the kids. Six girls and two boys, all looking to be under the age of fifteen. Different races. And different backgrounds, from the wary, hard expression on a few of their faces. I hesitated, my eyes were drawn to a light-skinned black girl. She was one of the older ones—about fourteen I was guessing. There was something familiar about her. Something about the wide set of her eyes and the firm, almost masculine, lines of her square chin. I looked closer. Her dark curls were tucked behind an ear decorated with three earrings—a turquoise turtle, a coral fish, and a silver snake that edged up toward the cartilage.
I recognized the jewelry, and suddenly recognized the face. Eight years had thinned out her cheeks and sharpened the lines of her jaw and chin, but the eyes were the same.
I was looking at a childhood photo of Telaney Miller.
I knew her. Fuck, I’d just seen her yesterday at the Gray Dog and Southside dustup. She was a fellow Vulture, a scavenger I respected and admired and she’d been a victim of human trafficking. I hadn’t even known. Although that would hardly be the sort of thing you’d confess to business acquaintances.
Telaney Miller. I reached out to touch the photo, wondering what her life would have been like if eight years ago the feds and local police hadn’t raided a human trafficking operation. Knowing Telaney, she would have beaten her buyer to death with a sex toy and been free within a week of her purchase, but maybe that was me just being optimistic. Telaney was tough as nails now, but this girl in the photo looked lost. Scared. My stomach churned, envisioning her used-up body buried in a shallow grave or tossed into a lake. Or if she’d been lucky, maybe she would have been resold for prostitution after she’d gotten too ol
d for her pedophile buyer.
I had to find Nevarra. Gritting my teeth, I closed the folder and slid it back toward the detective.
“Think they’d be stupid enough to use the same place?” A girl could always hope.
“I doubt it. They know we’re understaffed and that there’s no FBI task force backing us up, but they learned from what went down eight years ago.” Juke pulled another set of photos out of the messenger bag and handed them to me. “I know a few people with mad tech skills and managed to squeak in to see their website, although I got booted in less than five minutes—not long enough to trace the IP through all the server bounces.”
My hands shook as I opened the folder, expecting to see Nevarra’s face staring up at me. Thankfully the first screenshot was a homepage with a countdown to an auction.
“They set the auction end date when they have one kid, then continue to add other kids to it as they acquire more, up until the last day,” Juke said.
I took a breath, let it out, and flipped the page. Four children stared back at me—a boy and three girls. A cherub faced, blond haired boy who looked like he should be attending kindergarten, a girl with blue-black hair and creamy skin who looked to be just on the edge of womanhood, a teen with a thick head of golden-brown hair and bright blue eyes, and a girl who looked to be about Sadie’s age and of mixed Asian heritage.
No Nevarra. I was equally relieved and terrified. I hadn’t wanted to see her picture in this folder, but if she wasn’t part of this auction, then where was she? Had they killed her? Sold her off without any sort of bidding? Kept her for themselves?
Swallowing hard, I pushed the folder back to the detective. “She’s not there. Nevarra. My sister. She’s not one of those four kids.”
“I got that screenshot this afternoon,” Juke replied softly. “She wasn’t up for sale as of then. I was lucky to get that far in before I got booted off the server. It asks for a security key at random intervals. I’m afraid if we try too much, they’ll change the whole thing.” She put the folders back in the messenger bag. “If you click on the pictures, there’s a profile of each child. I only caught a glimpse of that level, but I know there’s a spot to place a bid.”
