Isabel's Run (24 page)

“You want to tell me about it?”

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

“THAT SUCKS,” KENNY said. “You mean they won’t do anything?” We were seated around the conference room table. It was 1:15 p.m. I’d just recounted our meeting with Nancy and the FBI.

“The FBI is made up of a bunch of weenies,” I said. “Mostly, anyway. There are some good people there, but they’re all covered up in mountains of political bullshit so high they can’t even come up for air. They won’t move on the NSSB for probably eighteen damn months while they ‘assemble their case.’ Good news—once they’re done, it’ll be ironclad. Bad guys will go to prison for a long time. Bad news—a half-dozen girls will slip through the net between now and then.”

“Isabel being the first,” Toni said.

“Exactly. And worse, dozens more girls will slip through because they’re on either side of the FBI investigation—they don’t exactly fit the type of crime the FBI’s going after, so the FBI ignores them altogether. Meanwhile, the Feds would rather let Isabel get sold to a Vegas pimp so they can use that little transaction as evidence against the NSSB at some point down the road than step in and prevent the crime from happening in the first place. They’d never admit it, but Isabel’s a pawn to them.”

“That’s pretty tunnel-visioned,” Doc said.

I nodded. “Damn straight.”

Richard shifted in his chair. “Does Nancy Stewart feel the same way? Is she somehow compelled to defer to the FBI because of SPD’s participation in the task force?”

“I get the impression that she needs to go along with them in matters directly related to the Innocence Lost task force—in this case, trafficking.”

“That was my impression, too,” Toni said. “I don’t think she has a choice. That’s probably why she talked to them about it in the first place. But at the same time, I left the meeting thinking that she’s definitely in charge when it comes to any other criminal activity—particularly something that’s about to lead to the harm of a minor. She as much as said she wouldn’t stand by and allow Isabel to get hurt—even if it messed up the case the FBI wanted to start on NSSB.”

“Good for her,” Richard said. “In my experience, when the FBI would roll into the middle of a case, they’d try to suck all the air out of the room. In fact, they’d act like they owned the place. Depending to some extent on whom you’re working with, they don’t like to be dealt with as equals—you have to stand up to them. But, then again, they are the eight-hundred-pound gorilla. There’s only so much you can do.”

“That’s right,” I said. “And that’s why Nancy’s not going to pursue an investigation centered around sex trafficking. Period. She can’t. Not without the Feds.”

“So we have to come at the problem from a different angle, then,” Richard said.

“Exactly,” I said. “Look at the title of Nancy’s department. It says ‘Vice and High Risk Victims unit. If Isabel isn’t a potential high-risk victim, I don’t know who is.”

Richard nodded. “It’s for people like Isabel that SPD reorganized that whole department,” Richard said.

“So do you have a plan?” Doc said. Doc’s a pretty direct guy. He grasps concepts very quickly and, after that, doesn’t require much in the way of explanation.

I smiled. “Do I have a plan,” I said. “Of course I have a plan. The way I see it, we’re here to rescue Isabel. We don’t care about legal cases. The issue is, rescuing Isabel can either happen the direct way—we go in and snatch her—or the indirect way: we give the police the evidence they need so that they’ll go in and bust the bad guys and, in the process, rescue Isabel. And if it’s going to happen the indirect way, then we
do
need to worry about legal cases because the police won’t come out and play any other way. Does this make sense?”

Everyone nodded.

“Good. I think there’s a reasonable chance—I don’t know the exact odds—that Isabel hasn’t been shipped to Las Vegas or wherever just yet. I say that because if they beat her up last week, they might want her to recover a little before they try to sell her.”

“In order to get top dollar?” Kenny asked.

I nodded. “It’s despicable, but it’s logical. And, if that’s the case, that means she’s still around—very possibly at one of the three known NSSB houses. I propose we mount a tactical operation in which I go into each house on a clandestine basis.” This got everyone’s attention. I continued. “Best case—I find Isabel right then and there and bring her out with me. Otherwise, I look for evidence that she was there. If I can’t find either of those, then I look for any other incriminating evidence I can find. I take a few pictures, and I leave.”

“Obviously, evidence obtained like that is most likely of no value in court,” Richard said.

“Assuming I don’t find her outright, you’re probably right. With luck, I will find her.”

“For what we’re doing,” Toni said, “it doesn’t matter if the evidence is legally admissible or not. We’re not trying to convict anyone. And besides, even if the evidence isn’t legally useful, it still gives us some good intel. And that helps us create our next step. If we have solid information as to what we’re looking at, it will be that much easier to be able to develop a plan to obtain evidence that is useful in court—evidence that will motivate the police to get involved.”

“Evidence aside, it might be prudent to consider the fact that breaking and entering is illegal in this state,” Richard said. “Never mind the fact that the idea of breaking into a known gang house poses its own problems, right from the start. Do you think there might be an element of danger involved?” I liked Richard’s sarcasm.

“Your second point addresses your first,” I said.

He tilted his head. “Explain.”

“I don’t think it’s very likely that I’d get caught. But even if I did, I don’t think the gang is likely to call the cops. I think they’d be more inclined to dispense a little cowboy justice, right?”

He nodded. “That’s supposed to be a comfort?” he asked. “Your first point bolsters my second. The danger is doubly high.”

I smiled. “Which is exactly why I’m not asking for volunteers on this mission. I’m doing it myself.”

“I volunteer,” Doc said, raising his hand.

“Me, too,” Kenny said.

“Me, three,” Toni said.

“You guys are all cowboys. I said I’m
not
asking for volunteers. I’m going in myself—by myself. We’ll set up a good, tight perimeter operation and minimize the danger. I’ll get in, see if Isabel’s there or if there’s any trace of her, snap a couple of photos, then get out. Anything goes wrong, you guys come get me. Maybe we’ll get lucky, who knows. At least we won’t be sitting around twiddling our thumbs, waiting for something to happen.”

* * * *

At 3:45 p.m., I decided to enter the big house. I was sitting with Kenny in the parking lot of the Bryant Neighborhood Playground—the same place we’d parked the Winnebago last Saturday. We were in our white van with
Rainier Valley Water Damage Repair
vinyl stickers slapped on the side. Kenny and I had been watching the house on Fortieth Avenue for an hour. We’d seen no signs to indicate it was occupied. The white BMW was gone, as was the red Honda. No one had entered or left the home since we’d been there. We could see no lights on inside.

“There’s no cell phone signals that look to be coming from that direction—at least nothing close,” Kenny said, staring closely at an instrument he used to direction-find cell phone signals. “I’d say you’re good to go.”

“Toni? Anything?” I spoke into my hands-free headset. Toni was parked about two blocks south on Fortieth. Her job was to look for the white BMW or the red Honda in the event that they returned home. If she saw them, she was to sing out on the radio.

“Clear,” she said.

“Doc?” Doc was parked on Sixty-Fifth, where he had a clear view of cars approaching Fortieth from the west.

“Clear,” he said.

“Okay, boys and girls,” I said, hopping out of the van. “I’m going in.” I slid the van door closed. “Kenny—you’re the last line of defense. If Doc or Toni misses anybody, you’re the only one left to call me up and tell me someone’s coming. Don’t you fall asleep or let your mind go wandering off. You got it?”

“Ready, boss,” he said. The words sounded faint and quiet in my headset. I walked across the edge of the park and across Fortieth. The house looked empty.

I continued up the pathway to the front door and stepped up on the porch. I listened hard, but could hear nothing coming from inside. I stepped up and knocked on the door. If anyone answered, I’d pretend I was with Rainier Valley Water Damage Repair and was looking for a nonexistent address. I wore a uniform shirt that had
Ryan
printed on it.

I waited, but no one answered. “Nobody’s home,” I said. “I’m going around.”

I had reached the side of the house when my radio crackled. “Danny?” Toni said.

I froze. “Yeah.” The BMW was returning?

“Make sure your cell phone ringer is off.”

“Jesus Christ, Toni—you scared the shit out of me,” I whispered.

“Sorry.”

“My cell phone ringer is off. Thank you.” I walked down the side of the house and reached a gate about midway. I looked over the back and checked for dogs. A yappy dog, or worse—a big mean one—would have ended this operation before it even started.

Thankfully, there were no dogs. I opened the gate and went inside. The home was well screened from its neighbor by a hedge of red-tipped Photinias that must have been fifteen feet high. There were probably whole colonies of animals that lived inside the hedge that never saw the full light of day their whole lives. It was thick enough to be completely opaque.

There were three windows on the side of the house on the other side of the gate. I checked each of them carefully as I passed. We were pretty certain the house was not alarmed. When we’d watched the house over the weekend, they certainly didn’t act like it was alarmed when they left. Usually, when someone sets an alarm before they leave, they hustle on out in order to beat the arming countdown. It’s a pretty distinctive set of motions. In the case of this house, Martin and the others would leave the door open, come and go, forget something and go back, all the while with the door open and no apparent concern for an alarm countdown. As we expected, there were no alarm company signs, no window foil, no magnetic contact switches, no apparent embedded magnets. No guarantee, but a good sign. All the windows were locked, though.

I reached the rear of the house and checked out the backyard—no dogs, no people. I made the turn and stepped up onto a deck. I continued checking windows. The home looked secure until I reached a window that definitely was not original. Instead of the casement-type windows I’d seen on the other openings—the kind where you spin a little crank to open and close it—this window was a cheap aluminum-framed slider. Once locked, casements are almost impossible to jimmy open without breaking the glass. Aluminum sliders are usually a piece of cake, though. I simply pushed hard on the window frame, causing it to bow until the locking lever cleared the frame. Then, I slid the window open, just like that. Fortunately, it slid quietly.

I pushed the curtain aside and leaned inside. The window opened into a utility room with a washer and dryer. Another door on the opposite side of the room led into the house. I checked my landing area, then I sat on the window ledge and simply spun on inside.

I walked across the room and listened for a second before opening the door into the house. I stepped inside and found myself in the kitchen. I didn’t move—just listened for a full minute. Satisfied for the moment, I stepped forward and scanned the area. I saw no signs of a security system, no cameras, no sensors, nothing. I whispered, “inside” into my microphone.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“Clear.” That’s what I wanted to hear.

I began my search. I didn’t want to be in the home longer than ten minutes, tops. I moved quickly, my first priority to locate Isabel if she was there.

She wasn’t. The house wasn’t very big. It didn’t take long—maybe five minutes—to do a quick perusal of the entire home, including the small basement, and see that no one was there. I went through a second time, a little slower. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the house was much neater than I’d imagined. There were two bedrooms—a master and what appeared to be a guest bedroom. The master had a stack of porn DVDs on a nightstand, but all in factory cases—nothing homemade. The guest bedroom didn’t look like anyone was staying there—the closets and the drawers were empty. Back in the living room, I noticed marijuana paraphernalia and a mirror with what appeared to be cocaine residue, but I don’t guess that was very remarkable. There was a small desk with a laptop, but no notebooks or ledgers. I took photos of all of this on my cell phone as I went.

“Ten minutes, boss,” Kenny’s voice came over the headset.

“Roger. Just finishing up. There’s nothing here.”

I hadn’t touched anything, so there was nothing to replace or turn off.

I retraced my steps and, one minute later, the house was locked back up, and I was standing by the gate. “I’m out,” I said. “Am I clear to cross the street?”

“Go,” Kenny said.

* * * *

“Nothing,” I said. It was four o’clock, and we were back in the conference room at the office. Kenny had downloaded the photos from my cell phone, and we were all looking at them on the large monitor.