Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (15 page)

Her boss, Steve Gould, asked her to come in to Norfolk for a meeting and for once, Kit felt glad to be pulled away from Chincoteague. When she entered his office, she saw a dark-haired Latino-looking man in a navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt already there. He was wearing cufflinks . . . cufflinks and Italian leather shoes. His hair was stylishly cut and his jaw strong. If she had to pick a poster boy for the FBI, he would be it. He looked spit-shined, slim, fit, and very, very much in control.

“This is Chris Cruz,” Steve Gould said. Steve motioned for her to sit down in a side chair. “Now talk to me.”

She did, outlining the direction of the investigation she'd been pursuing.

“Tell me why you think your dead boy was a trafficking victim,” Steve said, moving papers around on his desk.

Kit cleared her throat and told him about Patricia.

“How'd you discover her?”

She told a deep breath and identified Piper Calhoun.

“A reporter?” Steve glared at her. “You haven't learned not to talk to the press?”

“Sir, she wasn't trying to get information; she was trying to give it to me. I considered her a source.”

He played with a desk pen. She went on and told him about the reporter's suspicions about the presence of trafficking in the Norfolk area.

“Well, Norfolk isn't Chincoteague,” Steve responded. “You got the name of the couple who held her?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“That's pretty elementary, isn't it?”

“I'm working on it, sir.”

“What's the link between the boy and Patricia?” Steve asked. “They're both Latino. So what?”

Kit stiffened. “Why else would the boat full of people be out on the water?”

“Latinos can't fish?”

“Why wasn't the boy reported missing?” Kit retorted.

“Look.” Steve was obviously past frustrated. “You two talk. Chris has done this kind of thing before.” He turned to the Latino agent. “You tell me if she's wasting time.”

“Sir . . .” Kit protested.

“I want you to consult! The last thing this office needs is another dead end.”

“How about lunch?” Chris said as they left Steve's office. Was he smiling to be friendly or grinning at her discomfort? Kit didn't know.

H
E TOOK HER TO A
T
HAI PLACE NOT FAR AWAY, A COOL, DARK RESTAURANT
with a fountain in the middle. The hostess must have known him, because she smiled and bowed and guided them to a private table near the back and gave him the seat with a view of the cash register. “Set us up with a round of appetizers, would you please?” Chris said, “I'm starving.”

So he came here a lot, Kit thought as she opened the menu. “What do you suggest?”

“How spicy do you like your food?”

“I can take anything.”

“All right then.” He leaned over and pointed to her menu. “The
Num Tok
. I get the beef. Sliced sirloin tossed with ground rice, and some other stuff like mint and cilantro. Very good. A little less spicy is the
Kai Yang Esan
. Chicken marinated in coconut milk. And then, there's always Pad Thai or the salads.”

“I think I'll go with the beef,” Kit said, closing her menu as a young waitress arrived.

The waitress smiled, filled their glasses with water, and took their orders. “Appetizers come soon,” she said, smiling and nodding.

“And Thai iced tea, for both of us,” Chris added. He turned his attention to Kit as he carefully unfolded his napkin. “Tell me more about your case.”

Kit filled him in on all the details that Steve Gould had been too impatient to listen to.

The waitress came with the tea and appetizers: chicken satay skewers, spring rolls, wonton, and something Kit didn't recognize.

“What's that?” Kit asked, as the waitress left.

“
Tod Mun Pa
, Thai fish cakes. Very spicy.”

Kit reached for one and took a bite, aware that Chris was watching her. The heat filled her mouth, reddened her face, and spread down her throat. She forced herself to not react, to casually reach for her Thai iced tea like it was an afterthought, and not the desperate grab it actually was.

A half-smile crossed Chris's face. Gallantly, he kept quiet. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. He had long fingers, like a pianist, and no wedding band. But he wore a college ring on his right hand. She couldn't quite read the name. “So tell me more about the trafficking angle.”

She relayed again the Latina's story of being brought to North Carolina, and held as a virtual slave in a home in Norfolk.

“How'd you get her to talk to you?”

She had to credit David. David had spoken to Patricia in her own language and had drawn her out. He's the one who had insisted Kit listen to her story. David. David. Kit's face flushed. This time, it wasn't the spicy Thai food.

She took a big drink of water. The waitress came with their entrees. Kit told Chris about David.

“So, this guy's an off-duty cop?”

“Yes, but he's not involved any more. He just happened to be around at the time.” As soon as the words were out of her
mouth, Kit realized how ludicrous they were. “Just happened” to be with her when they spent all night collecting acorns? “Just happened” to drive with her to Wilmington? “Just happened” to be present when they met Piper and Patricia?

Graciously, Chris gave her a pass. “As Steve said, I worked a trafficking case up on the peninsula.”

“Tell me about it.”

“A guy was bringing women down from New York, running a brothel for the migrant workers,” Chris said.

“And these weren't normal prostitutes?”

“We found out they had been trafficked in from Central America . . . they were in forced prostitution in the city and then brought down here for the weekends. These were very poor women. The youngest was thirteen.”

Thirteen. Kit flinched inwardly at the thought. Here she was feeling angry and betrayed by a husband who'd left her. Forced into sex at thirteen! “How'd he transport them?”

“By van.”

“Not by boat?”

“A boat would be too slow. This guy would bring them down on Thursday and take them back Sunday night. Had quite a business going.”

“How did you prosecute him?”

“We got him on a RICO charge. Took the house, the van, everything.” Chris chewed his steak thoughtfully. “I'll give you copies from the case file so you can see how we did it.”

Back on Chincoteague, Kit went over the files Chris had given her. She studied the surveillance procedures he'd used, the evidence collection techniques, the warrants and the subpoenas. She felt impressed. If she ever brought her case to the point of prosecution, the same level of detail would be required.
Granted, she wasn't working trafficking for prostitution, not that she knew of anyway, but the idea was the same.

Chris was thorough. Neat. Very professional. She could tell that from his notes. The 302s, the Reports of Contact, were complete, question after question, statement after statement developing the facts of the case.

She found him good-looking, too. And unmarried. So why, in the restaurant, did the first mention of David send her tumbling into a whirlpool of emotion and longing?

“No way are you getting involved,” she told herself out loud, “with either of them.”

Chris had loose ends to clean up on some cases in Norfolk, after which he would come up to Chincoteague to further familiarize himself with the case. Steve had given Kit an extension on her two-week deadline, and she promptly made arrangements to keep the cottage at Chincoteague. Connie had gotten her a good deal on it.

Two days later, on a blistering hot afternoon, Chris arrived at her cottage. He looked so out of place in his dark gray suit and white shirt she almost laughed.

“What are you up to?” he asked, nodding to her open laptop on the big harvest table.

Kit wiped her hands on her khaki shorts, feeling slightly silly in her casual attire. She offered Chris a drink. As she poured his iced tea, she updated him. “I called the State Department, and a guy in the Office of Human Trafficking filled me in. They're figuring about 800,000 people worldwide are transported across national borders every year. That doesn't even count the ones trafficked within the country.”

“Mostly as prostitutes.”

“Yes.”

“Most don't start on that road intentionally,” Chris reminded her. “They get tricked into it.”

Kit nodded. The stories she'd read on the State Department Trafficking in Persons Report had tugged at her heart.

“These are desperate people,” Chris continued. “Mostly women and children, although men can be victims, too.”

Kit jumped in. “Criminals kidnapped one guy in Cambodia for his organs. And the kids—some of them were forced to work as domestic servants or in textile mills. Sometimes their parents sell them, even though they know they're being used for sex.”

“Poor people have to make decisions sometimes that the rest of us have the luxury of not making. That thirteen-year-old girl we found?” Chris said, “She'd been orphaned. Lived with an aunt for a while, until her uncle sold her off.”

“What happened to her?”

“We put her in protective custody. She's living with a cop's family now, as a foster child.” Chris took a drink of the iced tea she'd poured for him. “Most of these people,” he gestured toward the computer, “aren't that lucky.”

“It makes me angry,” Kit said. She looked at the laptop screen. “UNICEF says there are 27 million slaves in the world today, and 1.6 million new children are trafficked every year. That's a lot of abuse!”

“But here's the deal: even if Patricia was trafficked, we're a long way from showing a link to your case.”

“We may have two cases, is that what you're saying?”

“Right. And if we do, I can guess which one Steve's going to want us to concentrate on.”

“They both need justice!”

“I agree. But the Bureau has its priorities.”

Kit blew out a breath. She knew he was right. “I was naive to think trafficking didn't happen in America.”

Chris laughed. “Yes, you were.”

“I read about this case in California where Egyptian diplomats brought with them their house maid, a young girl sold by her poor parents to help feed the rest of their family. And I thought, why didn't anyone notice? Why didn't anyone in that suburban neighborhood realize something was wrong? Call the cops?”

“People don't want to get involved. Or they think it only happens somewhere else. We've found Asian women in suburban ‘massage' parlors who expected legitimate jobs in the United States, but were forced into prostitution.”

“It's crazy! Why didn't they go for help?”

“They usually don't speak the language, the trafficker has their papers, they're scared, isolated . . . to them, going to the authorities means going to jail.” Chris bit his lip thoughtfully. “The trafficker holds all the cards.”