Sinclair Justice (6 page)

Fifteen minutes later, he knew the what, where, when, and how of the case, but as to why . . . ?

She bit into her sandwich, took a few appreciative chews, swallowed, and said, “Well, in Jennifer’s case, she was hanging out with the wrong crowd. Some of them were doing drugs, even heroin, brought in from Mexico. It’s only a theory, but I think one of the cartel’s suppliers saw her at a party or something and staked her out. At least she disappeared two days later . . .”

Sitting across from her at the large granite-topped island in the gourmet kitchen that was his favorite room in the house, Ross nodded and wiped his mouth. “Most of the drug cartels have also started human trafficking. Oftentimes they use the same transportation pipeline or tunnels under the border to move victims out of the US.”

She leaned forward eagerly, her sandwich dropping to her plate, forgotten for the moment. “But if you know that, why can’t you track them?”

“As soon as we find one tunnel, they dig another. Remember, we’re fighting not just a lone kidnapper but an organization with increasingly international ties and almost unlimited funding. We think there may even be some connections between one of the most vicious gangs known here in the US as the Los Lobos cartel and some of the Chechnya extremists.”

Frowning, she nibbled at the edge of a potato chip. “That’s the cartel Curt mentioned in his story. He admitted he didn’t have proof yet, but he said there were indications their web of allies stretches nationwide.”

He smiled bitterly. “Yes, well, his little theories make it that much harder for us to collect concrete evidence, especially when he broadcasts the names of some of our contacts.”

She was nodding, and he realized she must have done her research. He shoved his half-eaten sandwich away. “This dragon pipe . . . if I get you in to view the evidence we’re still collating from that warehouse, do you think you could ID more of their belongings?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Jennifer and Yancy and I went shopping together. A lot.”

Of course they did. Everything about this woman said she had money to burn. But he didn’t let her see his thoughts as he rose and dumped the rest of his food into the trash. When she finished, he took her plate, ignoring her protest that she’d do it herself, and scraped the remnants of her bread crust and chips into the trash, too.

He’d been thinking furiously, and he turned to her with a new suggestion but stopped with it half formed on his lips when he saw her sitting there patiently, hands clasped together on top of the granite. His reluctant respect for her grew. She knew when to push and when not to. He also noted she’d barely touched the martini. While he still felt a bit used, he couldn’t really blame her for being manipulative in hopes of getting information about her sister and niece. And he knew if he turned her over to the system and she tried to go through appropriate channels, she’d get stonewalled. He had visions of her breaking into the evidence warehouse. While he was still getting to know her, it was patently obvious the two of them shared one trait: sheer bullheadedness.

“Do either your sister or your niece have any distinctive habits or needs that might set them apart and give us a paper trail? An ailment, a special food they have to eat, or a custom shoe, that kind of thing.”

She frowned, concentrating, then she said, “Yancy has a mild case of hemophilia A. She usually controls it with oral meds, but if she goes off them for long she has to have intravenous shots. She’s allergic to the other protocols.”

“You know the name of this drug?”

She stared into space. “I’ve seen her take it often enough . . . Effluenatasis. It hasn’t been available long and it’s made in the US. It’s got to be hard to get in Mexico.”

“That at least gives us somewhere to start.” He scribbled down the name of the drug.

She worried her shawl fringe again. “Do you . . . think they’d quit treating her and just let her bleed out? If she’s been off her meds most of this time . . .”

He wanted to tell her no, her sister was valuable, and they’d try to keep her healthy, but he couldn’t lie to her. All the cartels were notorious for cutting their liabilities ruthlessly, and Yancy was much older than their usual targets. He stayed silent.

Her mouth trembled, but she managed, “Thanks for not lying to me. I guess there’s really no way you can give me an answer to that.”

He almost reached out to take her hand but stuck his hand in his pocket instead. It was dangerous to touch this woman, even in comfort. He cleared his throat. “Her picture is on all the missing persons sites?”

She nodded. “And the police in Baltimore distributed it, but the only hit we had didn’t lead anywhere except . . . maybe here.”

“What is your sister’s last name?”

“Russell. Yancy and Jennifer Russell.”

The names didn’t ring any bells, but Ross seldom saw the case files themselves because he was managing the investigation. He rarely got involved in fieldwork. “You have pictures of them?”

She pulled her cell phone from her dress pocket and flipped it open. The picture of two gorgeous blondes who looked more like sisters than mother and daughter had a background of the Bellagio hotel in Vegas. Ross recognized it instantly. “So your sister likes to gamble?”

She nodded.

Ross handed the phone back. “Thanks. Well, I don’t know how much good it will do, but it always helps to associate a name with a face. I’ll do what I can to get you into the evidence room, but I’ll have to clear it with our attorneys.” Privately, as she wiped the granite while he washed the few dishes they’d generated, Ross suspected her sister and niece would never be seen again. Women that beautiful were just too valuable. . . . And Yancy resembled her younger sister, at least in the perfect bone structure and sparkling intelligence in her eyes, and no doubt, in determination. One sister had gotten herself taken by conducting her own investigation, and it was his duty to see that Emm didn’t suffer the same fate.

For about the sixth time since he’d met her, Ross wished this woman had never come to Amarillo. It was hard enough remaining impartial about human trafficking so he could dispassionately conduct his job, but now he would be haunted by those two gorgeous blondes, not just how they’d looked on their fun vacation spree but how they probably looked now . . . if they were even still alive.

 

The next day, Emm rose late after a night of tossing and turning. Because she’d barely touched the second martini, she’d been fine to drive last night and had insisted on returning to her hotel even when Sinclair halfheartedly offered her a guest room. She sensed he didn’t want her embroiled in his private life, and given the circumstances, she could hardly blame him. But to herself, at least, she could admit she was strongly attracted to the iron-haired and iron-willed Ranger captain of Company C. “Horrid timing, you idiot,” she said under her breath as she dressed. “He’s only the key to successfully resolving my first case and to finding my sister and niece. Hands off.”

With that resolve in mind, Emm quit looking at her cell phone, hoping to see it ring with his name, called the structural engineer she knew from Fort Worth, and explained the issue, plus that this was something of a rush as she was staying in Amarillo until the results came in. Then, after a quick light lunch, because she still hadn’t gotten the approval from Sinclair to go to the evidence warehouse, she decided to visit the downtown Amarillo library.

The Web was fabulous for research, but only to a point. Older research materials, such as newspaper articles from several years back or old case files from prior kidnapping cases, were seldom online. She’d already performed some cursory research before she’d come here and had stumbled across mention of a cold kidnapping case from three years earlier that had been reopened after a body had been found in a shallow grave in the scrub outside Lubbock. The dental records had matched a missing girl from Baltimore, and the little she’d read about the case had eerie similarities to Yancy’s circumstances. Black truck, two men, girl missing from a downtown Baltimore bar. The case had been referred to the Baltimore police and then handed back to the Texas Highway patrol, who had jurisdiction over the area of the grave site.

But Emm knew local papers often carried stories the big dailies wouldn’t. If she searched the database the library subscribed to, she was hoping the Amarillo paper had been digitized at least three years back and would carry more detailed information. After she registered and was given a swipeable ID card, she sat down before a vacant bank of computers. She entered the girl’s name and was surprised when five hits came up. All but one of them were highlighted in blue, which meant she could click on the full article. She clicked on the oldest article first, her pad beside her so she could make notes. She could print the articles and read them later, but Emm loved libraries and was grieved they were struggling. Just like seeing a movie in person, researching next to other seekers of knowledge held its own charm.

Two hours later, she’d filled three pages with various tidbits of information, and as she read what she’d compiled, she felt a frisson run up her spine. She sensed she’d stumbled onto the victim profile of the human trafficking conduit that had swept away Yancy and Jennifer. The girl was the same age as Jennifer, the same wild, party girl type, and from the picture in the article, she even looked like Jennifer. Now she had the name of the bar where the girl had been taken, Emm was pretty sure it was even in the same seedy Baltimore area as the bar Yancy had been searching when she was grabbed.

Why had none of the authorities picked up on this link? Or had they, and dismissed it as circumstantial? She knew the Baltimore cops she’d worked with had never mentioned this missing girl. Surely they’d made the connection? Emm debated calling them and demanding they follow up on their end now that the missing persons case had become a murder, given the discovery of the body. But she knew the Baltimore cops would have sent all their findings to the Texas Department of Public Safety, especially after the case was reopened as a murder investigation. Sinclair would probably have information in his files. She closed out the menus she had open and logged off, debating whether she should raise the issue with him or contact the TxDPS office in Lubbock, which now had jurisdiction.

She was so deep in thought that as she slipped down off the stool, her elbow caught the bag of the woman sitting next to her and knocked it to the ground. The contents spilled out. “I’m so sorry,” Emm began, but she froze in reaching out to help pick everything up when she saw a small revolver gleaming on the linoleum.

A large, capable hand nonchalantly put the gun back. Still kneeling, Emm looked into the sharpest gray eyes she’d ever seen. The woman waved a dismissive hand as she stood to her full, imposing height. “No problem; I should have shoved it to the other side.” She offered a hand. “Hermione Abigail Doyle, just arrived in Amarillo a few days ago.”

“Mercy Magdalena Rothschild. I just got here, too.” Emm was much shorter than this Amazon, and she tried not to feel intimidated as she shook the woman’s hand, which swallowed her own.

“And on a similar mission, I perceive.”

Emm was puzzled. “Uh . . .”

“Investigating human and drug trafficking. I believe we may be interested in the same case, for different reasons. You’re from Baltimore?”

Now Emm was floored. “How could you possibly know that?”

The woman nodded at the key fob attached to Emm’s purse. “There’s only one BMW in the parking lot and it has a Baltimore dealership above the Maryland plate number.” That laserlike gray gaze zeroed in on the articles showing beneath Emm’s notes. “ ‘Human Trafficking Texas Task Force Offers Rewards,’” she read off the title.

Impressed in a way she seldom was upon first meeting someone, Emm shoved her notes and articles back into her briefcase. “Great deductions.” She looked the tall woman up and down, noting the conservative gray suit and plain white cotton blouse that boasted no adornment. Even the buttons were hidden. “Your parents were from England, because there’s a trace of it in your voice. And you have to hide how smart and capable you are because you’re a woman in a man’s field.”

Those gray eyes flickered in surprise, and it was obvious few people ever used Ms. Doyle’s own deductive reasoning against her.

Emm smiled warmly. “In that way we’re kindred spirits; men dominate my field, also.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card, which she offered.

After reading the card, Abigail smiled and reciprocated with her own card. Emm read, “Dr. Hermione Abigail Doyle, Consultant.” Below that, in smaller print, was the title, “Forensics, Texas Rangers.” The address was in Austin.

Emm carefully stuck the card in the zipper pocket of her purse. “It might be helpful if we compared notes. Would you be available for lunch?”

Ms. Doyle hesitated. Somehow Emm knew this imposing woman was not married, not only because she didn’t wear a ring but because she probably intimidated the heck out of most men.

“I can’t share much with you.”

“I know. But I can share with you. I have a feeling you catch things other investigators might miss. Most importantly, we both very badly want to see this human trafficking ring broken into bits, do we not?”

Ms. Doyle didn’t bother to deny either assertion. She motioned a hand before her. “Lead on, Ms. Rothschild.”

Emm led the way to the parking lot.

I
t was almost five when Ross finally took time to eat his take out sub sandwich, now stale, but he hardly noticed. He was growing increasingly frustrated at the progress—or, more accurately, lack thereof—of the human trafficking investigation, no matter how much money they threw at it. Public awareness of the problem had finally brought in billions in federal dollars and more than six hundred million from State of Texas funds to purchase gunboats, drones, listening devices, weapons, surveillance cameras, and even seismic equipment to help them locate tunnels at the porous 1,241-mile border between Texas and Mexico. Hundreds of new Border Patrol agents had been hired, and the governor had once even called in the National Guard to battle the flow of illegal immigrants.

However, though the unaccompanied minors fleeing Central American violence were trying to get into the US, as opposed to the young women being smuggled out, the modes of transport were very similar and often involved the same coyotes and gangs. And both were highly lucrative for the myriad criminals and Mexican nationals involved in the trade, with money greasing palms all the way down the line from cartel boss to
paisano
. It was literally impossible to keep up with all the potential links because they were so fluid. By the time they had proof enough to arrest a source, like the independent big-rig driver who’d been stopped at the border with drugged women hidden in the false bottom of his cargo bay, the conduit moved to another location and another trafficker.

As he scarfed down the last of his sandwich, Ross glared at the towering pile of files leaning against his office wall. On the rare occasion when he got to send one to the dead files after it was marked, “Case Closed,” it seemed three sprang up to take its place.

In 2009, the TxDPS had established a special Ranger division known as the Ranger Reconnaissance Team. They had authority throughout Texas to conduct in-depth, military-style covert investigations designed to infiltrate and stop the drug cartels. Rumor had it they even had access to high surveillance aircraft. Most of their operations were on the Texas–Mexico border, and it was their intelligence gathering that offered the best hope of rescue for the kidnapped women. Not even Ross was privy to their detailed tactics or information unless he went straight to the head of their unit, a privilege because of his status as a Ranger captain, but one he seldom utilized, knowing from his own cases that the fewer eyes and ears on sensitive data, the better the chance of keeping it under wraps.

However, with the murder of the kidnapped girl in Lubbock, and now, just today, another case from another bar in downtown Baltimore, as well as the abductions of Emm’s family, it was time he used that privilege. He needed to see if they could collaborate to trace this part of the trafficking ring back to the East Coast source. So many cases in a year from the same area had to mean it was a conduit; somewhere at the top and the bottom of the route, someone, probably an upper echelon crime boss for the East Coast, had all the information to bust the entire chain.... Ross pulled two new files from the teetering stack on his desk and opened them to read as he nibbled on apple slices. He’d requested copies of all the files linked to Baltimore after Emm’s pleas last night, and he was still trying to absorb everything.

As he’d noted when Emm showed him their photos on her phone, Yancy and Jennifer looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. The vast majority of the kidnapped girls were in their teens, as the sleazebag johns tended to prefer younger women. But it wasn’t unheard of for one of the cartel members to take a shine to an older woman, especially if she came with a daughter who looked like her. Ross flipped through Yancy’s thick file. The Baltimore cops had been thorough: They had everything, including her application to the city of Baltimore, where she’d clerked in what appeared to be one of many odd jobs. Sure enough, she was listed as fluent in Spanish. He thumbed through Jennifer’s much smaller file, but there was nothing on her language proficiency. He made a mental note to ask Emm.

His apple slices forgotten, Ross stared into space. He’d worked human trafficking cases for years, though only in the last few had they become so pervasive and difficult to crack. These days, the cartels hired their own hackers and were increasingly creative in their money laundering. Usually, no matter the crime, if you tracked the money, it would eventually lead to the perps. But girls forced into prostitution barely left a trace, and they were usually shuffled around frequently under assumed names, making them even harder to track.

But if Yancy had been lucky enough—or unlucky enough—to catch the eye of a cartel honcho, there was a slim possibility she was still in cartel custody along with her daughter. That, allied with the expensive drug she was on, might trip their databases with a lead, but what he had in mind would require very sophisticated analysis. All his men were swamped, as was he, so Ross turned to his computer. He was looking for the introductory e-mail he recalled from a division meeting. A new consultant had been hired, a former MI6 operative who’d moved to the US, become a citizen, and opened her own consulting firm. She was said to be the best the department had ever worked with in data collection and forensic analysis.

Facts she’d doggedly traced had already led to the arrest of a new cartel boss and the seizure of a thousand pounds of marijuana and cocaine. Hiring her would put a big dent in his already battered budget, but his gut told him he was right and this was their best chance to trace the head of the cartel’s trafficking operations. Natural blondes were rare, especially in Mexico. . . . He had an opportunity to help Emm, as well as use her family’s cases and unusual profiles to crack the pipeline wide open.

Ross dialed the number on his screen.

 

Sitting across from Ms. Doyle at a cute diner several miles from downtown Amarillo, Emm swallowed the last of her sweet tea, wiped her mouth, and pushed her half-empty salad plate away. She’d spent most of the luncheon talking about Yancy and Jennifer; not just the facts of the case but who they were and why she was so worried about them. She knew Yancy, and possibly Jennifer, too, would resist captivity even if it meant extreme peril. “I . . . have a feeling if they’re not found soon, it will be too late,” she said, signaling for the check as Ms. Doyle’s phone rang.

Ms. Doyle rummaged in her briefcase and removed her cell phone. She glanced at the caller ID, then put the phone back in her briefcase without comment. “You do realize it may already be too late,” she said gently.

Emm nodded, a knot in her throat. Her fingers trembled a bit as she opened her wallet, but a large, gentle hand took the tab away from her.

Ms. Doyle nodded at the waitress, brandishing a credit card. “Allow me,” she said over Emm’s protests. “Your story has been most elucidating and this is a deductible expense for me.”

Emm couldn’t argue with that.

After she signed the bill, tipped and thanked the waitress, and pocketed her card, Ms. Doyle rose, sweeping a hand before her toward the exit. Their cars were parked next to each other. “You have my card,” Ms. Doyle said. “Call me if you think of anything else pertinent.” She gave what was, Emm suspected, a warm smile for her severe countenance. “Call even if you don’t. I don’t know anyone here either. I’m about to go to the DPS offices. They’ve hired my services to assist them with drug interdiction, but drug and human trafficking are most often committed by the same cartels, so there is much crossover data.”

Emm nodded, waved, and got into her own car. That night, after another light restaurant meal that didn’t appeal to her, she scowled at her silent cell phone. She’d hoped all day it would ring with Ross’s number. She was expecting him to call with the evidence warehouse address so she could view the pipe. She hoped he hadn’t gotten cold feet. . . .

She tried to concentrate on the historic study she was writing on a building she’d surveyed in Baltimore before she left. The investigation with Ross hadn’t taken much of her time so far, so she was scrupulous enough to put in her hours in other ways, and she had plenty of work. This particular building had been purchased recently by an experienced developer of historic properties. His intent was to do an apartment loft conversion, but his initial application for historic tax credits had been denied. He’d appealed that decision, bumping it up to Emm.

She already knew the building, so reviewing the pictures, plans, and current zoning information should have been easy for her. Instead, she was having a hard time concentrating. She started when a firm knock came at the door. She was in her teddy, sipping a glass of wine, so she called out, “Give me a minute,” while she dug through her suitcase for her robe. She finally found it and wrapped it tightly around herself. There was a view hole in the door, but she wasn’t surprised to find it opaque. Lots of little things tended not to work in old buildings. Besides, she felt entirely safe, so she flung the door open.

“Oh, hello . . . Ross. Mr. Sinclair.”

Ross smiled. “I like the first one better.”

She flushed as a thorough blue gaze ran over her from her mussed hair to her makeup-less face and down the old chenille robe, fraying at the sleeves, to her slippered feet. Wishing she’d taken time to buy that new robe she’d kept promising herself, she opened the door wide and stepped back. “Would you like to come in?”

“For just a moment.” He entered as she closed the door. With that all-seeing, all-encompassing gaze she’d noticed the first time she’d met him, when he wrote her the ticket, he took in her worktable, laptop, files, and messy, half-open suitcase. His smile had disappeared as he reached for something in his pocket. “I had this brought up from evidence today. Is this your sister’s custom pipe?”

Emm’s stomach fell in disappointment. She’d wanted to see more of the evidence than just the pipe, and he knew that, damn him. Still, she carefully turned the plastic bag over. It had a series of numbers written on it, along with Yancy’s last name, but even through the bag she recognized it instantly.

“Yes, that’s it. I’ve seen her smoke it often enough . . . but I thought you said you wanted me to view more of the evidence, clothes and the like?”

“This is enough authentication because the lab already confirmed it was custom, one of a kind.” When she still stared at him, his gaze fell. “I decided this was quicker and easier than taking you to the warehouse.”

For me or for you?
The words almost escaped before she swallowed them. She knew he was trying to keep distance between them, and she knew why, because she felt the same electrical current every time he was near. It was raising the hairs on the nape of her neck now.

Her voice was cooler than she intended, but she had to know. . . . “What happens now? Now that you have confirmation from a family member that Yancy and probably Jennifer are in this group of women taken by the Los Lobos cartel, what else can I do to help?”

He shrugged. “It’s not your job, it’s mine, but this was helpful. These men are extremely dangerous, as should be evident given the way your sister was snatched when she was looking for her daughter. I promise to keep you apprised of any progress . . . an easier task, of course, when you’re here. . . . You heard from the structural engineer?”

“Yes, he’s working up a proposal. If it’s okay, I asked him to copy me on it as well.”

“Of course.”

“He’s swamped, so he said it might be a week or so before he can get here to do the survey.”

“As long as we get it done before my family comes to Amarillo, that’s fine. They’re going to start arriving toward the end of the month.”

“We should be able to make that.” She sat down on the bed, waving him into the one chair, crossing her legs and bouncing the fluffy slipper on her heel. She could tell herself she was just fidgety, but in reality she knew she was transferring sexual energy to kinetic energy. The motion also caused the bottom of her robe to gap open, but she was feminine enough to want him to look, to provoke at least some of the same vulnerability she felt in his presence. His gaze raked her legs compulsively, but he quickly looked back at her face.

“I never figured you for chenille.”

The words took a moment to click. “Why don’t you say what you really mean?” At his guarded look, she added softly, “You’d rather not have to figure me at all.” Her foot perversely bounced faster and her slipper flew off, brushing him in the shin.

She expected him to kick it aside, but instead he picked up the slipper and knelt at her feet. When she stayed frozen in shock, he calmly lifted her foot onto his bent leg and put the slipper back on. Then he held her foot on top of his knee, appraising her legs closely and thoroughly, so thoroughly that she blushed. She snatched her foot away, the fleeting contact making all her feminine parts excruciatingly sensitive.

His lips curving as if he saw right through her downcast eyes, he stood. When she was brave enough to lift her gaze, she noted his blue eyes had softened somewhat. Instead of the corny Cinderella reference she expected, he said, “You have lovely feet and legs. Why do you hide them in sensible footwear and those frumpy suits you wear?”

“I want people to pay attention to my acumen, not my looks.” Her flush fading, she looked down, mortified to see that her favorite robe was not only frayed, it was ripped at the last two button closures, so that her legs were bare almost to her hips. She moved to pull the robe closed, but she was sitting on the fabric. Finally, she just rose, twitched the robe closed, and, with her other hand, gave the pipe back to him. “You don’t really know me, nor do you, from what I can tell, feel inclined to a closer acquaintance. Which is fine by me. Just business.”

“Just business,” he echoed. He stuck the pipe back in his pants pocket, stretching the black jeans in a way she noticed and wished she hadn’t. He loomed so large in every way in the small room that she had to back away. Not because she was scared, but from the sheer impact of his presence. And deep inside, in a place she kept curtained away even from her own eyes, she knew they both lied. This man had the potential to be much more to her than just business. She was several steps away, but she could still smell his scent. His aftershave was faint and spicy, not too sweet, just like him. Direct, alluring because it didn’t bother to entice with hidden ingredients. It was what it was, take it or leave it.