SURVIVORS: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 2) (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE / Saturday, 9:04 AM

“I mean, I get that this is a hot-button issue.” Petrino took a forkful into his mouth and chewed it. “But Justice Department got, what, over thirteen billion last year? A hundred and twenty thousand positions, guys and gals out there, fighting crime? Why isn’t this black market more of a Homeland Security issue? That’s what I don’t understand.”

Petrino gave her a skeptical look, the kind usually reserved for conspiracy theorists. Jennifer found it bracing, but Petrino was worth listening to. He was a good fact-finder, they said he could find a fart in a hurricane and put together its profile. Yet he seemed to lack a sense of the bigger picture, a trait which Jennifer found quite common among highly specialized individuals. It could be challenging to see the wood for the trees and it could also be scary.

“Human trafficking doesn’t always mean movement,” she said in a level tone. “It doesn’t always mean crossing borders, or immigration. Human trafficking crimes, let’s say, are defined in Title Eighteen, Chapter Seventy-seven, as compelling a person for labor, service, or commercial sex act against their will. There doesn’t have to be any smuggling or movement of the victim. And while it’s true victims are often undocumented migrants because they’re easy to coerce – they’re afraid of the authorities – the other vulnerable groups are runaways, children. Rebecca is an anomaly because she was from a well-to-do family, she was college-educated, and she had means. That doesn’t make a person exempt from becoming a victim, just unusual. Something that warrants further inquiry.”

“Hmm.”

“And I’m not compelled to
assemble
a task force, per se. The HTPU already exists. We work closely with the Assistant United States Attorney, and with the Attorney General himself, as you know. What I
am
compelled to do is to observe the required notification of certain Criminal Sections of the U.S. Attorney’s manual. Sections 8-3.120 and 8-3.140. There needs to be coordination between districts in order to prosecute overlapping criminal networks. And on a timetable, too.”

He took a big mouthful of hash browns. “Timetable? Been two years since the girl in the farmhouse.”

For a moment, she hoped he would gag on his potatoes. Just a little.

“Yes, some time has gone by. I can’t help that. I only took this on last week.”

“Oh yeah? Holder pulled you from the desk, huh? Where they got you, some little shitty condo up here?”

He looked at her like now they could be pals, commiserate with each other as two people given the short end of the stick. She could have just let him think what he wanted, but she thought she’d at least take the satisfaction of setting him straight.

“I volunteered.”

Her admission had the opposite effect, and he nearly choked after all as he stifled a laugh and put a fist to his lips. His eyes watering a bit, he got his breath back and said, “What? Didn’t you go to school to work for the BOP? A penologist or something? Man that’s cozy. Why jump in with the pimps and hoes?”

Jennifer leaned into the table. “Here in our country people are being bought and sold like modern day slaves. You see what I’m saying? And someone is reaping the financial rewards.”

He lost his smile and blinked at her. “Yeah. Okay, so, you’re following the dollar.” A modicum of professional courtesy seemed to return.

She sat back, and felt her anger subsiding. “You could say that.”

“You’re not going to like what you find.”

“Probably not.”

He looked at her and wiped his lips with a napkin. His gaze dropped back to his food and he stabbed a fork into some ham. “I like you. You’re alright, Aiken.”

She took a sip of her coffee – she hadn’t even touched it before, but it was still piping hot. No milk, no sugar, just black.

She took another sip. “Human trafficking takes its toll on society: besides the personal, psychological pain of the victims, it’s a major source of income for organized crime.” She looked at him, though his eyes were on his food.

“I’ll give you that. Organized crime reaps the rewards. But I don’t think you’re stopping there, Agent Aiken. You don’t seem like the type. You’re like him: Healy.”

They sat looking at each other for a moment.

“No,” she said. “I’m not stopping until I get it all. Even if that means going up against the sort of corruption you and I both know is there.”

“Like I said, you’re not going to like what you find.” Petrino looked sober and drawn.

A kind of pall settled over their booth after that, and the surrounding din of the diner, the chatting patrons, the clicking of silverware on china, the hiss of the kitchen, it all faded, and a soft ringing filled her ears and she saw Petrino was nodding. He seemed smaller and grayer than she’d first thought.

Or maybe she just needed some sleep, or to eat something, but she had no appetite.

Then she watched Petrino shifting mental gears. He looked up at her from beneath his brow, head still bent over the plate. “How many layers did you peel off before you found me? Did the Attorney General’s office give you a list of the guys in the basement? What’s that movie, where the guy sits down in the basement and he’s got that stapler?”

“You came highly recommended.”

“Oh, I bet I did. Yeah, me and Healy both. Peas in a pod.”

Petrino suddenly pushed his plate away, done with his breakfast. He looked out the window onto Mamaroneck Avenue, where the Westchester traffic grumbled and honked.

“Fine. I’ll bite,” he said. “Who is it? Someone from the State Legislature? Oh Christ, I heard a few names tied to that escort case. The Vice President of the United States can come from the legislature, for God’s sake. No. I don’t want to know.” He sighed heavily. Then he said, “Things used to be simpler.”

“How so?”

“Shit. In my father’s day if you were a Democrat, you bought a GM. If you were a Republican, you bought a Ford. I don’t understand the world today. I don’t understand our country.”

She sat quietly, and then pulled his plate across the table towards her. He watched her, still half-turned to look out the window, his eyes cutting a line down to the table. She picked up a wedge of uneaten orange, just a garnish really, and about the only thing she could contemplate eating right now. Something told her she needed to get her strength up for what was to come.

“You mind?”

“Go ahead.”

She held up the orange, and then took a bite, the juice squirting between her teeth.

Petrino didn’t want to hear it. No one wanted to hear it. But it was there, like a mass of dark energy, deforming everything it touched.

CHAPTER FOUR / Sunday, 9:53 AM

The plane touched down at Albany International Airport. Brendan rented a car from Hertz and got on Interstate 87, headed south. He would follow 87 until the Taconic Parkway, which he would take the rest of the way into Westchester County, to Hawthorne.

He’d taken an early flight out of Laramie Regional airport in Wyoming, but lost a couple hours as he’d crossed time zones. It was ten in the morning, and traffic was still thick most of the way, especially from Nyack on down. The cars and trucks crawled over the Tappan Zee Bridge, fruitlessly switching lanes and honking horns.

After getting off the phone with Taber, Brendan had searched the internet for news about Argon’s death. He had found one story in the Mount Pleasant Daily Voice, posted that morning. It hadn’t even been the top story – that had been reserved for a new Nursing Lab for students at Pace University. Argon’s story was in the
Police and Fire
section. Online, the blurb sat between a story about a college professor charged with sex crimes and a man caught videotaping locker rooms at a local health club.

The story said that an officer of the Mount Pleasant Police Force had died the previous day in the line of duty. A spokesman for the Mount Pleasant Police had issued a statement that a decorated officer had died in a traffic collision. Seamus Argon, 62 years old, was a resident of Thornwood and had served in the Mount Pleasant Police for many years. While on duty, Argon suffered major injuries in a collision with another vehicle. He was treated at Westchester Medical Center and died two hours later from the injuries sustained.

The only other hit was on a local TV news site. A blurb on that site reiterated the same basic information, and then a blonde woman in a beige trench coat stood on a familiar-looking street corner, light rain spritzing her. She said that behind her was the scene of a crash that had involved veteran police officer Seamus Argon and a party whose identity was at that time unknown. There was a picture of Argon – probably dating back at least ten years, Argon wearing a mustache then, but otherwise a standard headshot – and then the video cut to a witness, an overweight man with two gold-capped teeth. He ran a nearby establishment (
code for “nightclub
,” Brendan thought) and had heard the crash. He went out, saw that two cars had collided, and used his cell phone to call 911. He’d gone back inside, he said, because he was the only one working and there was cash to be protected.

There were no other witnesses, and Brendan had found no other news reports.

He drove with the radio turned off. He insulated himself from his grief over Argon by focusing on the other vehicles. The makes and models of the cars, the people in them. By the time he had inched his way to the other side of the Tappanzee and started moving a little faster, he was sure that someone was following him.

A dark blue sedan stayed consistent with his speed. Twice, around Mohegan Lake where the Taconic intersected with routes 6 and 132, while the rest of the traffic jockeyed and weaved, it stayed behind him. The sedan seemed to mirror his every move.

The vehicle was probably a later-model Cutlass. It was the type of vehicle a government official might ride in – long, sleek, with tinted windows. A long antenna sprung from the roof. Brendan thought that it might be law enforcement. Perhaps FBI.

One exit before Hawthorne, however, the sedan peeled away and disappeared down an off ramp and onto the Saw Mill River Parkway. Brendan came to his own intersection, where the Taconic merged with the Sprain Brook. He reached the next exit, which was Bradhurst Ave, and turned onto the avenue. He kept a lookout for the car, just in case it had been a feint, and the driver had doubled back. He was unable to maintain total attention, though, as the nostalgia of being back in Hawthorne took over.

* * *

It hadn’t been that long. Less than three years since he’d left. This had been his and Argon’s territory.

Bradhurst became Brighton if he headed back north about a mile. He knew all the cross-streets along the way – Chelsea, Amsterdam, Atlantic, Jackson. He’d been down them all, and back, many times over. Hawthorne had been a quiet beat. Domestic disturbances, the occasional broken window on Halloween, a few car wrecks. His second year on the force there had been a murder. The body had been found during the day shift, in Kensico Lake. It had barely resembled a human being anymore, according to the reports. Only the clothing held it together, the shirt filled with bullet holes. At that time, Brendan worked the ditch hours with Argon. Argon had the seniority to step up and punch the cozier daytime clock, but hadn’t wanted to. Maybe, Brendan wondered, because bodies in lakes tended to stay hidden in the dark.

Brendan took a right onto Broad Street, and passed Holy Rosary Church on his left. The sign out front announced the week’s activities. Brendan was sure that in addition to the services, bingo, and bake sales, there were AA meetings in the basement.

He piloted the rental down Broad Street. While snow had already come to the peaks in Wyoming, here it was still autumnal. He rolled down the window. The air was dry and crisp and clean-smelling, leaves crackled beneath the tires. He drove slowly, twenty-five miles per hour. It was now going on one o’clock and the families were all gone, the parents at work, many of them down in the city, or in White Plains. Brendan had been like them once. Before he became a cop, he’d taken the train down to Manhattan where he’d worked at Langone. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Longer than that.

He passed by Hawthorne Elementary school. The kids were tucked away safely inside. Their hat and gloves in their cubbies. Books out on the desks, their minds probably wandering.

He took a left on Memorial drive, turning away from the school. He glanced at it in the rear view mirror. His daughter had been lined up to attend Hawthorne Elementary. Brendan could even remember the name of the kindergarten teacher – Mrs. Sezvit. He recalled thinking it was a great name for a kindergarten teacher.

He turned onto Chelsea Street which took him back over the Taconic. Once on the other side, Elmwood was the first intersection. He waited at the light. He checked the rear view to see if the blue sedan was behind him, trailing his trip down memory lane.

It wasn’t.

The light turned green and Brendan spun the wheel left. And there it was. On the corner of Elmwood and Milford was the little three bedroom he and his wife and daughter had lived in for two years.

* * *

This side of the Taconic hadn’t been on his beat. Mount Pleasant was bordered by Pocantico Park and Kensico Lake with an area of twenty-eight square miles. The township ranged from Chappaqua to Valhalla and Sleepy Hollow. It was a sizable area to cover, and divvied up accordingly. During his days with the MPPD, Brendan had avoided driving near the house, grateful it was outside of his precinct.

He turned onto Milford and was able to pull over immediately, blocking a fire hydrant.

Brendan got out and leaned against the car, looking at his old house after so many years. It had been painted green (from white in his day), the roof looked like it needed replacing. The boxwood bushes flanking the house had fattened up a lot, and the arborvitae which staved the rear of the house, separating it from the next yard, had grown tall. The lawn had been mown, and the front walk from the small porch down towards Elmwood Ave was tidy. Brendan approved. He wiped the moisture from his eyes.

It had been a long time ago. They had only lived there for two years. He and his wife had moved in when their daughter was barely a year old. They’d left the city to raise a family in the burbs. Only two years, it had gone by in a blink. But it represented everything, everything that was once the warm heart of his otherwise cold life.

Brendan pulled his gaze away from the house. He looked up and down Milford, telling himself he was looking for the sedan, but really knowing that he was checking to see if anyone had spotted the grown man standing there crying.

It had been so long and he’d put so much distance between himself and his past. He suddenly realized that over all these years, he never thought of his wife and daughter by name. He just saw their faces. Their names he’d buried with them. They were like a forbidden magic, not to be uttered: some fragile, exotic substance, toxic, possibly fatal, yet ultimately precious and alluring.

His wife, Angie.

His daughter, Gloria.

* * *

Argon’s home was in Thornwood, the next town over, near Stonegate Park. Thornwood was quaint, like Hawthorne, not as rich as the other cities and towns in Westchester, such as Scarsdale or Bronxville, where the median household income was around $400,000. Argon had only made around $35,000 a year, even after twenty years on the job. Argon could have retired, he could have at least bumped himself up to the day shift – he could have done a lot of things different. But he had stayed working nights with Brendan. Even after Brendan left for the detective position in Oneida County, Argon had stayed on nights.

Argon’s small two-bedroom house was on East Drive. Brendan turned into the driveway and sat in the car for a few moments. He checked his mirrors one more time. Then he dismissed his paranoia and got out.

Argon kept a key tucked up under the dormer framing the side entrance. Brendan walked around the side of the house, cutting in between two bushes which whickered against his pant legs.

Although Argon’s house was fairly well screened by the trees surrounding it, Brendan felt conspicuous. The maple trees were losing their leaves and the larger house next door was visible. Likely there had been some recent activity at Argon’s place, someone from the precinct might have already come to collect personal effects for the funeral.
Neighbors might be keeping an eye out from their windows.

As he felt around for the key up under the eaves, he suddenly realized that he knew very little about a man he’d spent most days with for five years. Their relationship had been embarrassingly one-sided. It had never really occurred to Brendan before – or, it had, but not so acutely: their friendship was all about Brendan. About the loss of his wife and daughter, about his addiction and recovery, about his promotion to detective in Oneida County, about tending to him even after he’d left Hawthorne behind.

He knew a few things. He knew Argon had never married. He knew the man didn’t have any kids, either. Had he been dating anyone? Did he have any family stepping in to arrange the funeral? Taber had indicated this was unlikely.

Brendan found the key and scraped it along the wood as he gathered it into his grip. It was just the one key, unadorned by any fancy fob or chain. No other keys attached. There was something lonely about it.

All those nights together sitting in the patrol car, watching for speeders or drunks, and Argon had talked about current events or tongue-in-cheek about the myriad ways Scotland was the true pioneering force behind all that was great in the world. And they talked about Brendan, and his problems.

It was enough to make a person sick. Brendan felt ashamed. Maybe that was why he had come here, out of hiding. Even if he wished he’d never been pulled from that garage, he owed Argon for all that listening. Now he needed to be the one listening, even if only to ghosts.

Brendan approached the door and tried the key. For a moment he thought the locks had been changed – either by Argon in his last days, or by someone else. But then the lock turned under a gently persuasive pressure, and the door swung open. Brendan’s heart resumed a normal rhythm.

A moment later, and an animal appeared, meowing at Brendan’s feet.

Argon had a cat.

“Hey there.” Brendan squatted down and stroked the fluffy grey cat. It purred, then turned and strolled off deeper into the house.

Probably wants to be fed
, Brendan thought, feeling his own sudden hunger pangs. He hadn’t eaten since before getting on the flight out of Laramie that morning. He stepped inside.

No one had been here yet. The place looked undisturbed.