The River Killings (17 page)

Oh, excellent, I thought. The day was getting better and better. What was Agent Ellis doing here? Was she still following us? Didn’t she have anything better to do? Was she going to question me about the nineteen dead women right in front of Molly? I slowed, looking for a detour, hoping to avoid the encounter.

Molly pulled on my arm. “Come on, Mom.” Her voice was loud, grating. Certainly loud and grating enough to attract Agent Ellis’s attention. “Where are you going? The car’s over there.”

“Shh,” I whispered. But Molly wouldn’t.

“Why are you walking so slow?” She was almost shouting. If Agent Ellis hadn’t noticed us until then, she would certainly now.

Well, so what. Maybe the best thing would be to face her head-on. I’d go over and ask what she was doing there. I had no reason to hide; the woman was out of line stalking me, and I had every right to tell her so. With Molly by my side, I marched right up to her.

Molly kept asking questions. “Where are we going, Mom? Who’s that lady? Do you know her?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, standing right beside the bench, I addressed Agent Ellis. “Nice evening, isn’t it?”

Agent Ellis didn’t answer. She didn’t even move. She continued to stare into the street at passing traffic. Still gripping Molly’s hand, I walked closer to Agent Ellis. She remained perfectly still, her eyes open and unblinking, her arms limp at her side.

“Mom, I think that lady’s dead.”

Oh my God, I thought—Molly. I had to take her away from there. But I also had to make sure that Darlene Ellis was beyond saving.

“Close your eyes, Molly,” I said. “What?”

“Go ahead, close them.”

“Mom. Think it through. If you’re afraid I’ll see a dead person, I’ve already seen her.”

She was right. I wasn’t thinking clearly. “Okay, just don’t stare at her. Stand right here.” “What are you going to do?” “Just stand here and don’t move.”

She stood there. And I went up to FBI Agent Darlene Ellis and put my hand on hers. Her skin was cool, but not very. I lifted her wrist to feel for a pulse, and she slumped over sideways. That’s when I saw, in the fading light, the blood soaking her neck. And the three parallel curvy lines cut like waves into her cheek.

F
OR
T
HE
S
ECOND
T
IME
T
HAT
WEEK,
L
IGHTS
F
LASHED
AND S
IRENS
blared on Kelly Drive. And for the second time that week, I sat along the river unable to stop trembling. Molly watched, enthralled, as police cordoned off the area and fought off the media. While I gave my statement to one officer, another chatted with Molly to distract her from the grisly scene. When Nick arrived, though, she ran over to him, ignoring me when I called her to come back.

“Nick . . . guess what,” she shouted. “Guess who found her! It was us—me and Mom. Mom’s finding dead people everywhere.”

The gaggle of reporters overheard her, and apparently figuring out who “Mom” was, dashed my way, hoping to grab the story of the woman who, so far this week, had found a total of twenty bodies at the normally tranquil Schuylkill River. I locked the car door and hunkered down, opening it only after some officers had cleared the area and Nick had personally escorted Molly back to the car.

“Can we go?” I greeted him. “I want to take Molly home.” I was desperate to get out of there.

“You all right?” He held the door for Molly as she climbed back into the car, then came around to the driver’s side to talk. When I opened the door, he took both my hands.

“You’re shaking.”

“Nick.” I kept my voice low. “The dead woman—it’s Agent Ellis. The one from the deli—” “I know.”

“You know? Oh, God. Was it the cartel? Did they kill her because she got too close? Did she find out who they are?”

Sighing, Nick released my hands. “Zoe, slow down. I just got here. Let me find out what’s going on before the FBI shows up and takes over. Did you give anyone a statement?”

“A statement? Nothing formal. I talked to that cop—”

“That’s fine.” He glanced around, eyeing the scene, then his eyes returned to me. “Don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of everything. Are you okay to drive?”

I nodded yes, I was.

“Then go home. Put Molly to bed. We’ll talk later.”

I started the engine; Nick closed the door and waved as we drove off. Molly stared out the window at the lights until they faded from view. She seemed thoughtful, and I wondered how she’d been affected by finding a murder victim, how badly she’d been traumatized.

“Molls,” I said. “Don’t worry. There are some bad people in the world, but Nick’s there, and he’ll catch whoever did that. We’re fine now. Everything will be okay.”

She nodded quietly. Then, still pensive, she added, “Mom, do you think we’ll be in the newspaper? Or maybe on TV? That would be so cool—Nicholas would see me. And Emily . . .”

She went on listing friends who might see her face on the six-o’clock news, fantasizing about the glories of fame, and gradually, wondering at the ability of a six-year-old to take life—whatever it brought—in stride, I tuned her out, hearing her voice only as bizarrely cheerful background music for an otherwise horrible day.

B
Y
T
HE
T
IME
W
E
G
OT
HOME,
M
OLLY
H
AD
F
ALLEN
A
SLEEP
. S
HE
snored softly, her body completely relaxed. I pulled into the parking spot behind our brownstone and, without waking her, gently undid her seat belt and lifted her out of the car, surprised as always that a person as powerful and energetic as Molly could weigh so little. She was still, in many ways, a baby. Her skin was soft and pale, almost transparent; her bones slight. I tucked her into bed, brushing a golden curl off her face, once again struck by our differences. As a child, I’d been big for my age, awkward, gangly, never agile and athletic like Molly. I’d been shy, cautious, obedient, eager to please; Molly was self-assured, outspoken, even boisterous. She made friends easily but was confident enough, even at six, to stand up for herself, no matter what others thought. In many ways she was a mystery to me, and I could rarely predict or even understand her reactions. At the boathouse she’d been so afraid of Tony that she’d hidden in the racks, but she hadn’t even flinched at finding a corpse in the park. I watched her sleep, wondering for the millionth time who she was, feeling amazed again that she called me Mom, hoping I’d be worthy of the name. I kissed her forehead, listening to her steady, trusting breath.

“You’re safe now,” I whispered. “I’ll take care of you, and you’ll be all right. We both will. I promise.”

And then, feeling like a liar, I went downstairs.

The house was too quiet. Still gleaming cleanly, unnaturally, still smelling of disinfectant. Still disturbed. I wandered from room to room, agitated, not able to focus on any one issue, mind
bouncing from one jarring event to another. Agent Ellis had been killed. Nineteen women were dead. My house had been broken into, and Susan had been carjacked. Coach Everett and Tony were involved in something shady, and Molly had seen and heard too much. And then there was Nick. Nick knew more than he was telling me. Nick kept secrets.

At some point, my mind spinning, I opened the liquor cabinet and took out the Scotch. Get drunk, I told myself. Pour a tall glass, straight up. Quiet your brain. Go ahead. Molly’s safe in bed, and you don’t have to drive or do anything at all. If ever anyone had reasons to drink, you do. So, go for it. Chug-a-lug.

I took out a glass and opened the bottle. I was pouring a glass when the phone rang. Don’t answer, I told myself. Don’t talk to anyone. Just drink and numb your brain and get blotto so you don’t have to think anymore. But the phone kept ringing, so I set the bottle down and went looking for it. Damn cordless phones; they were like socks. Always disappearing. I found it on the kitchen counter, and as I answered, I thought, Damn; I bet it’s going to be a hang-up. And, sure enough, as I was saying hello, there was a click.

I cursed. For a moment, I considered calling star-sixty-nine to get the number and find out who’d hung up on me. But I didn’t want to bother. I didn’t want to do anything. I told myself it was just a telemarketer whose automatic dialer had run amok. Or maybe the FBI. Or a slave trafficker. But what did I care who was calling; there was a bottle of Scotch waiting for me. I was on my way back to it when the phone rang again. I hesitated, but answered.

“Did you hear?” Susan’s voice was shrill, upset. “They just found Agent Ellis. She’s dead.”

Oh, Lord. I hadn’t told her. I’d called 9-1-1, and I’d called Nick. But I hadn’t called Susan, hadn’t even thought of it. I’d been shaken, not thinking clearly. And if I admitted finding the body, Susan would be furious that I hadn’t called her instantly.

“Yes, I know.” I omitted the details of how I’d found out.

“This is bad,” she said. “If they’ll kill FBI, they’ll kill anyone.”

Great. “Anyone,” I assumed, included us. Agent Ellis had warned us; so had Sonia and the priest. “So, what are you saying?”

“What do you think I’m saying? Your house was broken into, I was carjacked, and the FBI agent who approached us was murdered. And that’s not even all of it. Get this: I called the Archdiocese. They do have people working on human trafficking, but not anyone called Father Joseph Xavier.”

“Of course not. That was an alias. They said they were undercover. In disguise—”

“I also called the Pennsylvania Immigration and Citizenship Coalition. Not only have they never heard of Sonia Vlosnick, they insist that they have no undercover agents. None. Same for the Nationalities Service Center. They gave me the names of the other organizations that help trafficking victims. I went down the list, calling them. Nobody, not one, had any idea what I was talking about. None of them have undercover workers. Not a single one.”

“Then who were Sonia and Father Joseph? Why would they pretend to be with those agencies? What would be the point?”

As soon as I asked the question, I knew the answer. Sonia had told us herself: “The cartel might send someone to question you.” She ought to know; she’d been the one they’d sent. In the guise of warning us, to find out what we knew, she’d even told us what the traffickers would do if they thought we knew too much. “They’d omit the risk. You know, dears. Snuff you out.”

Oh, Lord. Had grandmotherly Sonia and scholarly Father Joseph Xavier been actual hit men, working for the cartel? Had their knowledge of the slaves’ suffering come not from rescuing them, but from committing the maiming and torture—even photographing their deeds themselves? I shivered thinking about them. Realizing what would have happened if they’d decided we knew anything of substance.

But we didn’t. And obviously they must have known that, since they hadn’t killed us. So maybe we were out of trouble?

“Zoe, we’re in trouble.” Susan canceled my thought. “Big trouble.”

I groaned. “But you said they’d leave us alone!”

“And you took that as what? A guarantee? What the hell do I know? Nothing. Except that these are ruthless sons of bitches with no scruples—”

“Stop it, Susan. I know all about it.” I closed my eyes, saw the three logo lines carved in Agent Ellis’s face. “But maybe it’s not so bad. I mean, if they were going to kill us, they’d have done it right there, wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t think they’re done with us. I think they want something. Look what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. Break-in? Carjack? And if not for the horde of contractors here, I’m sure my house would have been ransacked, too. And now there’s a dead agent.” She was in high gear. Panicked.

“But what are we supposed to do? We don’t know anything.”

“But Nick does. You can find out from him—”

“Nick’s not on the case, Susan. The FBI took over.”

“No, not entirely.”

What was she talking about?

“I talked to Ed.” Ed was one of Susan’s cop friends. Her link to the grapevine. “He told me something fascinating. Even with the feds in charge, the local police still have a hand in the investigation. And guess who’s the liaison?”

She didn’t have to tell me. My heart knew instantly; it smoldered, searing my ribs. Damn Nick. Why hadn’t he told me? Would he ever be open with me? Could I ever trust him? Suddenly I was exhausted. Wiped out. I took the phone into the living room, sank into the purple sofa.

“Hasn’t he told you anything?”

Not a damned word, except about the Humberton hat and the tattoos on the women’s shoulders. “You know Nick. He doesn’t discuss his cases.” I tried to make light of it. But I knew better. This case was different. I was involved in this one. Why hadn’t Nick told me he was working on it with the FBI?

“That’s absurd, Zoe. This case is huge. Nick has to talk to you about it. It’s not right for him to keep you in the dark; you’re in it whether he wants you to be or not. Especially now that Agent Ellis has been offed and we know for sure that Sonia and Father Joe are fake. This slavery thing—trafficking women? Ed says they sell over a million women each year, plus at least as many children. It’s a growing international multimillion-dollar business. Maybe multibillion. This case is as big as they get, and as nasty.”

My chest raw, I stared at the bottle of Scotch, at how warmly the amber liquid glowed in the lamplight. I was silent for a moment, thinking of nineteen hapless women, wishing them peace. And of Nick, wishing him a fat lip.

“But on the other hand”—Susan sounded more chipper—”if Nick can help crack this one, it’ll be a career maker.”

I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t enough that I might be in danger from the cartel; Nick was, too. I picked up a throw pillow and held it to my belly.

“I’m serious,” she rolled on. “He’s already got a high profile for somebody who’s only been in Philadelphia—what—not two years yet? Nick’s a rising star.”

“Susan, he’s making enemies in a multibillion-dollar international crime ring. How is that a good thing? Look what happened to Agent Ellis.”