Alone in the Dark

  ‘Some are granted longer-term visas that can lead to green cards,’ Troy said. ‘It depends on the individual – and if they want to stay in this country. Many do, because there are more opportunities here than back home, especially for those with higher education. At least a third of labor trafficking victims have attended or graduated from college or a tech school. Some even have graduate degrees. It’s easier for these victims to get employment offers, a requirement for them to stay long term. Efren was a teacher back in the Philippines and Mila had some nursing experience. They have skills that make them more, well, desirable, for lack of a better word.’

  Scarlett tucked that fact away, wondering what Marcus could do to help the Bautistas find permanent refuge in the United States, assuming they even wanted it after the ordeal they’d suffered. They’d need sponsors and jobs. He could help with that.

  ‘Are Efren, John Paul and the other individuals taken from the factories in good health?’ Kate asked, making Scarlett like her even more.

  Zimmerman shrugged. ‘None of them are starving to death, but they are not in the best of health. Many had been beaten. A lot of malnutrition. They’ve been grossly overworked and the conditions were deplorable – like something out of a nineteenth-century workhouse. Anders forced the lower-skilled workers to live there, and their dormitories were pretty bleak. Dirty, and hotter than hell. They were prisoners in every sense of the word. Those with more skilled positions, like Tala’s father, were allowed to leave the factory at night, but they wore trackers.’

  ‘What were they forced to do?’ Scarlett asked.

  ‘Nothing illegal as far as we can see,’ Zimmerman replied. ‘One factory processed chickens, the other sorted nuts. The third did manual envelope stuffing – coupons and such. It appears that Anders was doing very well. Everyone was busy working when we busted in. Not paying your workers allows you to underbid the competition,’ he added, not bothering to hide his disgust.

  ‘How many of the other workers wore the ankle trackers?’ Scarlett asked.

  ‘About a third,’ Zimmerman said. ‘We don’t know if that means that Anders got his workers from different sources or not. Hopefully the interviews with the victims will shed some light on this.’

  Scarlett thought about Mila and Erica, afraid and on the run. ‘If any of the skilled workers happened to not be in the factories at the time of the raids, they might run. They need to know that they won’t be prosecuted, that Anders was lying and it’s safe to ask for help. You might consider utilizing the media to get the word out.’

  Troy looked at Scarlett, his expression unreadable. ‘You’re talking about bringing in your reporter. He’s already written about it in his paper.’

  My reporter. Yes. He is. Mine. ‘He’s the publisher of the Ledger,’ Scarlett said. ‘He’s also been embedded with our team while this case remains in motion.’

  All three FBI agents turned and frowned at her. ‘You’re letting a reporter observe your investigation?’ Troy asked, sounding appalled.

  ‘He’s proven himself trustworthy so far,’ Scarlett said evenly, not allowing the defensiveness she felt to come out in her voice. ‘This story needs to be told for the sake of the victims and for those who have literally no idea that trafficking is happening in their town, right in front of their eyes. Marcus O’Bannion will tell the story the right way.’

  ‘He’s an almost-relative of mine,’ Deacon added. ‘In a sideways, by-marriage kind of way. From what I’ve seen, he’s a straight arrow.’

  ‘Almost-relative?’ Kate asked, looking mildly amused.

  ‘He’s my fiancée’s step-cousin.’ Deacon shrugged. ‘Faith adores him. Trusts him too, so that’s been good enough for me. I’d recommend using him when you want the media coverage. His paper used to be second in town, but he’s built the readership up since he took over five years ago, after returning from Iraq. In a year he’ll be ahead of the Enquirer.’

  ‘Iraq?’ Troy asked, a good deal of his doubt fading with that one word.

  ‘He was army,’ Scarlett said. ‘A Ranger. Served two tours.’

  Troy nodded, looking convinced. ‘I want to meet him first.’

  ‘Of course,’ Scarlett said. ‘He’ll be with the SAR team and the priest we’ve asked to accompany them. Tala’s mother was seen with a rosary. We think she’ll trust a priest.’

  ‘The priest’s okay,’ Zimmerman told Troy before the man could utter a protest. ‘He’s a CPD chaplain.’

  Scarlett’s brows raised, but she didn’t allow her surprise to show. ‘He is?’

  Zimmerman’s lips curved, his eyes twinkling. ‘Didn’t he tell you when you called him?’

  ‘No,’ Scarlett said dryly. ‘He did not. He’s my uncle,’ she explained to the others. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. Half of my family are cops. He’ll do a good job,’ she told Troy.

  ‘Isenberg had him checked out,’ Zimmerman added. ‘He’s got a cool head and experience.’

  Scarlett swallowed what would have been a sigh of irritation. Of course Lynda would have her uncle checked out before allowing him access to victims. It might have been nice if Scarlett’s word had been enough, though.

  ‘What next?’ she asked the group. ‘We find Mila and her daughter, reunite them with her husband and son, and find out what they know about the people who brought them into the country?’

  ‘Maybe not in that order,’ Troy said. ‘But we will reunite them.’

  ‘Soon,’ Scarlett murmured. ‘They have a daughter to bury.’

  ‘Soon,’ Troy promised. ‘And I will try to get word to our operatives, see if either of them has heard anything about Anders’s capture. Anders is who I want. He knows the names of the traffickers, how much he’s paid them, and how he paid them. The victims may be able to describe faces, but it’s unlikely they’ll know any names. We also need to be aware that there may be other households in this area who’ve purchased families like the Bautistas. Hopefully those victims won’t come to any harm as we investigate.’

  ‘In the meantime, I want you all to be working together,’ Zimmerman instructed. ‘Troy and Coppola, stay in contact with Novak and Bishop. Trade information.’ He met Scarlett’s eyes. ‘Nothing that comes from us goes to the reporter without my explicit approval.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Scarlett said. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Thank you. Dismissed.’ Zimmerman stood up. ‘Deacon, I need to talk to you. Privately, please. In my office.’

  Twenty-two

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Tuesday 4 August, 8.35 P.M.

  Marcus parked his Subaru in his assigned slot under the Tower apartment building where he lived, and walked up the flight of stairs to the lobby, his mind on Scarlett. About what she’d told him. And about what he’d told her. He wondered if she’d Googled the kidnapping. If she now understood what he and Stone had been through. What his mother had endured. And what Matty had not survived.

  He checked his phone, knowing that she wouldn’t have had time to text him yet. She was still in her meeting. And I have to get moving if I’m going to join the search for Mila and Erica. He jogged through the lobby, throwing up his hand in a wave to Edgar, who worked the desk.

  Then he stopped cold. Because Edgar wasn’t at the desk. For the first time since Marcus had moved in five years before, the desk was empty.

  ‘Edgar?’ he called, the lobby sounding too empty. The hairs rose on the back of his neck. ‘Edgar?’

  He rushed around the desk, hoping Edgar had simply taken a bathroom break, but his hope died the moment he saw the old man’s body slumped on the floor.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Dropping to his haunches, Marcus pressed his fingers to Edgar’s throat, trying to find a pulse. ‘Edgar. Edgar. Talk to me, buddy. Come on.’ Marcus’s own heart skittered when he found a very faint, feeble pulse. ‘Oh God,’ he breathed in relief.

  But then new dread twisted his gut as he noticed what he had not before – the dark stain on Edgar’s uniform in the same place Tala’s had b
een that morning.

  Grabbing his cell phone, Marcus called 911. ‘My name is Marcus O’Bannion. I’ve discovered the victim of a shooting in my apartment lobby,’ he said, and gave them the address. ‘His name is Edgar Kauffman. He’s about sixty years old. He’s been shot in the abdomen. He’s alive, but just barely.’

  ‘Help is on the way,’ the operator said. ‘Please stay on the line, sir.’

  Marcus didn’t want to. He wanted to call Scarlett. Now. Because his mind was racing. He’d been shot at only hours before, and then the security guard in his apartment building was shot too? He hadn’t wanted to believe her when she’d said he’d been the target at the Anders house, but this wasn’t a coincidence. It can’t be.

  ‘Sir?’ the operator said sharply. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ He put the phone on speaker and laid it on the desk, forcing himself to stay calm as he looked around for something to stem Edgar’s bleeding. The older man’s gym bag was tucked under the desk, and in it Marcus found a spare shirt. Quickly he balled the shirt up and pressed it to the wound, dragging the bag under Edgar’s feet so that they were elevated.

  Why? Why shoot an old man? He shoved the questions aside, focusing on Edgar. ‘Stay with me, Edgar,’ he muttered as he worked to secure the wadded-up shirt to the wound with Edgar’s own suspenders. ‘Don’t you dare die on me too.’

  ‘Sir?’ The operator’s voice was faint coming through the speaker. Marcus reached for his phone, accidentally jiggling Edgar’s computer mouse. The screen flashed to life and Marcus’s heart simply stopped.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he breathed, horrified, staring at the last entry on the sign-in log. Phillip. Edgar had signed Phillip into the building. Cal said Phillip was coming here to walk BB. Phillip was here, in this building. And so was a killer.

  ‘What is it?’ the operator demanded. ‘Sir? What’s wrong?’

  ‘How long before the paramedics get here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Another two minutes,’ she said.

  Shit. Phillip might not have that long. Phone in hand, Marcus ran to the elevator and pressed the button. ‘Come on, you fucker. Come on.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  ‘Tell the cops to hurry. One of my employees is in my apartment and I think that’s where the shooter went too.’ The elevator doors opened and Marcus jumped in, swiped his ID card, then jabbed the button for the penthouse. He tossed the ID card on the lobby floor a second before the door closed. ‘I’m in the elevator. Tell the cops to come to the penthouse floor. I’ve left my ID card in the lobby so they can come up. I’m about to lose you.’

  Sure enough, his call failed two seconds after the elevator started its climb. The ride was normally quick, but today it felt like he was rising through molasses. When the doors opened, he rushed toward his apartment.

  And his racing heart stopped dead in his chest. His front door stood wide open. Where was Phillip? And BB? They’d better be okay. Please be okay.

  Keeping his phone in one hand, he drew his gun with the other, taking slow, careful steps through the open door. The place had been wrecked, chairs overturned, picture frames pulled from the walls. Marcus’s boots crunched as he walked through broken glass, some from the pictures and some from a vase that had been shattered.

  The quiet was terrifying. No voices. No barking dog. BB was a barker. She should be barking her fool head off right now. Be okay. Please be okay.

  ‘Phillip?’ he called softly. ‘BB? Come here, girl. It’s all right.’ He kept his voice soothing and smooth. ‘I’m home now. You can come out. It’s just me.’

  The living room was clear, the den as well. In the kitchen he found the drawers pulled out, silverware strewn all over the floor. And more broken glass.

  He crept into the spare bedroom, checking the closet and under the bed, remembering where he had found Tabby Anders.

  The room was empty, so he quickly moved to his own bedroom, his heart sinking as he opened the door. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered. Phillip lay on the floor, covered in blood, BB motionless against the wall a few feet away.

  He dropped to his knees next to Phillip, his back to the far wall. No one was going to shoot him in the back a second time today. He laid his gun on the carpet where he could reach it quickly, then searched for Phillip’s pulse. Don’t be dead, kid. Please.

  There was no pulse. Rage filled him, pure and lethal, knocking the panic back to where he could think. Breathe, he commanded himself. His heart was knocking in his chest so hard that his own pulse was all he could hear, all he could feel. Control your pulse. Now.

  He dropped his hands to his sides and focused on slowing his own heartbeat until he could think clearly once more, then pressed his fingers against Phillip’s throat again. And nearly collapsed in relief. Thank you. There was a pulse. It was thready and weak, but it was there.

  He grabbed the phone from the nightstand and dialed 911 again, glad he’d kept a landline. He wasn’t going to chance losing Phillip because of a dropped call. Putting the phone on speaker, he went for his knife to cut Phillip’s shirt away, then remembered he’d given the knife to Scarlett that morning. He pulled his spare from his boot, taking a second to glance at BB as he did so. The dog’s chest was moving, but her coat was covered in blood. Her muzzle hung open, her tongue lolling to one side. She was unconscious, but alive.

  ‘This is nine-one-one,’ the operator answered. ‘What is your emergency?’

  Marcus returned his attention to Phillip, who hadn’t stirred, his breathing so shallow that his chest didn’t appear to be moving at all. He sliced the bloody shirt away, and for the third time that day found himself staring at a massive gut wound. Blood was slowly seeping from the bullet hole, so slowly that Marcus had to fight back his panic once more. He’d seen wounds like this too many times to want to remember, even before Tala’s that morning. He’d watched too many soldiers die as medics rushed to save them.

  ‘Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Victim is Phillip Cauldwell, age twenty-seven. Pulse is weak. He is non-responsive. I called a few minutes ago about the victim in the lobby of my building, so first responders should be on the way. Send another team to the penthouse, unit 20B. Both victims have abdominal wounds.’

  ‘Help is on the way. Please stay on the line.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, then leaned into Phillip’s face. ‘You are not going to die,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you dare consider it. Stay here. I’ll be right back.’

  Tucking his gun into its pocket holster, Marcus stood up on legs that shook, rushing to the master bath closet for clean towels and his first aid kit. It was paltry compared to the tackle box Scarlett kept in her house, but it would have to do.

  Pressing one of the towels to Phillip’s bleeding gut as gently as he could, he pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed Scarlett’s number. Please pick up. I need you.

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Tuesday 4 August, 8.40 P.M.

  Deacon followed Zimmerman out, and Agent Troy rose as well, saying he needed to make some calls. Scarlett found herself sitting alone with Kate Coppola, who looked like she had something to say. So did Scarlett, but she waited, letting Kate go first.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Kate said. ‘All good.’

  ‘Likewise.’ Scarlett looked at the other woman speculatively. ‘Can I ask why and how you ended up here?’ She was wondering what Faith would think of Deacon’s old partner showing up out of the blue.

  Kate’s smile was rueful. ‘I’m not chasing Deacon. And don’t deny that that’s what you’re thinking, because it’s written all over your face.’

  Scarlett rolled her eyes. Marcus. ‘Damn that man,’ she muttered.

  ‘Deacon?’

  ‘No. A different man.’ She regarded the redhead evenly for a moment. ‘If you’re not chasing Deacon, this seems like a big coincidence.’

  Kate didn’t seem to take offense. ‘It’s not, really. I was up for a promotion, so I knew I could end up anywhere, and my boss knew I missed
working with Deacon.’

  Scarlett’s brows rose again. ‘So Faith has no worries from you, but I should?’

  Kate chuckled. ‘No. I’m not looking to partner with him again, but I had my choice of a few assignments and . . .’ She shrugged self-consciously. ‘My old team in Baltimore had become like family. I couldn’t stay there and maintain my career path because all the roles I wanted were already filled. But leaving family is hard to do. Especially when you’ve never really had one before. Seeing the Cincinnati post opening was the biggest relief. I felt like I could keep growing in my job, but be near family too, you know?’

  ‘Because Deacon’s like family? Yeah, I get what you mean,’ Scarlett said, thinking about the circle of friends he’d pulled her into. ‘I understand.’

  ‘But you have your real family here,’ Kate said with a small frown. ‘Your uncle, at least. Right?’

  ‘I still understand,’ Scarlett said. ‘The family you make on the job is different than the family you were born into, even when that family loves you.’ So much that it suffocates me.

  Kate’s frown disappeared. ‘Don’t worry that I’m angling to drag Deacon out of MCES. He’s happy with you guys and doing what he wants to do. But this job is what I want to do.’

  ‘You have experience with traffickers?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. Baltimore and Washington don’t see as much as some cities, but Baltimore is a port and the Ravens made it into the playoffs last year. Sex trafficking spikes in cities with major league sports.’ Her expression had chilled, her eyes remote. ‘I got my first case six months ago. Sex trafficking. Some asshole had brought his “stable” in for the big game. We got a tip from a resident that something wasn’t right in the house down the street. Boy, was she right. We pulled four young women out of a hellhole that still makes me want to throw up.’