W.E.B Griffin - The Traffickers

“Come into the kitchen, please,” Esteban then said.

The kitchen was still a mess from the making of breakfast. Nesbitt could hear the coffeemaker burping steam as it finished brewing a fresh pot.

Esteban had two cheap coffee mugs in his hand. He did not ask if Nesbitt wanted any; he simply poured coffee in both, then handed one to him.

Nesbitt didn’t feel he could refuse.

“Milk? Sugar?” Esteban said.

“Black is fine. Thank you.” Then he said, “You said you had pictures?”

“S?. I thought that a smart man like you could get them to someone who could help.” He hesitated as their eyes met. “I am not comfortable speaking with authorities.”

Nesbitt nodded.

Esteban brought out his cell phone. He punched a few keys, then handed it to Nesbitt.

“Push this one here to go from one to another,” El Nariz said, indicating a particular key.

As Nesbitt keyed through the images, El Nariz gave him a running commentary as to how he’d gotten the pictures and who was in them. He got to one that had been taken inside the convenience store, the bottom of the frame cut off, showing, barely, the two young Hispanic girls sitting at the folding table and flipping through old magazines.

“Rosario said those two are from Mexico.”

“They don’t even look fourteen years old!” Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV said indignantly, almost spilling his coffee.

He felt shocked to his very core.

“Si.” El Nariz said softly. “Fourteen, Rosario says.”

Nesbitt clicked again. The next image was shot at a forty-five-degree angle, but the subject miraculously was completely within the frame.

“That is their guard, who watches over them. And, sometimes, forces them to have sex with him.”

Chadwick Nesbitt shook his head in disbelief.

He clicked some more, but the images either repeated what he’d already seen or captured display shelving of automotive motor oil cans and toilet paper. Then the first image came back on screen. He handed back the telephone to Esteban.

“And you say you have the address of this evil man’s house?”

“S?. Where El Gato keeps the girls. Hancock Street-2505 Hancock Street. I will never forget that address as long as I am alive.”

Nesbitt wrote “El Gato” and “2505 Hancock” on the back of the gasoline station receipt.

“And I have the number of the van they drive the girls around in,” Esteban said with more than a little pride.

Nesbitt looked him in the eyes, clearly impressed.

“Give it to me,” he said.

Esteban recited, “ ‘ GSY696.’ It is a Ford van. No windows. The color is tan. And very dirty.”

Nesbitt nodded as he wrote it down, trying to squeeze all the information on the small slip of paper.

Nesbitt looked at Esteban. “And is the… the girl’s…”

Esteban nodded. He crossed himself, then said, “May God take pity on me, Ana’s head is still in the freezer in the basement.”

Unbelievable!

A severed head in the freezer!

And fourteen-year-old girls forced into prostitution!

What the hell next?

I do not want to know.

But I know I can’t let this guy get near-what did he call him?-El Gato.

He pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial key.

Okay, Matt. Now it’s a lot later.

Answer your goddamn telephone!

[THREE] Philadelphia Police Headquarters Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 8:16 A.M.

Sergeant Matt Payne and Sergeant Jim Byrth came into the Homicide Unit and saw Detective Tony Harris across the room at his desk, holding two telephones to his head. His left hand held a cell phone, his right shoulder held the receiver of his desk phone to the other ear, and he was taking notes with his right hand.

When Harris saw them approaching, he mouthed, Give me three minutes.

Payne nodded, then touched Byrth on the shoulder.

“Coffee?” Payne said.

“Sure,” Byrth said.

Payne led him to the observation room between two holding rooms that also served as the Homicide Unit’s commissary. Its windows were two-way mirrors for observing those being interviewed in either holding room. It had a Mr. Coffee brewer, as well as an open cardboard bakery box of somewhat fresh doughnuts and, surprising Payne, banana nut muffins. Next to them was an old glass beer mug that someone had obtained from Liberties in what could be termed “a midnight acquisition,” or simply “pilfered.” It had a sign taped to its side that read: REMEMBER TO FEED THE KITTY. Inside were coins and dollar bills.

As Payne poured coffee into two foam cups, Byrth stuck two bucks in the glass mug.

“Welcome to hurry up and wait,” Payne said as he glanced at Harris. “But he sounded really excited when he called.”

Payne sipped his coffee. Then he said, “There. He’s hanging up.”

They walked over to Harris’s desk and drew up two chairs.

“Good morning, Tony,” Byrth said.

“Good morning,” Harris said a lot more pleasantly than he looked. “That said, it may well turn out to be a great morning.”

He pushed a short stack of computer printouts toward Payne.

“Look at those,” Harris said.

Payne flipped through them quickly. They looked familiar-printouts of The Philadelphia Bulletin website pages-but nothing unusual.

“What am I looking for?” he said, then passed the pages to Byrth.

“I had an early breakfast with Stanley Dowbrowski.”

Payne shook his head. “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

“Maybe not. He’s sixty-five; been retired from the department some fifteen years now. He lives around the corner from me, over on Brocklehurst Street, and we stay in touch. When I got home last night just shy of midnight, I found that he’d left me a message on my machine. It was too late to call him-he’s always been a morning guy-so I set the alarm for five. Then I called him at oh-dark-thirty. Turns out he’s not as early a riser as he used to be. I woke him-”

Payne chuckled.

Byrth grinned as he put the papers back on Harris’s desk.

“-but he wouldn’t admit it. He said he had something really interesting”-he nodded at the papers-“and said to drop by for coffee and he’d show it to me.”

Harris reached for the heavy china mug on his desk that had a representation of the Philadelphia Police Department logotype and gold lettering that read: DETECTIVE ANTHONY HARRIS-HOMICIDE DIVISION. He took a sip of his coffee.

“I really need to quit. I’ve been sucking this stuff down since five-thirty. Anyway, I swung by the store and grabbed a couple boxes of doughnuts and assorted muffins. Stanley’s in really bad health-on oxygen, thanks to a life of chain-smoking cigarettes-and doesn’t get out. So I figured he could use something fresh from the store.”

Payne gestured toward the commissary. “There’re some-”

“Yeah, that’s some of them. Stanley refused to keep all I brought to him. Said that the guys at the Roundhouse deserved them more.”

“So what did he show you?” Byrth said.

“It’s curious,” Harris said. “It may not mean anything. But-”

“ ‘Turn over the stone under the stone’ sayeth the Great Black Buddha,” Payne said, almost perfectly mimicking Jason Washington’s sonorous voice.

Harris knew Payne was not mocking Washington. But still his eyes darted across the room to Washington’s glass-walled office. It was empty.

Harris picked up the pages. “Stanley likes to add comments at the end of the newspaper articles.”

He flipped to the page that had the article on the shooting at the Temple University Hospital. He pointed to it.

Payne and Byrth looked and read: