Tess Gerritsen - Vanish

She heard no answer.

Her breasts were starting to ache again, the cow in desperate need of milking, but no way was she going to pull up her shirt in view of that one-way mirror. She rapped again, harder. Feeling fearless now, because she knew these were government guys who were just taking their sweet time, trying to intimidate her. She knew her rights; as a cop, she’d wasted too much effort ensuring the rights of perps; she was damn well going to demand her own.

In the mirror, she confronted her own reflection. Her hair was a frizzy brown corona, her jaw a stubborn square. Take a good look, guys, she thought. Whoever you are behind that glass, you are now seeing one pissed-off cop who is getting less and less cooperative.

“Hey!” she shouted and slapped the glass.

Suddenly the door swung open, and she was surprised to see a woman step into the room. Though the woman’s face was still youthful, no older than fifty, her hair had already turned a sleek silver, a startling contrast to her dark eyes. Like her male colleagues, she too was wearing a conservative suit, the attire of choice for women who must function in a man’s profession.

“Detective Rizzoli,” the woman said. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I got here as soon as I could. DC traffic, you know.” She held out her hand. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

Jane ignored the offered handshake, her gaze fixed on the woman’s face. “Should I know you?”

“Helen Glasser. Department of Justice. And yes, I agree, you have every right to be pissed off.” Again she held out her hand, a second attempt to call a truce.

This time Jane shook it, and felt a grasp as firm as any man’s. “Where’s my husband?” she asked.

“He’ll be joining us upstairs. I wanted a chance to make peace with you first, before we all get down to business. What happened this evening was just a misunderstanding.”

“What happened was a violation of our rights.”

Glasser gestured toward the doorway. “Please, let’s go upstairs, and we’ll talk about it.”

They walked down the hall to an elevator, where Glasser inserted a coded key card and pressed the button for the top floor. One ride took them straight from the doghouse to the penthouse. The elevator slid open, and they walked into a room with large windows and a view of the city of Reston. The room was furnished with the undistinguished taste so typical of government offices. Jane saw a gray couch and armchairs grouped around a bland kilim rug, a side table with a coffee urn and a tray of cups and saucers. On one wall was the lone piece of decorative art, an abstract painting of a fuzzy orange ball. Hang that in a police station, she thought, and you could be sure some smart-ass cop would draw in a bull’s-eye.

The whine of the elevator made her turn, and she saw Gabriel step out. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Wasn’t too crazy about those electric shocks. But yeah, I’m…” She paused, startled to recognize the man who had just stepped off the elevator behind Gabriel. The man whose face she had just glimpsed that afternoon in the crime scene videotape.

John Barsanti tipped his head. “Detective Rizzoli.”

Jane looked at her husband. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“Let’s all sit down,” said Glasser. “It’s time to get a few wires uncrossed.”

Jane settled warily on the couch beside Gabriel. No one spoke as Glasser poured coffee and passed around the cups. After the treatment they’d endured earlier that evening, it was a belated gesture of civility, and Jane was not ready to surrender her well-earned anger in exchange for a mere smile and a cup of coffee. She did not take even a sip, but set the cup down in a silent rebuff to this woman’s attempts at a truce.

“Do we get to ask questions?” Jane asked. “Or will this be a one-way interrogation?”

“I wish we could answer all your questions. But we have an active investigation to protect,” said Glasser. “It’s no reflection on you. We’ve done background checks on you and Agent Dean. You’ve both distinguished yourselves as fine law enforcement officers.”

“Yet you don’t trust us.”

Glasser shot her a look as steely as the color of her hair. “We can’t afford to trust anyone. Not on a matter this sensitive. Agent Barsanti and I have tried our best to keep our work quiet, but every move we make has been tracked. Our computers have been quietly accessed, my office was broken into, and I’m not sure my phone is secure. Someone is tunneling into our investigation.” She set down her coffee cup. “Now I need to know what you’re doing here, and why you went to that house.”

“Probably for the same reason you had it under surveillance.”

“You know what happened there.”

“We’ve seen Detective Wardlaw’s files.”

“You’re a long way from home. What’s your interest in the Ashburn case?”

“Why don’t you answer a question for us first,” said Jane. “Why is the Justice Department so interested in the deaths of five prostitutes?”

Glasser was silent, her expression unreadable. Calmly she took a sip from her coffee cup, as though the question had not even been asked of her. Jane could not help but feel a stab of admiration for this woman, who had yet to show even a glimpse of vulnerability. Clearly Glasser was the one in command here.

“You’re aware that the victims’ identities have never been established,” said Glasser.

“Yes.”

“We believe they were undocumented aliens. We’re trying to find out how they got into the country. Who brought them in, and which routes they took to penetrate our borders.”

“Are you going to tell us this is all about national security?” Jane could not keep the skepticism out of her voice.

“That’s only part of it. Ever since September eleventh, Americans just assume that we’ve tightened our borders, that we’ve clamped down on illegal immigration. That’s hardly the case. The illicit traffic moving between Mexico and the US is still as busy as a major highway. We have miles and miles of unmonitored coastline. A Canadian border that’s scarcely patrolled. And human smugglers know all the routes, all the tricks. Shipping in girls is easy. And once they’ve brought them here, it’s not hard to put them to work.” Glasser set her cup on the coffee table. She leaned forward, her eyes like polished ebony. “Do you know how many involuntary sex workers we have in this country? Our so-called civilized country? At least fifty thousand. I’m not talking about prostitutes. These are slaves, serving against their will. Thousands of girls brought into the US where they simply vanish. They become invisible women. Yet they’re all around us, in big cities, small towns. Hidden in brothels, locked into apartments. And few people know they even exist.”

Jane remembered the bars on the windows, and thought of the isolation of that house. No wonder it had made her think of a prison; that’s exactly what it was.

“These girls are terrified of cooperating with authorities. The consequences, if they’re caught by their pimps, is too horrible. And even if the girls do escape, and they do make it back to their home countries, they can still be tracked down there. They’re better off dead.” She paused. “You saw the autopsy report on victim number five. The older one.”

Jane swallowed. “Yes.”

“What happened to her was a very clear message. Fuck with us, and you end up like this. We don’t know what she did to make them angry, what line she stepped over. Maybe she pocketed money that wasn’t hers. Maybe she was doing business on the side. Clearly, she was the matron of that house, in a position of authority, but it didn’t save her. Whatever she did wrong, she paid for it. And the girls paid with her.”