Dead End (11 page)

“Your days as a free man are coming to an end, buddy,” she murmured as she folded the fax and tossed it onto her desk.

In the morning, she’d call Sheridan and discuss the case with him, give him the benefit of her thoughts on the matter. Don’t react publicly. Don’t do anything, because he’ll be in custody within twenty-four hours. That was the reaction of both her gut and her intellect, but Sheridan would do whatever he felt was in his best interest. Only he knew what that was.

Annie locked up her house and turned off the lights. She got into bed and searched for the remote control for the TV on the stand opposite her bed. She found it under her pillow and tried to remember when she might have put it there. She watched the news until she fell asleep.

She slept later than she’d intended the next morning, and when she awoke, the television was still on. She turned up the volume while she washed her face in the bathroom steps away from her bed, and had just started to brush her teeth when she caught scraps of dialogue. She stuck her head around the corner, her toothbrush still in her mouth, in time to see a handcuffed man being helped into a police car.

“. . . who, according to detectives here in Avon County is the self-proclaimed Schoolgirl Slayer, apprehended early this morning by county detectives . . .”

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of a man with thinning brown hair and glasses, wearing a polo shirt with some kind of logo on it. Annie got as close to the screen as she could, but still couldn’t make out the writing.

When the phone rang, she knew it would be Evan.

“Do you ever get tired of being right?” he asked.

“This one wasn’t so tough. I figured once you narrowed the field, he’d be easy to spot.”

“Can you guess who spotted him?”

“Cahill.”

He swore softly under his breath and she laughed out loud.

“Miranda has a lot of experience. This is far from being her first serial-killer case. They sent her because she has an uncanny knack for seeing things that other people miss,” she said. “Are you going to tell me who and how, or do I have to hang up and get the details from the TV?”

“His name is Albert Vandergris. He is, just as you had predicted, thirty-five years old and he works for the landscaper who did the lawns for all the victims’ families. Has worked for them, cutting lawns, for twelve years.”

“Sounds good so far,” she told him, “but it wasn’t a prediction.”

“Right. Anyway, Jackie called the owner of the landscaping company yesterday, set it up to talk to his employees before they started for work around seven this morning. All the crews report in by six, get the day’s assignments, pick up the trucks and their equipment. So Jackie shows up with the three from the FBI and a few other detectives, and the owner explained to his crews what was going on. He had all the guys waiting there in the barn and starts calling the men up, one by one, to speak with Jackie. And while she’s talking to workers, Cahill wanders out of the barn and around the back. Who do you think she finds trying to slip out the back door?”

“Albert.”

“You’re really good at this, aren’t you.”

“Yes, I am. So Miranda nabs him and brings him in?”

“Not until she and Albert had a little chat.”

“And she managed to get him to confess.”

“Yeah, she did.” Evan’s voice held a touch of awe. “She told him she’d read the letter he’d written to the news station and pointed out the grammatical errors.”

“And he got his back up and began to argue with her?”

“How do you know all this? You already talk to her this morning?”

“No. But she did this once before, in Indiana. Almost the exact same scenario.” Annie laughed again. “But let me guess, Jackie is going for the credit here?”

“I’m betting there will be a press conference by noon this morning, complete with a carefully worded statement, prepared and read by the district attorney, praising the work of the county detectives, especially lead detective Weller, and thanking the FBI for their cooperation. I’m almost sorry I won’t be here for it.”

“That little weasel.”

“Yeah, well, at least they got one killer off the street.”

“Which leaves your case. Is Sheridan going to make the announcement that Albert is not the killer of these girls?”

“I don’t know what he’s going to do. I’m hoping he doesn’t. I’m hoping whoever is involved with this thinks he’s gotten away with it.”

“I agree. Keep him guessing. Even though Vandergris has already said he hasn’t killed those girls, I think it’s best to keep everyone guessing on that point. I wouldn’t address it until I had to.”

“Yeah, maybe the killer—killers—will do something stupid. And it’s not as if anyone seems to care much, one way or another, about my girls. Their deaths haven’t gotten too much attention these past few weeks. All the focus has been on the other girls, the kids from the nice families and the good neighborhoods.”

“Unfortunately, you know that makes better press. And like it or not, this was a story that had strong emotional appeal and a certain amount of built-in sensationalism. But the lack of focus on your vics may work to your advantage.”

“Well, either way, I imagine the D.A. will find a way to keep Vandergris in the foreground for a few more weeks so he can wring every potential future vote out of it.”

“Cynic.”

“Oh yeah. My middle name.”

“Well, with luck, Detective Manley will be able to give you some insights that could help lead you in the right direction.”

“I’m afraid that might be too much to hope for.” Someone spoke in the background, and Evan covered the phone with his hand. When he came back on the line, he said, “Gotta run. They’re calling my flight. See if you can catch some of the press conference this morning.”

While she finished packing for her trip, Annie surfed the channels hoping to find coverage of the conference, but apparently it was being carried only locally at the time. Perhaps later in the day, one of the networks would broadcast it, but she was likely to miss it.

Already running late, Annie turned off the TV and closed her suitcase. The Schoolgirl Slayer was in custody, her interest in him on the wane. Her attention was focused now on those who still escaped detection, those who, somewhere, were waiting to strike again.

14

Evan sat on a metal folding chair in the cramped windowless room that Detective Donald Manley called his office, and read through the reports that had been copied for him.

Manley, a tall gaunt man with long fingers and a long sharp nose, went about his business of making calls on a battered-looking phone from a desk that appeared to have been abused at the hands of many. Occasionally, Evan would ask a question or two between Manley’s calls, but other than that, there had been little conversation between the two men.

Each was following his own agenda. Manley’s focus was on tracking down a witness to a shooting the night before. Evan’s was on following the story Manley had laid out for him.

According to the file, eight months earlier, the bodies of three young girls, each killed by a single bullet to the back of the head, had been found in Bonsall Park in the city. For a while, it appeared the case—the press had dubbed it the Bonsall Park Murders—would be retired to the cold-case room, since there were no witnesses and no suspects. But through networking and scanning the Internet, Manley had located other cases that had a similar feel to them. So far, after having made endless phone calls, he’d found that victims in two other cities—Boston and New Orleans—had little stars tattooed on the upper part of their left hips. Boston’s two, Chicago’s three, and New Orleans’s four accounted for nine young girls with tattooed stars. Evan’s three made it an even dozen.

“Why do you suppose it took New Orleans so long to put this together?” Evan asked when Manley had ended his phone conversation.

“Only two of the bodies were found in the city. The others were found in two other parishes and appeared to be unconnected. It wasn’t until a curious detective in New Orleans noticed the tattoos that he started looking for cases where the vics were similarly marked.”

“How did you find him?”

“I went state by state on the computer, looking for young girls who’d been killed execution style. These cases stood out.” Manley rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin, a telltale sign he’d been on the job since early that morning.

“Then there’s a possibility there could be more,” Evan said softly.

“Sure.” Manley nodded wearily. “We can only track what’s been entered. We both know that there are departments that aren’t up to snuff when it comes to using computers. Some of the smaller departments don’t have personnel who can spend time entering the data. Others just aren’t comfortable with the technology, don’t ask me why.”

Manley removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes slowly.

“Come on.” He stood and stretched. “Let’s take a ride.”

Evan drove his rental car because the air-conditioning in Manley’s department-issued vehicle hadn’t worked for the past two summers and he hadn’t gotten around to getting it fixed. The day had been hot and humid, and the sun had several hours to go before it set. Following Manley’s directions, Evan wended his way through busy city streets, then pulled into a broad parking lot when they reached their destination. Somehow, Evan had known they’d end up here. It was exactly where he’d have taken Manley if their positions were reversed.

They got out of the car without speaking, and Evan followed his host along a winding path that led to a stream that tumbled over a rocky bottom.

“Man-made.” Manley pointed to the stream as they crossed over it on a wooden footbridge. “They brought the rocks in, stocked it with fish and other water creatures. Those trees along the banks? All brought in by some big-time landscaper from back east. Designs city parks. The city spent a fortune to make the place look as natural as possible.”

They continued along the path until they reached a fountain that sat in the center of the convergence of four paths.

“They were all found there, in the fountain. Draped over the wall, facedown in the water.” Manley walked closer, pointing as he spoke. “My victim number one right here. Number two, eight, ten feet to the right. And over here, my vic number three.” His jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. “She didn’t look like she was older than thirteen, fourteen.”

“Which one of them was wearing the seeds around her neck?”

“Little number three. That’s the only clue I had, going into this. Those bean seeds. It was curiosity that led me to send them over to the university to have them analyzed. I never dreamed they would prove to be the lead that could eventually help us to find her killers.”

He turned to look Evan in the eye.

“And I will find them. It may take a while longer, but I will find them. I like to think she brought those seeds with her so she’d always have a part of her home with her. It would be fitting, don’t you think, if those seeds are the connection that helps us to find that home so we can take her back?”

“Have you thought of circulating her picture and those of the others, through the press down in Santa Estela?” Evan asked.

“I did send the girls’ photos down to the police in Cortés City, the capital. I got an acknowledgment by way of a phone call.” Manley kicked at the side of the fountain. “The Cortés police informed me that many kids from those poor countries—such as Santa Estela—go missing every day. Some of them are from villages well beyond the city limits. We’d have to get very, very lucky to get an ID on any of these kids, he tells me. Chances are, anyone who’d recognize them doesn’t read the papers. He says some of those villages are pretty damned remote.”

“In other words, don’t waste his time.”

“Pretty much, yeah, that was the impression I got. He said that it was likely, if the girls were from one of those remote towns, the families have stopped looking for them already.”

“Thinking, what, that the kids are runaways to the city? That they’ve been eaten by alligators or whatever swims in the rivers down there? Where do they think their daughters have gone?”

“Kidnapped by the slavers. A huge percentage of the kids that go missing are sold into slavery. In some cases, the parents, or other family members, have sold the kids to the middlemen, the ones who obtain the kids through whatever means—kidnapping if not outright purchase—who then deal with the slavers. The traffic in slaves—particularly children—is a big business in some countries right now. Some child-advocacy groups are saying as many as two million children could be involved worldwide. Others are more conservative, but still . . .”

“Yeah. One is too many. How does a parent think his or her kid was caught up in this and not make any effort to find her? Wouldn’t you be moving heaven and earth to bring her back if she were your kid?”

“Or he. As many young boys as girls are sold into slavery. There’s a huge market for little boys, especially overseas, which is where a lot of these kids end up.”

“So you think our girls were sold to slavers in Santa Estela and brought to this country . . .”

Manley nodded. “And branded with those little stars so there’s no mistaking whose property they are. Then they’re sent up here, to the US, by boat, by car, by truck. Sometimes they’re literally walked across the border. A buddy of mine in immigration told me that anywhere from fifteen to twenty thousand are smuggled into this country every year.” Manley paused, then added, “Most of them are just out-and-out kidnapped, but so many others come voluntarily, under false pretenses.”

“Promised jobs that will pay enough that they can send money back to support their families at home. I read something about that recently.”

“Right, except they have to pay off their transportation expenses first. These bastards charge them thousands of dollars to get to this country, then make them work off the fees in the brothels. Of course, they’re rarely released, even after their supposed debt is paid off. Very few ever go to the authorities because they’re afraid they’ll be killed or their families back home will be killed. For the most part, they don’t trust authority because the authorities all along the way have turned a blind eye and have let these terrible things happen to them because they’re on the take. Sometimes, the kids have been told that their families were the ones who sold them in the first place, so they figure they have nothing to return to.” He smiled wryly. “In a lot of cases, they’re right.”

“You figure that’s the case with these girls?”

“I hate to even venture a guess with these kids. On the one hand, I know that Santa Estela and the surrounding countries are really poor. Some of the big banana plantations have been sold and the monopoly has driven wages down, so we’re talking about real hardships here. Poverty that you and I can’t really comprehend, so there’s a good chance a family member turned the girl over for some cash. On the other hand, kidnapping is so rampant in Mexico and South and Central America, your guess is as good as mine as to how these kids got here.”

Manley stood for a few long quiet minutes, deep in thought, in front of the spot where the body of the youngest victim had been found.

“This little girl had cocaine in her system. Sometimes, when a girl’s uncooperative, they force her to take drugs, get her addicted. Cocaine, crystal meth, whatever it takes. That way, they can control her, through her addiction. She isn’t likely to try to leave as long as she’s dependent on her captors for her drugs.” He averted his eyes, absently scuffing one shoe in the dirt at the base of the fountain where the girl’s body had lain. “I like to think that this one fought hard; that’s why they had to drug her. Because she wouldn’t give up the fight.”

“You know there have to be federal agencies involved here. Have you contacted Immigration, the FBI, the CIA . . . ?”

“All of the above. I’ve spoken to every one of them, and they tell me they’re working on it, but that tells me nothing at all.” He swore under his breath. “More accurately, it tells me there’s a massive cluster fuck going on over this. They’re all so damned territorial, you know? No matter what they say, no one wants to share. That’s never going to change, no matter what they tell us. Which means that except in maybe an individual case here and there, no one is talking to anyone else. And of course, that just opens the door for more of the same.”

Manley shook his head slowly.

“Frankly, I don’t see where it’s ever going to end.”

Manley turned abruptly and walked back toward the parking lot. Evan followed, a thousand times more depressed than he had been when he’d arrived in Chicago early that morning. He found Manley waiting at the car when he found his way back to the parking lot.

“So what do you do about this?” Evan held the keys to the car in his right hand, but made no move to unlock the door.

“I don’t think that anything can be done, frankly. I think it’s way too big.”

“Then why did you call me out here if you’re convinced you’ll never solve the case?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t think I could solve this case. Sooner or later, someone will have information to trade. I’ve got the word out; someone will step up to the plate when they’re getting hauled off for possession with intent to deliver and their back is against the wall. It may take me a while, Detective Crosby, but I have every intention of solving my case. If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I will find the sons of bitches who murdered these kids. But the overall thing, this traffic business, that’s something else. But my girls . . . I want to take care of my girls.”

“That’s how I feel,” Evan told him. “I want to solve this for their sakes.”

“I know.” Manley met his eyes across the roof of the car. “That’s why I wanted you to come out here.”

“Sorry?” Evan asked.

“I needed to know there was someone else who really cared about what happened to these kids. That someone else is willing to keep on this, even after everyone else is convinced that it was a waste of time.”

“No one’s told me it’s a waste of time, Detective Manley,” Evan said as he unlocked the car doors.

“Someone will.” Manley swung the passenger door open. “Sooner or later, someone will . . .”