I said, “A biologist doing social work?”
“I can’t think of a better cause.”
I said, “When I put that together with you new car, it suggests to me you’re wealthy. Isn’t that an oxymoron? Wealthy biologist?”
“Normally about now,” she smiled, “I would get very self-righteous and ask what money has to do with a social conscience. But you guessed right, our family has money. My father did well for himself. Maybe I should have mentioned it. He’s an ornithologist.”
I replied, “A wealthy bird-watcher. Another oxymoron.”
“Oh, that is the least of the mysteries about my dad,” the woman said, giving my a searching look. “He gets a big kick out of telling people that bird-watching was an inexpensive hobby—as long as you had a passport and your own private jet.”
I was struck by the mix of her inflections. Emily said it in a joking way, but she also seemed to be baiting me with information that invited further investigation.
Because I couldn’t discern her purpose, however, I dodged the temptation. “So your paternal family has money,” I said.
Emily replied, “My grandfather left me a trust fund when I turned twenty-one. Not a ton of money but enough. Paul had a problem with that. He’s a nice man. He really is. But he has ego issues. Would you have a problem if your wife had a lot more money than you?”
I found the word “wife” startling so shrugged and dodged that question, too. “The human-trafficking thing,” I said, “I’ve always had an interest. Probably because I worked in Central America for several years. I spent some time in Africa, too. Tell me what you know.”
A moment later, I had to ask, “Why are you smiling?”
“Because you’re funny,” Emily said. “The way you guard your secrets by asking questions. Your interest is real, though—that’s makes it okay for some reason. You care about people. I can tell. By the way, you left out the time you spent in Southeast Asia and Indonesia and a bunch of other places, too.”
Before I could reply, the woman told me, “I know more about you than you realize—including all the traveling. I already told you, I’ve read your research papers. In your writing, the really interesting stuff is always between the lines. Like when Tomlinson mentioned the smell of oil in your lab. I recognized it. I know what kind of oil it is. Do you want me to tell you?”
It was gun oil and specialized solvent. Tomlinson had surprised me by mentioning it. He had never mentioned it before.
“The pumps and aerators in my lab require special lubricants,” I said. “There’s no mystery about that.”
Emily replied,
“Really?”
to let me know that she was aware that I was lying. “You became sort of a hobby of mine, Dr. Ford. Paul embarrassed me so bad this morning when he mentioned it—which was precisely what he intended to do. Not that there’s a lot out there about you. Only two photos. That’s all I could come up with on the Internet. And I’m pretty damn thorough when I get on a research binge. Does
that
bother you?”
“Money and the attention of a beautiful woman,” I said, turning to face her. “Why would that bother anyone?”
“I’m not beautiful,” Emily said, her face tilting suddenly downward. “You don’t have to say that. We’re both pragmatists. People like us prefer the truth. I might be handsome on a really good day, but I’m not beautiful. I never have been. So there you are. I came to terms with it long ago.”
I replied, “I’ll be the judge of what’s beautiful and what isn’t. If you don’t mind.”
The woman hesitated, wondering if I was going to kiss her. She gave it a moment, looking into my face, then she took my hand and tugged. Suddenly we were returning to my stilt house, walking faster than before.
After a minute or so, she was talking again, back on a safe subject. “Trafficking is big business,” she began. “A lot bigger than the average citizen realizes.” Because I was momentarily confused, she explained, “You asked, so I’m telling you what I know. More than a thousand undocumented workers, men, women and children, arrive in Florida daily. They’re smuggled in by Mexicans, mostly. And a lot of the smugglers are Latino gang members. Coyotes—that’s what they’re called in the trade. But you know about all this. Of course you do.”
I was thinking about recent headlines that detailed the gang wars now going on in Mexico and California. Mass murders, men, women, and children pulled from their beds and shot in the back of the head execution style. Eighteen near Ensenada. A dozen gangbangers killed the same way in Chiapas. “Ceremonial-style murders,” as one survivor had described it.
I replied, “I’ve never learned anything in my life while my mouth was open. Keep going. You just filled in a couple of blanks.”
“Okay,” she said. “If that’s what you want. Coyotes are usually in the drug business, too. It’s a natural. Prostitution and pornography, those are the other primary sidelines. The people they screw over ... it makes me furious to even talk about it because the people they use have nowhere to turn for help. They’re slaves by every definition of the word. The way coyotes and their gangs abuse women and children is beyond despicable.”
Emily started to continue but then hesitated. “I’d rather not go into some of awful things they do. It’s really upsetting to me. Not if you already know.”
Along with the news stories, I had also read Florida Law Enforcement reports that detailed how traffickers recruited sex slaves and controlled them. Fear was the common weapon. One gang, the Latin Kings, had videoed a live vaginal mutilation. They showed it to new recruits to keep them in line. There had been at least one ceremonial beheading, the perpetrators all wearing bandannas to cover their faces, their tattoos hidden by long-sleeved raincoats.
Cell-phone video cameras. It was what they used.
“No need for details,” I told Emily. “Keep it general.”
The woman let her breath out, relieved. “I’m not going to tell you why I appreciate that, but I do. Okay ... so come up with the very worst punishments you can imagine and that’s the daily reality for a lot of small brown women and boys. These are people we see every day working in the fields, riding their bicycles, hanging out at the supermarket and cashing their checks to send money home.”
I said, “That’s why Tomlinson’s so worried about the girl. Me, too.”
“Tula Choimha,” Emily said. “Is that how you pronounce it?”
I said, “The girl . . . she’s a very different sort of thirteen-year-old. Religious, but religious to a degree that borders on hysteria. You know what I mean? For the wrong sort of egotistical asshole, she’d be an inviting target. Humiliate the saintly little Guatemalan girl. There’s a certain breed of guy who’d stand in line to do that.”
“That’s a volatile age. For girls especially it can be a nightmare,” Emily said, sounding like she had lived it. “Fantasies range from sainthood to whoring. A scientist from Italy published a paper that gives some credence to what’s called poltergeist activity. You know, crashing vases, paintings falling from the walls—all caused by the turbulent brain waves of adolescent girls. Which all sounds like pseudoscience to me, but who knows? Maybe there’s a grain of truth.”
I had stopped tracking the conversation when Emily mentioned poltergeists. I was reviewing what Tomlinson had told me earlier on the phone. He had returned to Red Citrus, but Tula was nowhere to be found. Her few personal possessions were still in the trailer, untouched since the night before. But it looked as if her cot
had
been slept in.
Tomlinson had called and asked me to join in the search. But, at the time, Emily and I were stuck at the necropsy site, waiting for the medical examiner’s investigator. So he had driven his beat-up Volkswagen, hopscotching from one immigrant haven to another searching for Tula, but no luck.
“Did he stop at churches?” Emily asked me now, regaining my attention.
“Tomlinson didn’t mention it. You’re right, that would’ve been smart. Maybe the girl was afraid of something. Or someone. And ran to the nearest Catholic church for protection. She couldn’t risk turning to the authorities.”
The woman said, “Please tell me your friend contacted the police, right? Her safety’s more important than her damn legal status.”
“Of course,” I said. “I called, too. Tomlinson insisted.”
“Because he was afraid the police wouldn’t take him seriously?”
I said, “It wouldn’t make any difference. The state has a whole series of protocols that go into effect when a child is reported missing. Illegal immigrant children included. There’s a long list of agencies, from cops to the Immigrant Advocacy Center, that get involved. Tomlinson thinks they’re going to issue an AMBER Alert tonight, if they haven’t done it already. It’s the best system in the world for protecting kids. But it’s still an imperfect system.”
I continued, “The problem is that people at her trailer park—the family Tula lives with?—they don’t believe the girl’s missing. At least, that’s what they told the cops as recently as this afternoon. They say she goes off by herself for hours at a time. Police will do more interviews tomorrow. We may not like it, but that’s the way it is for now. An AMBER Alert, of course, if it happens, will change everything.”
Emily asked, “Do you think she was kidnapped? It’s a possibility, I hate to say it. The coyotes, the things men like that do to young girls and boys . . . I don’t even want to think about.”
I said, “She left behind a family photo that she’d carried for three thousand miles. That bothers me. There was a book we found, too. And some clothing. So, yeah, I think something happened.”
“A book?” Emily asked.
“Not a Bible,” I said. “It’s a book of quotes from Joan of Arc. I took a close look. A lot of dog-eared pages and fingerprints. Some underlined passages. She kept it with her for a reason.”
“Joan of Arc,” the woman nodded as if that somehow made sense to her.
I gave it some more thought. “A church could be the answer,” I said. “It’s plausible. She got scared and ran. There were cops all over the place, so she probably scooted off to the nearest church so she wouldn’t be questioned.”
I wasn’t convinced, though, and neither was Emily. Why hadn’t church authorities contacted state authorities if they had a runaway girl on their hands?
“Doc?” Emily said. “If you’re going back there tomorrow to check the churches—let me come with you. My Spanish is pretty good. Your friend was right. I think I can help.”
I found it interesting that she seemed to intentionally avoid using Tomlinson’s name. Was it to reassure me that she had no interest? Whatever the reason, I found it endearing.
From my pocket, I took a little LED flashlight. I clicked it on, took Emily’s hand and led the lady down the mangrove path to the boardwalk that crosses the water to my house. When we got to the shark pen, I switched off the underwater lights and pocketed the flashlight.
We stood for a moment in the fresh darkness, listening to a waterfall of mullet in the distance, seeing vague green laser streaks of luminescence thatch the water.
“Enough talk about coyotes and kidnappings, and every other dark subject,” I said, putting my hands on the woman’s shoulders.
I felt Emily’s body move closer, her face tilted toward mine. She was ready and smiling. “Is that why you turned off the lights? To brighten the mood?”
“No,” I said as I slid my hands down to her ribs. I took my time, stopping just beneath her breasts, my index fingers experimenting with a warm and weighted softness.
“I was starting to wonder if I’d have to make the first move,” Emily Marston said—said it just before I kissed her.
TEN
LATE WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, LAZIRO VICTORINO WAS SITTING
at Hooters in Cape Coral with a tableful of wings and low-level Latin King brothers when the news lady came on the television, reporting from a swamp near Fort Myers Beach, about a dead alligator that had a human hand in its belly.
Probably a woman’s hand because they had also found a wedding ring.
Victorino recognized the place immediately. It was Red Citrus trailer park. Hell, most of the
Indígena
who lived there, he’d personally arranged for their transportation to Florida and jobs, which meant that he
owned
those people.
He’d probably also owned the woman the hand had belonged to.
Victorino wasn’t the only one paying attention to the news lady. One by one, his Latin King
pandilleros
turned to look at him, not staring but letting him know they weren’t stupid.
In the last few months, Victorino—the V-man—had mysteriously lost three, maybe four,
chulas
, and, goddamn it, it had to stop. Next, his homeys, his
pandilleros hermanos
, would do more than just stare at him. They would be laughing behind his back, making jokes that the
jefe
had lost his balls.
Victorino had suspected for months who was stealing his girls. Maybe selling them, maybe starting a prostitution business, maybe killing them, too—not that he cared, not really. There were always plenty of immigrant girls to choose from. But he couldn’t tolerate a public display of disrespect, and the bony hand of one of his dead
chulas
on the six o’clock news was as public as it could get.
This bullshit had to stop. Laziro had worked too hard building an organization, recruiting soldiers, disciplining his
Indígena
girls, sometimes even his
pandilleros
when a soldier got out of line.
Yes, it had to stop. And Victorino knew exactly who to see to make that happen.
He stood, dropped a fifty on the table from a turquoise money clip, then threw his homeys a hand sign before pushing his way to the door—two fingers creating devil horns. He paused for a moment to confirm the nods of deference he deserved. Then he drove his truck to Red Citrus trailer park, where he expected to find Harris Squires. The
gringo
giant was all muscle but no backbone. V-man had bullied the shit out of the dude more than once, so no problem. He was looking forward to cutting this white boy down to size.