The Death Box(35)

“That was it? All over?”

“Some cop got her into a program. She was clean in a month and in school in three. Intercessions were made on her behalf and she was naturalized. She’s about to get a PhD in Sociology and fights against human trafficking. It’s an incredible story. Most sex slaves never live to see forty.”

“It’s amazing that she did.”

A laugh from Roy.

“What?” I asked.

“Victoree Johnson will be forty in eleven more years, Ryder. It’s a rough life.”

Roy reluctantly stubbed out his cigar against his heel and we entered the tent, the over-cranked air conditioning feeling like a meat locker. “Jesus,” Roy said. “One second it’s ninety-five, the next it’s sixty. Bet you won’t miss coming here, Carson.”

His words threw me. “Is the operation heading to the morgue? Are they that close to dismantling the column?”

“The case is over, bud. Gone.”

“What?”

“We thought the site was a dumping ground for a serial killer’s vics. But it’s a grave for victims of trafficking. Not our jurisdiction.”

Five days into the case and I finally thought we had an angle to pursue. If Carosso’s murder was part of the scheme, we might make a connection and start zeroing in on the mastermind. And the case was getting stripped away on a turf technicality? “We’re looking at as many as seventeen bodies, Roy,” I argued. “And the person behind this is as cold and calculating as any sociopath.”

“That may be true. What’s also true is the jurisdiction is shifting to Homeland Security. The borders got breached, bud. That’s their biz and fifteen minutes after I called, they were here.”

We neared the column. I saw two suited men studying the diminished structure, which now resembled a four-foot gray pencil-tip poking from the ground.

“Homeland Security, Roy?”

“As soon as I called to say they had a new case in their bag, they were on their way.”

“Will they be as fast to solve it as they were to claim it?” I asked, trying to keep my anger in check.

Roy didn’t seem to hear, instead giving me a fast background as we approached the stairway to the pit. “The senior guy is Sherman Rayles, a former US Army major and West Pointer.”

“What was Rayles’s last military assignment?”

A pause. “He worked at Gitmo.”

Guantanamo. Where his assignment could have involved anything from grilling suspected terrorists to managing the purchase of salad forks. Roy saw my uncertainty.

“He’s spit’n’polish, Carson. Dedicated to the mission, y’know?”

“But will his mission including solving the case?”

“Well, of course. But maybe he’ll come at it from a different angle.”

We descended the steps and the two men turned to inspect us. The older man was Rayles, a bit under average height with a face that would look at home on a recruiting poster: rectangular head, aquiline nose, square jaw with a pinch of dimple, salt-and-pepper hair buzzed short on the sides. He stood as straight as if a bolt of lightning had fused his spine into a plumb line drawn from earth to sky, and his chin jutted like it was his primary sensory organ.

“Carson, this is Sherman Rayles, Deputy Director of Homeland Security, South Florida Division. And this is Robert Pinker, his assistant.”

I shook hands with the pair. Rayles leaned back with his knuckles beneath his chin and studied me. Chances were that Homeland Security agents – fingers-in-every-pot types – had noted my move from Mobile and vetted me before I arrived. Depending on who they talked to I would be a free-rolling problem solver or a loose cannon. Unfortunately, HS was a bureaucratic hyperhive, and folks admiring of hive structure didn’t generally admire mine.

“Carson Ryder,” Rayles recited as if reading from a bullet-point presentation. “Eight-year homicide investigator with the Mobile Police Department. Three years as a street cop before that. Youngest patrol officer to ever make detective. You’ve earned a reputation for apprehending deranged criminals.” He paused. “Among other things.”

“Best man with psychos in our business, Sherm,” Roy beamed, his hand slamming my back like I was choking. “Nails ’em like nailing boards to a barn.”

“Um-hmm,” Rayles said, the eyes narrowing.

“Seems like human trafficking gone bad.” I nodded toward the diminishing obelisk to give Rayles’s eyes something different to study while I returned the once-over. Rayles’s black shoes were polished to an icy luster. His charcoal-gray suit, like his crisp white shirt and blue tie, was pressed so board-hard I knew the combination was his work uniform. He would wear a specific and unvarying uniform for gardening, another for golfing. When he wore pajamas he would think of them as his sleep uniform.