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The Death Box(54)



“What might that be, sir?”

“A wise man never promises until he can deliver. Might I expect you at half-past twelve?”

“We’ll be there.”

I called Gershwin. He was having breakfast at Tiki Tiki and would meet me downtown. Next I dialed the number that replayed messages on my office phone and had but one, from Roy.

“Hey buddy, how’s the house-hunting going? Good, I hope. Don’t want my favorite psycho-hunting dick sleeping beneath an underpass.”

I hadn’t done anything about a new place. I called Gershwin and told him I’d be delayed a bit. On my way to Miami I pulled into several homes with For Sale signs visible. Most of the signs had attached boxes holding hand-out sheets of the properties’ prices and particulars. A pattern emerged: anything vaguely resembling a decent place to live cost twice what I’d figured I could pay. It seemed that, in the Keys at least, my simple taste far exceeded my wallet. Or maybe I was spoiled by living on Dauphin Island and at my current jungle-equipped address.

The fruitlessness of my pursuit depressed me and I blew it from my head with high-decibel Jimmy Buffet on the drive in. I wasn’t particularly a Buffet fan, but suspected driving without at least one Buffet CD in your vehicle was grounds for a ticket in the Keys.

When I arrived the office was empty, the crew out on various cases and Roy somewhere else. He’d left a stack of real-estate publications on my chair. Gershwin breezed in ten minutes later peeling a banana. He jammed most of it in his mouth, tossed the peel over his shoulder into the trash bin, shot me a thumbs up.

“Whass op, Big Rybe?” he said around a mouthful of banana.

I started to say something, realized the futility, shifted to business. “We have a meeting with Kazankis at twelve-thirty. He said he might have something interesting. We’ll see.”

“What until then?” Gershwin asked, sucking his fingertips.

I tossed him a few of the real-estate mags, kept several for myself. “Go through these and circle anything under three hundred thou that’s not a rathole.”

“The sand about to run out on your tropical paradise?”

“I think I’m down to three grains. Get circling.”





29





Victoree Johnson was clearing her desk, trying to stay abreast of files and alerts from similar organizations across the globe. The phone rang and she noted it wasn’t her university line.

“Human Anti-Trafficking Project, this is Victoree.”

Nothing. Victoree Johnson knew the silence of fear. “Are you in trouble, my friend?” she whispered. Still nothing. She tried again in Spanish.

Silence for several seconds. Then a tiny shaking voice. “I think I am in trouble big.”

“Can you talk? Is it safe?”

“At this moment.”

“Tell me of the trouble.”

“I-I came here on a big ship, in a metal box. I was taken to a bad place and made to do things that sickened me. But if I didn’t I was hurt. Bad people want to hurt my mama in Honduras.”

Victoree Johnson frowned. Honduras. The detective sent her way by Doctor Morningstar was investigating that terrible case from Honduras. Johnson had agreed with Morningstar’s assessment of Ryder: He seems to have brains.

“Can you warn her?” Johnson asked. “Your mother?”

“I did. I told her to run to Tegucigalpa. I pray she is safe.”

“Good, that’s very good. But you are not safe?”

“I ran from them. They are looking for me, I know.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Lea … Leala.”

“Can I meet you, Leala?”

“I-I don’t think I w-want to …”

Easy, Johnson cautioned herself. Don’t spook her; she’s afraid she’s being drawn into a trap. I would have been.

“It’s all right, Leala,” Johnson said quickly. “It’s not necessary. You have my number. Keep it safe.”

Johnson thought about what else she might offer the girl in this initial contact. There was something about the man Ryder, more than the intellect, a depth. They’d spoken after discussing trafficking, his thoughts reflecting knowledge of people, the highest angels and lowest demons. In policemen, such knowledge either made one jaded or driven. Ryder seemed much the latter. That might make him a potent ally to people like her caller.

“Here’s another phone number,” she said, not quite certain why she was breaking pattern. “A man who might help.”

“Who is this man?”

Johnson decided on the truth. “He is a detective in—”

“NO! Your sign said no policía.”

“He is not a federale or from inmigración. He cares not of citizenship, only safety. He is a special detective from a special place called FCLE. He represents the state of Florida, not the big government. He is studying people from Honduras, people you know, perhaps. Have any of your friends disap—”