Sinclair Justice Read online

  Two hours later, she’d filled three pages with various tidbits of information, and as she read what she’d compiled, she felt a frisson run up her spine. She sensed she’d stumbled onto the victim profile of the human trafficking conduit that had swept away Yancy and Jennifer. The girl was the same age as Jennifer, the same wild, party girl type, and from the picture in the article, she even looked like Jennifer. Now she had the name of the bar where the girl had been taken, Emm was pretty sure it was even in the same seedy Baltimore area as the bar Yancy had been searching when she was grabbed.

  Why had none of the authorities picked up on this link? Or had they, and dismissed it as circumstantial? She knew the Baltimore cops she’d worked with had never mentioned this missing girl. Surely they’d made the connection? Emm debated calling them and demanding they follow up on their end now that the missing persons case had become a murder, given the discovery of the body. But she knew the Baltimore cops would have sent all their findings to the Texas Department of Public Safety, especially after the case was reopened as a murder investigation. Sinclair would probably have information in his files. She closed out the menus she had open and logged off, debating whether she should raise the issue with him or contact the TxDPS office in Lubbock, which now had jurisdiction.

  She was so deep in thought that as she slipped down off the stool, her elbow caught the bag of the woman sitting next to her and knocked it to the ground. The contents spilled out. “I’m so sorry,” Emm began, but she froze in reaching out to help pick everything up when she saw a small revolver gleaming on the linoleum.

  A large, capable hand nonchalantly put the gun back. Still kneeling, Emm looked into the sharpest gray eyes she’d ever seen. The woman waved a dismissive hand as she stood to her full, imposing height. “No problem; I should have shoved it to the other side.” She offered a hand. “Hermione Abigail Doyle, just arrived in Amarillo a few days ago.”

  “Mercy Magdalena Rothschild. I just got here, too.” Emm was much shorter than this Amazon, and she tried not to feel intimidated as she shook the woman’s hand, which swallowed her own.

  “And on a similar mission, I perceive.”

  Emm was puzzled. “Uh . . .”

  “Investigating human and drug trafficking. I believe we may be interested in the same case, for different reasons. You’re from Baltimore?”

  Now Emm was floored. “How could you possibly know that?”

  The woman nodded at the key fob attached to Emm’s purse. “There’s only one BMW in the parking lot and it has a Baltimore dealership above the Maryland plate number.” That laserlike gray gaze zeroed in on the articles showing beneath Emm’s notes. “ ‘Human Trafficking Texas Task Force Offers Rewards,’” she read off the title.

  Impressed in a way she seldom was upon first meeting someone, Emm shoved her notes and articles back into her briefcase. “Great deductions.” She looked the tall woman up and down, noting the conservative gray suit and plain white cotton blouse that boasted no adornment. Even the buttons were hidden. “Your parents were from England, because there’s a trace of it in your voice. And you have to hide how smart and capable you are because you’re a woman in a man’s field.”

  Those gray eyes flickered in surprise, and it was obvious few people ever used Ms. Doyle’s own deductive reasoning against her.

  Emm smiled warmly. “In that way we’re kindred spirits; men dominate my field, also.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card, which she offered.

  After reading the card, Abigail smiled and reciprocated with her own card. Emm read, “Dr. Hermione Abigail Doyle, Consultant.” Below that, in smaller print, was the title, “Forensics, Texas Rangers.” The address was in Austin.

  Emm carefully stuck the card in the zipper pocket of her purse. “It might be helpful if we compared notes. Would you be available for lunch?”

  Ms. Doyle hesitated. Somehow Emm knew this imposing woman was not married, not only because she didn’t wear a ring but because she probably intimidated the heck out of most men.

  “I can’t share much with you.”

  “I know. But I can share with you. I have a feeling you catch things other investigators might miss. Most importantly, we both very badly want to see this human trafficking ring broken into bits, do we not?”

  Ms. Doyle didn’t bother to deny either assertion. She motioned a hand before her. “Lead on, Ms. Rothschild.”

  Emm led the way to the parking lot.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was almost five when Ross finally took time to eat his take out sub sandwich, now stale, but he hardly noticed. He was growing increasingly frustrated at the progress—or, more accurately, lack thereof—of the human trafficking investigation, no matter how much money they threw at it. Public awareness of the problem had finally brought in billions in federal dollars and more than six hundred million from State of Texas funds to purchase gunboats, drones, listening devices, weapons, surveillance cameras, and even seismic equipment to help them locate tunnels at the porous 1,241-mile border between Texas and Mexico. Hundreds of new Border Patrol agents had been hired, and the governor had once even called in the National Guard to battle the flow of illegal immigrants.

  However, though the unaccompanied minors fleeing Central American violence were trying to get into the US, as opposed to the young women being smuggled out, the modes of transport were very similar and often involved the same coyotes and gangs. And both were highly lucrative for the myriad criminals and Mexican nationals involved in the trade, with money greasing palms all the way down the line from cartel boss to paisano. It was literally impossible to keep up with all the potential links because they were so fluid. By the time they had proof enough to arrest a source, like the independent big-rig driver who’d been stopped at the border with drugged women hidden in the false bottom of his cargo bay, the conduit moved to another location and another trafficker.

  As he scarfed down the last of his sandwich, Ross glared at the towering pile of files leaning against his office wall. On the rare occasion when he got to send one to the dead files after it was marked, “Case Closed,” it seemed three sprang up to take its place.

  In 2009, the TxDPS had established a special Ranger division known as the Ranger Reconnaissance Team. They had authority throughout Texas to conduct in-depth, military-style covert investigations designed to infiltrate and stop the drug cartels. Rumor had it they even had access to high surveillance aircraft. Most of their operations were on the Texas–Mexico border, and it was their intelligence gathering that offered the best hope of rescue for the kidnapped women. Not even Ross was privy to their detailed tactics or information unless he went straight to the head of their unit, a privilege because of his status as a Ranger captain, but one he seldom utilized, knowing from his own cases that the fewer eyes and ears on sensitive data, the better the chance of keeping it under wraps.

  However, with the murder of the kidnapped girl in Lubbock, and now, just today, another case from another bar in downtown Baltimore, as well as the abductions of Emm’s family, it was time he used that privilege. He needed to see if they could collaborate to trace this part of the trafficking ring back to the East Coast source. So many cases in a year from the same area had to mean it was a conduit; somewhere at the top and the bottom of the route, someone, probably an upper echelon crime boss for the East Coast, had all the information to bust the entire chain.... Ross pulled two new files from the teetering stack on his desk and opened them to read as he nibbled on apple slices. He’d requested copies of all the files linked to Baltimore after Emm’s pleas last night, and he was still trying to absorb everything.

  As he’d noted when Emm showed him their photos on her phone, Yancy and Jennifer looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. The vast majority of the kidnapped girls were in their teens, as the sleazebag johns tended to prefer younger women. But it wasn’t unheard of for one of the cartel members to take a shine to an older woman, especially if she came with a daughter who looked
like her. Ross flipped through Yancy’s thick file. The Baltimore cops had been thorough: They had everything, including her application to the city of Baltimore, where she’d clerked in what appeared to be one of many odd jobs. Sure enough, she was listed as fluent in Spanish. He thumbed through Jennifer’s much smaller file, but there was nothing on her language proficiency. He made a mental note to ask Emm.

  His apple slices forgotten, Ross stared into space. He’d worked human trafficking cases for years, though only in the last few had they become so pervasive and difficult to crack. These days, the cartels hired their own hackers and were increasingly creative in their money laundering. Usually, no matter the crime, if you tracked the money, it would eventually lead to the perps. But girls forced into prostitution barely left a trace, and they were usually shuffled around frequently under assumed names, making them even harder to track.

  But if Yancy had been lucky enough—or unlucky enough—to catch the eye of a cartel honcho, there was a slim possibility she was still in cartel custody along with her daughter. That, allied with the expensive drug she was on, might trip their databases with a lead, but what he had in mind would require very sophisticated analysis. All his men were swamped, as was he, so Ross turned to his computer. He was looking for the introductory e-mail he recalled from a division meeting. A new consultant had been hired, a former MI6 operative who’d moved to the US, become a citizen, and opened her own consulting firm. She was said to be the best the department had ever worked with in data collection and forensic analysis.

  Facts she’d doggedly traced had already led to the arrest of a new cartel boss and the seizure of a thousand pounds of marijuana and cocaine. Hiring her would put a big dent in his already battered budget, but his gut told him he was right and this was their best chance to trace the head of the cartel’s trafficking operations. Natural blondes were rare, especially in Mexico. . . . He had an opportunity to help Emm, as well as use her family’s cases and unusual profiles to crack the pipeline wide open.

  Ross dialed the number on his screen.

  Sitting across from Ms. Doyle at a cute diner several miles from downtown Amarillo, Emm swallowed the last of her sweet tea, wiped her mouth, and pushed her half-empty salad plate away. She’d spent most of the luncheon talking about Yancy and Jennifer; not just the facts of the case but who they were and why she was so worried about them. She knew Yancy, and possibly Jennifer, too, would resist captivity even if it meant extreme peril. “I . . . have a feeling if they’re not found soon, it will be too late,” she said, signaling for the check as Ms. Doyle’s phone rang.

  Ms. Doyle rummaged in her briefcase and removed her cell phone. She glanced at the caller ID, then put the phone back in her briefcase without comment. “You do realize it may already be too late,” she said gently.

  Emm nodded, a knot in her throat. Her fingers trembled a bit as she opened her wallet, but a large, gentle hand took the tab away from her.

  Ms. Doyle nodded at the waitress, brandishing a credit card. “Allow me,” she said over Emm’s protests. “Your story has been most elucidating and this is a deductible expense for me.”

  Emm couldn’t argue with that.

  After she signed the bill, tipped and thanked the waitress, and pocketed her card, Ms. Doyle rose, sweeping a hand before her toward the exit. Their cars were parked next to each other. “You have my card,” Ms. Doyle said. “Call me if you think of anything else pertinent.” She gave what was, Emm suspected, a warm smile for her severe countenance. “Call even if you don’t. I don’t know anyone here either. I’m about to go to the DPS offices. They’ve hired my services to assist them with drug interdiction, but drug and human trafficking are most often committed by the same cartels, so there is much crossover data.”

  Emm nodded, waved, and got into her own car. That night, after another light restaurant meal that didn’t appeal to her, she scowled at her silent cell phone. She’d hoped all day it would ring with Ross’s number. She was expecting him to call with the evidence warehouse address so she could view the pipe. She hoped he hadn’t gotten cold feet. . . .

  She tried to concentrate on the historic study she was writing on a building she’d surveyed in Baltimore before she left. The investigation with Ross hadn’t taken much of her time so far, so she was scrupulous enough to put in her hours in other ways, and she had plenty of work. This particular building had been purchased recently by an experienced developer of historic properties. His intent was to do an apartment loft conversion, but his initial application for historic tax credits had been denied. He’d appealed that decision, bumping it up to Emm.

  She already knew the building, so reviewing the pictures, plans, and current zoning information should have been easy for her. Instead, she was having a hard time concentrating. She started when a firm knock came at the door. She was in her teddy, sipping a glass of wine, so she called out, “Give me a minute,” while she dug through her suitcase for her robe. She finally found it and wrapped it tightly around herself. There was a view hole in the door, but she wasn’t surprised to find it opaque. Lots of little things tended not to work in old buildings. Besides, she felt entirely safe, so she flung the door open.

  “Oh, hello . . . Ross. Mr. Sinclair.”

  Ross smiled. “I like the first one better.”

  She flushed as a thorough blue gaze ran over her from her mussed hair to her makeup-less face and down the old chenille robe, fraying at the sleeves, to her slippered feet. Wishing she’d taken time to buy that new robe she’d kept promising herself, she opened the door wide and stepped back. “Would you like to come in?”

  “For just a moment.” He entered as she closed the door. With that all-seeing, all-encompassing gaze she’d noticed the first time she’d met him, when he wrote her the ticket, he took in her worktable, laptop, files, and messy, half-open suitcase. His smile had disappeared as he reached for something in his pocket. “I had this brought up from evidence today. Is this your sister’s custom pipe?”

  Emm’s stomach fell in disappointment. She’d wanted to see more of the evidence than just the pipe, and he knew that, damn him. Still, she carefully turned the plastic bag over. It had a series of numbers written on it, along with Yancy’s last name, but even through the bag she recognized it instantly.

  “Yes, that’s it. I’ve seen her smoke it often enough . . . but I thought you said you wanted me to view more of the evidence, clothes and the like?”

  “This is enough authentication because the lab already confirmed it was custom, one of a kind.” When she still stared at him, his gaze fell. “I decided this was quicker and easier than taking you to the warehouse.”

  For me or for you? The words almost escaped before she swallowed them. She knew he was trying to keep distance between them, and she knew why, because she felt the same electrical current every time he was near. It was raising the hairs on the nape of her neck now.

  Her voice was cooler than she intended, but she had to know. . . . “What happens now? Now that you have confirmation from a family member that Yancy and probably Jennifer are in this group of women taken by the Los Lobos cartel, what else can I do to help?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not your job, it’s mine, but this was helpful. These men are extremely dangerous, as should be evident given the way your sister was snatched when she was looking for her daughter. I promise to keep you apprised of any progress . . . an easier task, of course, when you’re here. . . . You heard from the structural engineer?”

  “Yes, he’s working up a proposal. If it’s okay, I asked him to copy me on it as well.”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s swamped, so he said it might be a week or so before he can get here to do the survey.”

  “As long as we get it done before my family comes to Amarillo, that’s fine. They’re going to start arriving toward the end of the month.”

  “We should be able to make that.” She sat down on the bed, waving him into the one chair, crossing her legs and bounci
ng the fluffy slipper on her heel. She could tell herself she was just fidgety, but in reality she knew she was transferring sexual energy to kinetic energy. The motion also caused the bottom of her robe to gap open, but she was feminine enough to want him to look, to provoke at least some of the same vulnerability she felt in his presence. His gaze raked her legs compulsively, but he quickly looked back at her face.

  “I never figured you for chenille.”

  The words took a moment to click. “Why don’t you say what you really mean?” At his guarded look, she added softly, “You’d rather not have to figure me at all.” Her foot perversely bounced faster and her slipper flew off, brushing him in the shin.

  She expected him to kick it aside, but instead he picked up the slipper and knelt at her feet. When she stayed frozen in shock, he calmly lifted her foot onto his bent leg and put the slipper back on. Then he held her foot on top of his knee, appraising her legs closely and thoroughly, so thoroughly that she blushed. She snatched her foot away, the fleeting contact making all her feminine parts excruciatingly sensitive.

  His lips curving as if he saw right through her downcast eyes, he stood. When she was brave enough to lift her gaze, she noted his blue eyes had softened somewhat. Instead of the corny Cinderella reference she expected, he said, “You have lovely feet and legs. Why do you hide them in sensible footwear and those frumpy suits you wear?”