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My thoughts turn to the twenty-two girls, and what their last weeks were like. Where did they come from? How did they get here? Who brought them here? Who killed them and threw their bodies away like trash? Lost in my thoughts, I head home.
After a shower and some breakfast, I sit down to read up on human trafficking. Three hours later, I’ve lost faith in humanity. Completely. I’m beginning to wonder if the twenty-two girls in the morgue aren’t the luckier ones.
I’ve known NYPD detective Matthew Hensley ever since I did a report on police corruption. He was suspended over it at the time, but a little investigation by yours truly revealed that Hensley’s superior was not only a dirty cop, but planting evidence so Hensley took the fall for his deeds. Hensley has been promoted, and he’s had a soft spot for me since.
Outside of the precinct is a coffee truck, so I grab two before heading in. It’s business hours, therefore negating any need to be sneaky. The bullpen is a busy place, with dozens of officers at desks and milling around, phones ringing, and the constant buzz of printers and faxes. A very loud and very animated woman is giving a statement about Elvis stealing her car from her house this morning. No one gives me a second glance. Hensley’s office is on the second floor, overlooking the chaos, with his door propped open and an industrial-sized bottle of antacids on his desk.
“Hiya, Hensley!” I say, helping myself to a chair. The man himself is in his late forties, graying at the temples. His brown eyes could bore a hole into your soul if you ended up on his bad side. Despite his age and rank, his physique is still reminiscent to the college football quarterback he once was. He smiles, showing off a set of straight white teeth.
“Roxanne! What a surprise!” He takes the coffee I’m holding out to him like a drowning man given a life ring. “What’s the occasion?”
“Do I need an occasion to catch up with an old friend?” I aim for an innocent expression. I’m pretty sure I failed.
“Of course not,” he says, “but I know what your ‘reporter’ face looks like, and you’ve got it on right now.”
Damn observant cop. “It’s that obvious?”
“Kid, never play poker for money, you’ll lose.” His laugh is deep and infectious. “What are you working on this time?”
“The pile of dead girls stacking up in the morgue like cordwood.” I give him a deadpan look. His mood sours instantly.
“This is New York; the morgue always has bodies stacking up.” He seems evasive. Interesting.
“Oh, absolutely, but a dozen over a few months with similar CODs and physical characteristics isn’t typical.” I’m intentionally blurring some of the facts. Hensley looks uncomfortable. Actually, he looks worried.
“Roxanne, you’ve been here long enough to know how often bad things happen in this town. It’s easy to see unrelated incidents and pick and choose facts until you see a connection that isn’t there. Sorry, kid, but this story is a dead end.”
Whoa. Matthew Hensley just lied to me. Also, he looks to be dangerously close to having a stroke.
I sigh. “Oh, I see what you mean. You’re probably right.” I watch the tension in his shoulders melt just a little bit. “I did have just a few questions for a Detective Reynolds. I don’t recognize the name from homicide though.”
Hensley swallows. “Oh, yeah. Newer guy, don’t think you’ve met. He’s out sick today.”
Now that, that was a bold-face lie. “Well,” I say, grabbing my purse and coffee, “it’s not a big deal anyway. Like you said, there’s no story here. Thanks for the chat, Hensley.”
He smiles. “It was good seeing you, kid. Stay safe out there.”
Interesting. One of the most honorable cops I’ve met is lying to my face, and the investigation is being handled by a detective that’s mysteriously absent.
I’m almost out of the lobby when I notice the receptionist with the neat business card holders lined up on her desk.
“Hi.” I give her my best smile. “I forgot to get Detective Reynolds’ card when I was in his office. Do you have one here?”
The receptionist looks at me over her thick glasses. “Certainly, sweetie. Here you go.”
Printed in neat blue font next to the NYPD seal, I read the words:
Detective J. Reynolds, Organized Crime
CHAPTER7
Based on the days the bodies were found and their estimated times of death, I’ve started to get a rough idea of when they likely arrived in NYC, plus or minus a bit. My next question, how are they getting the girls here? With forensics suggesting that the girls were foreign, it seems likely by plane or boat. I’m halfway through a glass of orange juice when it hits me. Scurvy. At least one of the girls had been isolated without fresh food long enough to develop a critical vitamin deficiency. Air transportation seems unlikely. It’s just too quick. A boat though. Take a poor, probably malnourished at baseline girl, stick her in a box without enough food, and ship her across the ocean for a few weeks, and scurvy seems much more likely.
I know port records are available to the public, or at least a lot of the records are, if you submit a request. I also know that takes time and generates a paper trail. With the organized crime connection, I’d like to keep a lower profile until I’m ready to break the story. It’s harder to murder a journalist right after a major story.
So I go with the next best thing. A low-cut top, a push-up bra, and a ditzy attitude. I stroll into the port authority office and thank my lucky stars I only see one employee; he’s young, and he hasn’t looked up from my cleavage since I walked in. I’ve spent years cultivating a neutral, professional tone of voice. Usually I have to be either drunk or angry to let my accent slip out. Today I drop all of that and let every bit of sweet Texas twang fall out of my mouth.
“Oh, hi!” I smile sweetly at the employee. “I was hoping you could help me.”
