Dragonfly Bones (21 page)

28

“I
've got three different data sets to show you,” Don said on the cell. “I don't see you hooked into the satellite downlink yet.”

“Working it,” I said.

One of the few things I'd brought from my Tucson house was a SATCOM phone device. Don gave me specific coordinates and frequencies, but I still couldn't connect my Powerbook to the downlink. I kept hearing snorts in my earpiece, Don impatient and frustrated that I wasn't doing things fast enough.

“I think I've got it,” I said, clicking through the last set of windows.

“Yeah. Okay. I just got pinged, we're connected.”

“Is this a secure link?”

“Everything Aquitek does is secure. Okay. Here's the first data set.”

“Hold on. I'm going to transfer this call to a speakerphone, so Nathan can talk if he's got questions.”

Brittles huddled on another chair just behind me, one hand resting against my neck, his breath on my ear. A short list of names popped onto the screen, the list divided into two groups. Seven names in the bottom group, three on top.

“Father Micah, okay, we know him,” I said. “Who exactly
is
Tamár Gordon? Who is Anthony Galliano?”

“Galliano, I don't know yet. I've got an idea, but I'm waiting for input. Gordon, I ran her through Coplink, out of Tucson. Took one hell of a lot of persuading, they don't like private companies using the data. But they knew me well enough, and I called in a few favors from Justice in Washington. Tamár Gordon, which seems to be her real name, is a member of the Circuit.”

“What's that?” I said.

“Brothels,” Brittles said, his coffee breath strong.

“Not just any old brothels,” Don said. “The Circuit has been around in some form for half a century. Thirteen of the biggest houses were just closed down, the madams—or managers, as they're known—arrested and charged. But probably new houses have already been set up to replace the ones that closed. They use only high-class women, they have no pimps, they arrange exclusive client dates, and every few months, sometimes just a few weeks, the girls are moved to another location to keep fresh bodies in front of the clients. Rates usually from a thousand a night all the way to ten thousand once two girls are involved.”

“I don't get it,” I said. “So there are expensive whores. So what?”

“Keep those names in your head. Okay. Here's the second data set. It's huge, so I'm just going to give you one screen's worth.”

A list of items, names, addresses, phone numbers, and credit cards.

“From the call center?” I asked.

“Every order or information inquiry from the last six months.”

“How much data is there?”

“A ton. From all fifty states. The Caribbean, Europe, Japan.”

“What does it tell us?” Brittles asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “It's just raw data. So how are you sorting it, Don?”

“Ten different ways. My hunch, though, is that the sort I'm doing just for names in the Tucson area will tell us something.”

“How long before you're finished crunching all the data?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes. When it's done, you'll know. Okay. Look at this.”

A third data set came onto the screen. I scrolled down, saw it was about three pages long. A list of names, ages, sex, addresses, and phone numbers. I saw Abbe's name in the list.

“From the camp,” I said. “Is this everybody?”

“Just the residents. I've got a separate listing for the staff, but I've found something really interesting here. Wait one.”

He manipulated the data, and my screen now showed just female names.

“Thirty-seven girls there,” Don said. “But let me call up one more thing…okay, check this out.”

The list on my screen now showed just eleven names.

“Print that out,” Don said. I hit the printer icon. “Now, here's our real Christmas and birthday present all in one.”

Another list appeared, male and female names arranged in two columns.

“Left side, girls and boys in the camp. Right side, the sponsor who signed them in and paid the fees. Notice anything?”

“Twenty-seven,” Brittles said, running his finger down the screen. “And twelve. Twenty-seven and twelve. Wait a minute, wait just a minute!”

“Tamár Gordon sponsored twenty-seven girls over the past year. Galliano sponsored twelve boys.”

“How did you get this data?” Brittles said.

“The camp computer had an Internet connection. For their website. I got in through a back door, a flaw in the Microsoft web server. I've got all kinds of data on both residents and sponsors, but these lists just jumped right out at me. Like seeing a typo in a book you're reading, pop, you lose interest in everything else and focus attention on the typo. Now. Are you ready to hear more about Tamár Gordon?”

“Come on, Don. Just tell us, no need to boast about it.”

“Ah, Laura, you know I love nothing better than success with data. Okay. Gordon is the true money behind the camp. We've tracked her bank accounts, the accounts of the camp. Enough shifting of her money into camp accounts to leave no doubt that she's in charge. And…she owns a big house in Tucson.”

“Give it to me,” Brittles said. “We'll go there.”

“No, no, no,” Don said. “I've got a much more creative idea.”

“How about Galliano?” I asked.

“Tough nut to crack. This is totally conjecture. No records in any U.S. law enforcement database on Anthony Galliano. But in New York City there were three arrests for assault in the past year for an Antonio-Chelín Galeano. Colombian.”

“So?”

“That biker in your backyard,” Don said. “With the gun. He was Hispanic, no? He was young, no? Well, I traced the name Chelín Galeano to Medellín. He's dead, murdered a year ago. One of their thirteen-year-old hit men. A
sicario,
they're called. Murder squads for the drug cartels. These young boys are never sent to prison because of a government law, so they go to rehabilitation camps, spend a few months there, get back out on the streets. I talked with a captain on the Medellín drug squad. He says that somebody else took Galeano's name a few years ago. An older man, probably in his forties. Their passport control showed that Galeano flew to the States fifteen months ago. Nobody knows where he is. My guess—”

“Is that he's got really good identity papers,” I said.

“That's right. Anthony Galliano. Somehow connected to Tamár Gordon. I'd suspect that he's chief of her security. Handles all her dirty laundry.”

“I want to pull my daughter out of that camp,” I said to Brittles.

“Hold on,” Don said. “The director of the camp, a preacher named Father Micah, lives on the premises, but never came
home last night. I've got the Florence Police Department looking into a possible disappearance. I don't want to pull your daughter out, I don't want to do
any
thing that might spook Gordon and Galliano.”

“No way,” I shouted. “I'm going up there myself.”

“Laura,” Brittles said. “If this man is really that Colombian, then he's supervising young kids recruited from the murder squads in Medellín. Look at that list of the boys he sponsored. Some of the Colombian kids may be in the camp. One of them may be the biker that shot up your house. If you show up, both you and your daughter could be in serious trouble.”

The speakerphone remained silent as Brittles's words took hold of my heart.

“I can't just sit around and
wait
for something to happen to her.”

“Well,” Don said, “I've got this really creative idea.”

“Go,” Brittles said, squeezing my shoulder.

“Let's rattle Tamár Gordon's cage. If I'm right, she's got Galliano taking care of business. Somehow, those girls that Gordon sponsored are related to her work on the Circuit. They're probably recruits. The names all look foreign. Lots of Asians, which are in hot demand by Circuit clients. So Gordon somehow has got all she wants from this camp, and she's got Galliano killing everybody that knows. The two men you found dead and tortured, they undoubtedly had some part in things, like that young girl. Theresa Prejean. And unless I'm really wrong, Father Micah isn't going to turn up again.”

“That leaves me with one real question,” I said. “What the hell does the credit card scam have to do with any of this?”

“Whoa,” Brittles said. “I've got it. Don. Have your machines finished that list of people in Tucson who are in the call center database?”

“Just done.”

“Sort out all the men. Then, how much trouble would it be to run the list of women's names against the actual people? I
mean, can you verify that all the women are still alive?”

Don must have been struck with the same horror and understanding that silenced me. Brittles saw my comprehension, waited for Don to talk.

“Identity theft,” he said finally. “A whole new wrinkle on an old scam.”

“Used to be,” Brittles said, “people who wanted fake identities just went to newspaper clippings or cemeteries, looking for names of children who'd died really young. That name would be turned into an almost hundred-proof guaranteed new identity. So if there are women on your list from the call center who are single, probably with no real family ties, maybe even new to Tucson, but women who've mysteriously disappeared in the last year—their identities could be given to the young girls from the camp. They go out on the circuit with names guaranteed to have no arrest records for prostitution. Absolutely clean names. Kept clean by the Circuit. Am I right or am I right?”

“Stay there until you hear back from me,” Don said.

“How long?” Brittles asked.

But Don had already hung up. He never wasted time talking when he had a hot lead on data. I disconnected the satellite downlink feed, hung up the phone.

“He never told us his creative idea,” I said.

29

H
e called back in fifty minutes.

“I picked one name at random, a woman from Tucson who has moved out of town. Apparently an orphan, no known relatives, no forwarding address. I picked another name at random. Same pattern. I've got somebody here tracking down more names, but I don't want to wait. I
checked those two names against a standard informational database. One woman is now living in Kansas City, the other in New Orleans. Only problem is their age, which is at least twenty years younger than that of the two Tucson women who disappeared.”

“Call Tamár Gordon,” Brittles said.

“I'm about to do that. I've got her cell number and I'm going to make her an interesting proposition that she'll find hard to refuse. Okay, I've patched you into another cell here, you'll be able to hear my call, but I'm going to cut out your ability to talk. Just listen and make whatever notes you want. Laura, what's the swankiest place in Tucson where we could rent a very expensive, very private set of rooms?”

“Arizona Inn,” I said. “That's the only one I think of.”

“Good. Now. When my voice comes on, I'll be running it through a filter. Won't sound like me at all. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Clicks and pops on the line, suddenly a dial tone.

“Yes?” a woman's voice said.

“Tamár Gordon.” Don's voice was deeper, with an Eastern European accent. “My name is Stefan Grozny.”

“I don't know that name. How did you get this number?”

“I work in Bangkok, Miss Gordon. You must have a way of quickly verifying my name and what I do there. Do that. I'll call you back in exactly ten minutes.”

He disconnected, his real voice coming back.

“I had an Interpol contact set me up with that name,” he said. “A procurer of Asian girls for European brothels. Unknown in the States, but well known overseas. He was just arrested last week, held without bail or communication from anybody.”

He hung up and nine minutes later dialed Gordon's number again.

“You checked,” Don said.

“Stefan Grozny has three scars on his torso. Where are they? What shape?”

“I have two scarred bullet holes in my left lower abdomen,” Don said. “And a long knife scar running down my right leg, from a time I was careless at the beach.”

“Let's say that you really are Grozny,” Gordon said. “Why are you calling me?”

“You know what I can provide?”

“Yes. Young women.”

“Girls. Only Thai girls. No Vietnamese, no Laotian, no Chinese.”

“Yes?” Gordon said.

“I know how your Circuit works.”

“How did you find that out?” She took a deep breath and sighed.

“Your Circuit has been smuggling girls through Hong Kong for several months. Since young, pure Thai girls are very rare these days, I thought you'd be interested in a onetime supply.”

“And how much product are we talking about?” she asked.

“Fifty girls. All with guaranteed identity papers, U.S. citizenship.”

“And how much for this product?”

“Ten thousand a girl.”

“Out of the question,” Gordon said.

“If I know enough about you to call your private cell phone, I also know how your finances work. These girls would draw top money. But I'd make an even better suggestion. Sell them. Lots of rich men in your hemisphere like to buy young girls, keep them secure, keep them happy. I know of many such transactions where the product sale price is well above twenty thousand. You'd make one hundred percent.”

“Where are you now, Mr. Stefan Grozny?”

“Mexico City. I have a potential client here, but his understanding of the value of this product isn't so high. He likes Hispanics to screw Hispanic girls. I'm booked into New York tomorrow. If you don't agree to meet me tomorrow morning, I'll just fly to New York.”