It all began innocently enough when Corrie and Cannon's old friends Bill Alred and TC were working security at a fancy party...
The women were young and blonde, beautiful enough to make Miss America jealous. They hung avidly on every word their older companions uttered. Soft background music wafted on the balmy Miami night air, punctuated with tinkling feminine laughter and the baritone hum of gentlemen's voices. A few couples danced on the large flagstone patio while others remained inside a great room the size of a modest cathedral.
The bartenders efficiently served up what TC called "frou-frou drinks" to the girls and pricy labels of hard stuff to the men. The array of curves spread around the room revealed an abundance of smooth pale skin barely covered by designer gowns. Here and there a young beauty draped an arm insinuatingly on a guy's shoulder. Some playfully fed elegant h'ordorves to their companions. Each paid rapt attention to the male voices and replied in soft murmurs to what was said.
"You'd think those old farts was smart as the friggin Dali Lama," Bill Alred muttered to his new security guard, Pete Wolosovich, a squat muscular man with a crew-cut and a uni-brow. His buzz cut was sprinkled with gray but not an ounce of fat shown on his body.
Pete ventured, "Bet they ain't rich as Johnny Fisk."
Jonathan Harold Fisk was the wealthy banker who had hired them as security guards for the party at his Spanish style mansion off Old Cutler Road. He paid well and it was one of the first jobs Al-Secure had landed since Bill and his friends formed the company the previous month.
"All I care about is the check we collect when this shindig is over." His eyes swept the crowd, checking for his other employees. Seeing the hulking frame of his partner TC, a tall rangy black man patrolling the balcony that encircled the great room, he said to Pete, "Take a swing around the patio and then check the cabana and the dock. We don't want any party crashers."
"Got it, boss." Pete took off.
Alred sent a quick text to TC, telling him to check the long hallway leading to the bedrooms on the second floor. He had an uneasy feeling about this gig. All of the girls were young and the men mostly middle aged or beyond. Dammit, I'm not a vice cop. If they're hookers, it isn't my problem.
His cop friend Frank Cannon might disagree and he knew for sure Doc Waterstone would. But building a business on a shoestring the way he, TC, Randy and Gwen had, they couldn't afford to be picky. The broads were dressed to the nines and dripping expensive jewelry. Then his troubled gaze settled on the youngest man in the room, a handsome dude with curly black hair sporting a wristwatch that would meet payroll for a month at Al-Secure.
Something about the guy was off. Like every other man in the place, he had a woman clinging adoringly on his shoulder, but he seemed to ignore her, his dark eyes roving restlessly around the crowd. Like he was watching everything going on.
Alred's phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, checking the text. It was from TC:
Get upstairs pronto! I think we got trouble.
Careful not to alarm the guests, Alred circled the perimeter of the big room, hastening his steps as he climbed the stairs. Thomas Collins, known to his friends as TC, or the Top Cat, had never been an alarmist. A former over the road trucker, he had proven himself to Bill during a desperate shooting situation when they first met. Alred spotted the larger man near the end of the long hall. That was when he heard sounds of a struggle and a woman's hysterical voice carrying through the heavy door.
"It's locked," TC said when Alred approached. "Should we break it? I can't make out the lingo, but that don't sound pretty, good buddy."
Alred cursed when he heard female sobbing and babbling in a foreign language as a man yelled in English. The sound of a fist smacking flesh made him pound on the door and say, "House security. Please open the door."
"Get the hell away and mind your own business," the man inside snarled, his voice slurred from too much booze or some less legit substance, but the feminine sobs continued, one weaker, higher pitched.
"There's two of 'em in with him," TC said.
"Break it," Alred replied. Although he was above medium height and muscular, he was dwarfed by his companion.
TC put his shoulder to the door and smashed the lock on the first hit. The door swung open and both men stepped inside. They saw two girls, the older one naked, kneeling on the bed, trying to restrain the man from reaching the kid, who cowered behind a heavy oak nightstand. The man was pushing Medicare age with a Jell-O-like paunch and spindly legs displayed beneath white boxers that emphasized his dead fish pallor.
Red faced, he screamed at the two larger men, "I'm a guest of Jon 's! Get the hell out of here or you're fired, you dumb shits!"
As TC moved closer to the bed, he replied, "If we get fired, we still won't be near as dumb as you."
Alred circled between the drunk and the little girl. God, she can't be more than twelve years old! She wore a Bo Peep kind of kiddy dress that turned his guts. Gasping in fright, she cried out in an alien language, perhaps pleading for help. Tears leaked from her wide blue eyes as she huddled against the wall.
The older girl on the bed wiped the blood from her cut lip as she looked from TC to Alred. On close inspection, she, too, appeared underage with her makeup smeared, mascara running and long blond hair tangled around her shoulders. Her expression appeared world weary yet defiant as she attempted to cover herself with her hands.
TC pulled a brocade coverlet from the foot of the bed and offered it to her gently as Alred said, "We won't let him hurt either of you, miss."
When she tried to respond, the drunk raised his hand, saying, "Not a word, you little bit-" TC spun him around, crushing his expensively manicured hand in a steel grip that brought a yelp of pain from the older man.
The girl wrapped the coverlet around her shoulders and nodded as she climbed off the end of the bed. She said in halting English, "Myself..." she touched her chest with one hand, "Don't care... Mila is sister. Too young." She shook her head. "Not do what he want."
TC pushed the drunk onto the mattress and glowered down at him. "Son of a bitch, you wanted a threesome with these kids!" he said, incredulously.
"Looks that way," Alred said through gritted teeth, battling his own instincts to beat the bastard till he looked like the skewered canapés downstairs. Instead, he grabbed a pair of expensive slacks and a silk shirt from a chair next to the bed and shoved them at the guy. "Get dressed, he said in a tone that made the man shut up and clumsily start to put on his clothes.
"What we gonna do, good buddy?" TC asked.
Sighing, Bill replied, "Let's see if we can get these two girls out of the house without disturbing the other guests. Put them in our van. You stay with them while I deal with this bastard and make a call for help."
"Fair enough. Give him a good whack for me-just to keep him quiet. Collins knew Bill Alred had been Special Forces and could disable an enemy effortlessly.
Bill waited while the trembling older girl put her clothing on. When she was dressed, he turned to her and asked, "What's your name?"
"A pretty name. Your accent is foreign. Russian?" He made a stab in the dark.
She shook her head. "Ukraine."
"You're a long way from home," he replied with a sinking feeling building in his gut. He'd read about international human trafficking. This was way above Al-Secure's pay grade.
He glanced at the kid still crammed against the wall. "Can you explain to Mila we want to help you? We'll take you to a safe place. No one's gonna hurt you or her again."
"She studied the muscular man with the acne-scarred face and faded red-gray hair. His gaze was direct and she sensed that he meant well. "Take Mila. I-I must stay. For others. He hurt them."
"Who's gonna hurt them?"
"I think she mean the other gals downstairs," TC said, adding, "Bet none of 'em old enough to buy a drink."
"We'll get the cops here to arrest those men and help your friends," he said to Nadia. "You'll all be safe." As he spoke he pressed 911 and gave a quick report.
Nadia listened, knowing the police would come. She stepped over to Mila and spoke in Ukrainian, her voice soft, soothing as she pulled the girl up and enfolded her in an embrace. But when she tried to get the girl to accept Alred's outstretched hand, the kid started to cry again, hugging Nadia even tighter. Another rapid exchange ensued. It appeared obvious Mila wasn't leaving her sis.
With a resigned sigh, Nadia said to Alred, "I go. You...promise help others?"
"I promise." His voice was solemn as he told TC, "You do the honors while I start for the van."
As soon as the door closed, TC landed two swift punches, one to the man's paunch, the other to his jaw. "That's one for each of 'em. Damn, my knuckles hurt," he muttered, shaking his hand as the child molester crumbled to the floor, out cold.
He quickly caught up with Alred a ways down the hall leading to the back of the mansion where their company van was parked. As they reached the top of the narrow stairs, Nadia stopped. "In there," she said, pointing to a closed door.
Having no time to lose, Alred tried the knob, which he was certain would be locked. It was. "I'll get the bruises this time," he said to TC. This door took two tries, flying open to reveal two more young blonde girls dressed similarly to Mila, eyes wide with fright at the violent entry.
"Son of a bitch," TC muttered in disgust.
Alred said to Nadia, "Hurry, make 'em understand they have to come with us. I'm calling a friend. She'll know what to do, how to help you."
When Nadia entered the room, the girls ran to her, looking fearfully at the two big Americans. A rapid exchange followed between them with Nadia doing most of the talking. They followed Nadia and Mila into the hall and down the stairs as TC led the way and Alred followed, touching a number on his phone. When her soft voice answered, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Doc, it's Bill and we got big trouble on the security gig we had tonight. Underage girls from Ukraine. Whole bunch of 'em."
As they slipped out the back and headed across the big parking lot, he explained what they'd found.
"Just get the kids you've got out of there before the police arrive. There could be shooting. Their pimp must be on the premises and he'll have guards of his own. I'm on the board of Kristi House, a shelter for trafficked children. They'll care for them, even find a volunteer who speaks the language." She quickly gave him the address.
They were half way to their van when a man yelled from the side of the house. "Hey, you're stealing Arnoldo's girls."
A tall dark-haired guy in a cheap suit emerged from a bougainvillea hedge, flicking a cigarette as he spoke into a phone, then drew a weapon and pointed it at them.
Alred and TC shoved the girls behind a Bentley parked nearby. Using a Saab for cover, both men drew their Glock 17s. No use being in the security business if you weren't packing heat.
"Don't be stupid. The cops are on the way," Alred yelled as a shot whizzed by his head, puncturing a gleaming bright red MG fender behind him. As if on cue, they all heard a distant wail of sirens. The stranger was joined by a second man with a gun. Intent on holding onto Arnoldo's "property," both opened fire.
"We gotta get these kids outta here before they get hurt," TC said
Alred gave TC the address Corrie had provided. "Get them into the van and scoot while I cover you," Alred replied over the loud reports of gunfire. Hedges weren't bulletproof, so he sprayed a series of shots across them and was rewarded by a grunt. As he shoved a second magazine into his weapon, the van revved up and took off for the opposite side of the house where the circular driveway allowed wrong way access to the street.
By this time pandemonium broke loose inside the house. While guests dropped their drinks and rushed through the doors like rats escaping from a lab, Jonathon placed a frantic call to his lawyer.
A well built man of medium height with curly black hair and a strikingly handsome face yelled at the girls. "Follow me if you know what's good for you! Police will throw you in prison." Arnoldo Fuentes was their pimp. He knew how to handle emergencies. In spite of the noise and confusion, most of them did as they were told. Hearing the distant sirens getting closer, he had no time to drag the handful who ran upstairs to hide, although he did grab his favorite, Irena, by her wrist, glaring her into submission. Bitch would pay for that when they got away.
He herded the obedient majority to a side entry as his phone vibrated. His driver told him he was pulling up at the prearranged spot. The burley driver jumped out of the expensive stretch limo and helped his boss shove girls into a pair of wide open double doors. Fuentes pushed Irena toward his driver, then jumped in the front passenger seat, hissing, "Tarik, get that fucking door closed and hit it!"
Irena had other ideas. She pulled a small glittering blade from inside her dress as she wrenched free of the driver's grip. He raised his fist to knock her into the car, but before he could strike, she plunged the small blade into his chest, cutting a lucky pathway between two ribs on the left side, directly into his heart. He tumbled over with a startled gurgle. She ran across the parking lot, back into the house.
Cursing in Spanish, Arnoldo yelled to the girls in back, "Pull the damn doors shut while I drive!" Two of them did as Fuentes commanded while he climbed across the console and put the racing engine into gear. As the big limo glided down the driveway, several of the girls stared impassively out the back window at Tarik's dead body. The limo made it around the corner just before the flashing lights of two cop cars appeared.
Seeing their boss had taken off and Tarik lay dead, the two goons exchanging shots with Alred hit the bricks. One was limping thanks to Alred's lucky shot. He crumpled to the ground but the other man vanished in the expensive shrubbery. Alred caught up to the wounded man and kicked his automatic away. It skittered beneath a Mercedes as he stood over his prisoner.
"Police. Drop your weapon!" a deep voice commanded from the open door of a car emblazoned with the familiar shield of MDPD.
* * * *
"I wonder how Bill and TC's big night is going," Cannon said idly to his brother Jim as they sprawled across two well worn sofas in front of a flat screen that took up most of the wall in Jim's basement den, or "man cave" as his wife Meara called it. The ballgame was on commercial break. The Fish were losing eight-zip. Neither man was much interested in watching more.
Taking a long pull on his beer, Jim said, "Bet you're wondering a lot more how your doc's night is going. Hear from her lately?"
"No," was the terse reply as Cannon polished off his beer, indicating the subject of Corrie Waterstone was off limits. Jim knew that, not that it ever stopped him or any other of the family from sticking their noses where they didn't belong.
"Mom said the dinner with the Davidsons didn't go so good."
Cannon barked a bitter laugh. "That's a masterpiece of understatement if I ever heard one."
"Meara's friend Betty just broke up with some jerk. I think you'd like her. Why don't-"
"Will you quit with the matchmaking. I'm not looking for a date. If I needed one, I could get it without help."
Jim shrugged, muttering, "Goddamn rich people. Almost enough to make me vote for a socialist."
That brought a genuine laugh from Cannon. "Fat chance." Just then his phone rang. He slid it out of his pocket and checked the number, then answered. "Cannon here. What's up, Sarge?" After jotting a few words on the small notebook he was never without, Cannon signed off. "Gotta go. Murder at some fancy mansion down on Old Cutler."
"They ain't got any homicide cops they can call but you?" Jim asked, but being a MDPD uniform himself, he knew Cannon was on call for emergencies and lived for his job.
"This one's kinda interesting," he replied, picking up his shoulder holster and strapping it on. "Seems some hooker stabbed a guy at a very fancy party for the rich and infamous."
"So, a guy with more dough than brains gets offed. What's so unusual about that?"
"It may involve international trafficking and guess who was working security for the shindig? Al-Secure."
Jim whistled low. "Your buddy Alred's new outfit. Damn, he was in that mess with secret government defense contractors last year. I see why they called you."
"Gotta run. Thanks for the beer. Tell Meara I'm sorry I can't stay for supper."
* * * *
By the time TC had turned the four rescued girls over to social workers at the shelter, Corrie was on her way to the party scene on Old Cutler Road. Bill Alred had called a quarter hour earlier about another girl from the party who had stabbed one of her captors before the pimp escaped with most of them. Corrie told him to stall until she could make some arrangements.
As she drove, she called the MDPD director, an old friend with whom she'd worked on a human trafficking task force in liaison with the US Attorney's Office for Florida's Southern District. Once apprized of the situation, Director Hayes told her the girl would be handed over to a female officer from Special Victims. He promised to personally call the Human Trafficking Task Force and get the issue expedited. No one wanted to see a teen who spoke little English confined in a holding cell unless absolutely necessary.
Corrie thanked him, assured the girl would not be swallowed up in the maze of social services, but she was not certain how the police would handle the matter. The girl's pimp was dead at her hand. She thought fleetingly of calling Cannon. Decided against it. They both needed space after the debacle when their families had met several months ago. Shoving that disturbing picture out of her mind, she concentrated on driving the twisting, tree-shrouded road.
Something about the address Bill had given her was nagging at the back of her mind. When she saw the red flashers lighting up the night around the moss draped trees of the Spanish house, she knew why. The Fisk mansion! She was stunned. Jonathon was sole heir of a socially prominent banking family. Her late husband Paul had been friends with Jon and she herself had attended several parties at the lovely old place. How could a man such as Jon condone human trafficking? But according to Bill, it was true.
Bill Alred, a Special Forces vet who suffered from PTSD, had become her dear friend. He had certainly turned his life around over the past year. She scanned the grounds for his familiar face, but he was nowhere in sight. Serving on community task forces with Director Hayes allowed her to pass the crime scene tape with no questions asked.
She saw the body of a middle aged man lying in a pool of blood on the pavement near the porte cochere with an older uniform standing carefully nearby, preserving the integrity of the so-called murder scene for CSI techs. If you call a young girl defending herself from a man twice her size murder.
The cop walked over to her and said, "You Dr. Waterstone?" He had salt and pepper hair and a face like a sharpei sucking on a lemon. Corrie recognized an undercurrent indicating irritation that a civilian was messing in police business as he identified himself. "I'm Officer Herman. CSI should be here in a few. A homicide detective's supposed to decide what to do with the kid who stabbed the guy-and the other party girls waiting inside. He ain't here yet. Officer Burke's guarding the suspect and the rest. Security guy's upstairs with the EMTs who're patching up the john your pal decked."
"Thank you for the information, Officer. I'd like to speak with Mr. Alred and the girl accused of stabbing that man," she said, nodding to the corpse."
"You can talk to Alred, but you gotta wait for the detective to decide if you talk to the kid or her pals. Wouldn't do much good, anyways. Most of 'em either can't or won't speak English. Had a devil of a time getting the one who killed the pimp to hand over her knife." He pointed out a side entry to the house. "Be smart to wait inside. Techs and the suit should be here soon."
She had spent enough time around Frank Cannon to know "suit" referred to a detective. "Will someone from the Special Victims Bureau be here to help the other girls you're holding? They're all victims of sex trafficking."
"The others didn't pull a shiv and kill a man, Dr. Waterstone." Herman replied flatly. "Let's see what the detective and Special Vic officer want to do with 'em."
Corrie knew it would do no good to antagonize Herman. Trying to be conciliatory, she said, "I'll wait inside and speak with them when they arrive." She walked over to the port cochere but just as she reached for one of the double doors, a familiar van bearing a CSI crew pulled up and went promptly to work. A second police car drove in next followed by a beat up sedan that Corrie recognized immediately.
Her heart stuttered when she saw Cannon step out of his car, blond hair rumpled and suit jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. Unshaven and looking as if he'd slept in his clothes, he was still heartstoppingly handsome. Any woman with 20/20 vision would feel a strong flutter, at least.
After getting out of her vehicle, a small, rather voluptuous female with a heavy plait of black curly hair gave Cannon a thorough inspection and obviously approved of what she saw. She must be the special vic officer, Corrie thought despondently. Strikingly attractive in a crisp uniform, she had the strong features and golden skin of so many Latina women. She and Frank walked over to where the body was being processed. Corrie watched Cannon take out his small notebook and start jotting information down as Herman gave it to him...
Corrie and Cannon once again are thrown together on a murder case, but this one has international implications. They unravel a huge human trafficking network reaching from the Ukraine to Miami. They also are faced with unraveling the knots in their troubled relationship. The wealthy society doc and the blue-collar cop face a lot of obstacles, not the least of which is the deadly enmity of a Russian Mafya chief who wants both of them dead.