The Stolen Ones (6 page)

THE TRANSLATOR ARRIVED
just after breakfast. She was an older woman, in her late sixties probably, a shock of white hair and a stern expression.

“Maria Zeklos,” she said, shaking Stevens’s hand as she climbed from her car. “Where is the girl?”

“She’s inside,” Stevens told her. “Listen, thanks for coming on such short notice. We—”

Zeklos waved him off. “Never mind,” she said. “Shall we talk to your suspect?”

Stevens and Nancy swapped glances as they followed her to the front door of the sheriff’s department. “Where’d you find this woman, anyway?” Stevens whispered. “I feel like she’s about to put me in detention.”

Nancy laughed. “She runs some kind of Romanian-language school in Saint Paul,” she said. “Came up on a list of available translators. Through
your
office, I might add.”

“Well, okay,” Stevens said. “Then I guess she’s
my
problem.”

He kissed his wife good-bye, and promised to keep her updated. Then he walked into the sheriff’s department and nearly collided with Maria Zeklos at the secretary’s desk, where she was refusing Ed Watkins’s offer of a fresh cup of coffee.

“I was told this girl killed a deputy,” she told Stevens. “And that she doesn’t speak any English. I believe we can save the coffee until after we’ve talked to her, don’t you?”

“Fine by me,” Stevens replied. “Save the coffee. I’d kind of like to hear what the suspect has to say myself.”

>   >   >

IF THE YOUNG WOMAN’S CONDITION
had improved overnight, it was minimal at best. Nancy had sworn she’d seen the girl eat, but even though Stevens could see a little more color in her cheeks, the girl was still rail thin, her eyes sunken and lifeless. She sat opposite Stevens and Zeklos in the little interview room, as far away as she could, hugging herself and staring down at the floor. She looked like she hadn’t slept a minute.

She was trembling, Stevens realized. She was still so afraid.

“We’re not here to hurt her,” he told Zeklos. “Would you tell her that, please?”

Zeklos studied Stevens as though she were gauging the truth in his statement. Finally, she leaned down and spoke softly to the girl. The girl didn’t answer. Didn’t look up.

Stevens cleared his throat. This was a first for him; over his nearly twenty years in law enforcement, he’d never needed a translator. So he paused, aware of the sheriff’s eyes on him through the room’s two-way mirror. “Maybe she’d like some coffee,” he told Zeklos. “Or some water?”

Zeklos relayed the question. Again, the girl didn’t respond. She looked small, frail, traumatized, and Stevens felt a twinge in his heart as he looked her over. Whether she’d killed Deputy Friesen or not, this young woman’s problems were serious. If he could only convince her to talk to him.

“Tell her we’re here to help her,” Stevens told the translator. “She’s safe now. We just want to know what happened.”

Zeklos translated. Still the girl said nothing. She was crying, he saw. Silently shaking. He watched a tear slide down her cheek. Then she mumbled something without lifting her head.

“What did she say?” Stevens asked.

“She wants us to go,” the translator said. “Leave her alone.”

The girl whispered.
“Please.”

“We should go,” Zeklos said. “She is in no shape to talk.”

Stevens looked at the girl. Looked at the two-way mirror where the sheriff stood, watching. Looked around the tiny interview room and then back at the girl.

He stood. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “We’ll try again later.”

“WE KNOW SHE KNOWS SOMETHING,”
Stevens told his wife. “We just don’t know how to get her to tell us what it is.”

Nancy Stevens unwrapped a sandwich and passed it to her husband. Dug in a paper bag for a carton of fries. She’d dropped by with lunch, and to check in on his progress, and Stevens had to admit he was grateful for the break.

He’d spent a few more fruitless hours in the interview room with the mystery girl and Maria Zeklos, trying in vain to convince her she was safe. The girl had stayed silent. She hadn’t responded. She’d huddled up in her chair and begged Stevens to leave her alone.

“She’s afraid,” Stevens told his wife. “I can’t come within fifteen feet without her tensing up.”

Nancy Stevens took a bite of her own sandwich. Chewed. “You said this poor girl was filthy.”

“That’s right,” Stevens said.

“She hadn’t eaten. Doesn’t speak any English.”

“Uh-huh.”

Nancy looked around the sheriff’s department. Watkins sat in his office, eating his own lunch from a brown paper bag. The deputies lingered by the coffee machine, talking baseball. “Let me talk to her,” Nancy said.

Stevens blinked. “What?”

“All this poor girl’s seen are men, Kirk,” she told him. “Big, burly policemen. She’s probably terrified. She opened up to me earlier, a little bit. Let me try again.”

“You want to try to interview her.”

“She could stand to talk to a woman, Kirk,” Nancy said. “You see any others around?”

IRINA MILOSOVICI LOOKED UP
as the interpreter let herself back into the interview room. This time, she did not bring the kind-faced policeman with her; instead, she brought the woman who’d delivered Irina her dinner last night. She was beautiful, tall and blond, the kind of all-American woman who filled the pages of Irina’s glossy magazines.

The woman sat beside the interpreter. She glanced at the big mirror on the wall, behind which no doubt sat the rest of the American policemen. Then she smiled at Irina and spoke to her in English.

The interpreter translated. “She says her name is Nancy Stevens and she is not a police officer,” she told Irina. “She is a lawyer, and she’s here to help you.”

Irina said nothing. She did not look at Nancy Stevens. After a moment, Nancy spoke again.

“She says the man who talked to you last is her husband,” the translator said. “His name is Kirk Stevens, and he is a good man. A police officer. He’s not going to hurt you.”

Irina thought about the man, the big policeman with kind eyes. He’d spoken to her gently, she remembered. He hadn’t leered at her. But he was still a man, and he still had her locked up in this terrible place.

The interpreter cleared her throat. Nancy Stevens’s eyes shifted to the mirror again. Her smile wavered a little, and she looked down at the table as she asked her next question.

She’s nervous,
Irina realized.

“She wonders if you’d tell her your name,” the interpreter said.

Irina didn’t answer.

“She’s here to help you,” the interpreter told her. “This woman, and her husband, and the policemen. They are all here to help you.”

They are not,
Irina thought.
They are here to consume me
.

Nancy Stevens spoke again. Softly. Patient. “She wonders if you’ll tell her about your sister,” the translator said.

Irina felt her breath catch. Closed her eyes and saw Catalina. She opened her eyes again, quickly, and found herself in the little interview room once more. Nancy Stevens met her eyes. Smiled.

Irina realized, suddenly, that she feared for Catalina more than she feared the leering men on the other side of the mirror. She realized that her sister’s only hope was through this friendly woman. The woman could betray her, as Mike had. She could throw her back to the ravenous police officers.

But she could also save Catalina.

Nancy Stevens said something. “The deputy,” the translator said. “Do you remember what happened to the deputy?”

Of course she remembered. What a stupid question. Irina closed her eyes, saw the truck pulling away, great plumes of black smoke shooting into the air as the bald-headed driver made his escape.

Of course she remembered. She remembered running back for the dead man’s gun, firing at the truck until the gun was empty. Remembered the panic and helplessness and frustration when the truck didn’t slow. She remembered Catalina, the other women. Of course she remembered.

“Tell us what you remember,” the interpreter said. “Tell us about your sister.”

All of a sudden, Irina was crying. Like whatever wall she’d built and hardened inside herself had cracked and collapsed. Nancy Stevens was still watching her. Irina looked away. Swore under her breath.

“The box,”
she said. It was barely a whisper. It was capitulation. “My sister is inside the box.”

“I
TOLD
YOU.”
Nancy hugged her husband. “Didn’t I tell you, Kirk?”

Stevens hugged her back. “This is big, Nancy,” he said. “It’s huge.”

Twenty minutes had passed since his wife had emerged from the interview room, and Kirk Stevens still wore an expression of disbelief on his face. Nancy supposed she couldn’t blame him. She’d known the girl was into something more than simple murder, that Kirk’s open-and-shut case was more complicated than he would admit. Even she hadn’t been prepared for this, though.

If that girl in the interview room was telling the truth, if she and her sister had indeed been kidnapped from their home and shipped to America in a cargo container with thirty or forty other women, if they had wound up in tiny Walker, Minnesota, by bad luck, random happenstance, and a young deputy’s fatal curiosity, well . . . it boggled Nancy Stevens’s mind.

The girl in the interview room, Irina Milosovici, was twenty years old. Her younger sister was
sixteen
, the same age as Andrea, who was caught up in young love, her first boyfriend, the trials of the average American teenager. Meanwhile, Irina’s sister was imprisoned in a shipping container somewhere. Or worse. Nancy had worked with battered women before, with new immigrants to America, trapped in abusive marriages without any kind of support network. She’d worked with sex abuse cases, assaults. She had never seen anything like what Irina Milosovici had described.

“We need to find that truck,” Nancy told her husband. “Track it down and rescue the sister and the rest of the women inside.”

“A red truck with a plain red shipping container,” Stevens said. “It won’t be easy.”

“There are women inside, Kirk. Girls. Teenagers.”

Stevens looked at her. “I know. I’ll get a BOLO out to local law enforcement, get their eyes peeled. Maybe somebody gets lucky and spots it.”

“Hell, who knows how many more of those containers are out there?” Nancy was aware she was practically yelling, but didn’t care, ignored the looks from the sheriff and his deputies. “You can be sure this isn’t the first time these guys have done something like this, Kirk. Who knows how many women they’ve taken?”

Stevens nodded. “I
know
, Nancy.”

“So what are we going to do about it?” she said. “How do we track down that truck? How do we get those girls back?”

Stevens rubbed his chin, thinking. The sheriff and his deputies watched him.

“Irina said the truck drove away west,” he said. “She can give us descriptions of everybody she saw—the driver, the shooter, this Mike guy on the Romanian side. The women, too. Catalina. We put their faces on the wire in North Dakota, Montana, hope somebody recognizes them.”

“We have to work fast, Kirk,” Nancy said. “These women are at risk. If these guys figure out we’re on to them . . .”

“We can track them backward, too,” Stevens said. “Try and pinpoint the box’s point of entry and figure out who brought them into the country. Work both sides of the supply chain.”

“You can’t do this by yourself,” she said.

He met her eyes. “Damn it, I know,” he said. “Let me make a phone call.”

WINDERMERE WAS UNPACKING BOXES
in her new office when the phone rang, scaring the crap out of her. The damn thing had been hooked up, what, an hour tops, and already it was hollering for attention.

She let the thing ring a minute. Looked around the room. Since she’d transferred up from Miami four years ago, Special Agent in Charge Drew Harris had been promising her a private office. Now, after three blockbuster cases and the Bureau’s big move, her boss had finally made good on his promise.

Not that it had much to do with Windermere. If Kirk Stevens hadn’t tabbed her to join the joint BCA-FBI major crimes task force he was putting together, she’d still be at a cubicle somewhere in the middle of the Criminal Investigative Division, slowly losing her mind in the chaos of the bullpen.

Derek Mathers appeared at the door. “You going to answer that phone, or what?”

“Thought you were my secretary, Mathers,” she replied. “Isn’t that why they keep you around?”

The junior agent pretended to pout. “Always doing your grunt work.” He crossed into the office, and before Windermere could stop him, picked up her phone and held it out of her reach.

“Carla Windermere’s office,”
he said, his voice syrupy sweet. Then his smile disappeared. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sure. She’s right here.”

He handed the phone to Windermere, wordless. Windermere cocked her head at him as she took the handset. “Agent Windermere.”

“Carla.”

Stevens.
Windermere let her breath out. The BCA agent had a maddening ability to knock her off her game, even after three cases together. “Kirk,” she said. “Thought you were on vacation. Communing with nature or something.”

“I was.” There was something to his voice, an electricity that automatically got Windermere’s heart pumping faster. “Got called in to do a little day work. That sheriff’s deputy up in Walker, you see that?”

“The shooting?” Windermere replied. “Yeah, I saw. Some girl did it, right?”

“That’s what they thought anyway. What we
all
thought, in fact.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, how’s your caseload right now? You working on anything big?”

“Kinda killing time, to be honest,” Windermere said. “After that Killswitch ordeal, I’m pretty much pushing paper. Why?”

“I have something here, Carla,” Stevens said, and she could sense that same urgency in his tone. “Something major. I could really use your help.”