McCrary's Justice (Carlos McCrary PI, Book 6), page 1
MCCRARY'S JUSTICE
CARLOS MCCRARY PI, BOOK 6
DALLAS GORHAM
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Before You Go…
Yesterday's Trouble
Also by Dallas Gorham
About the Author
ONE
Liz Jenkins
Liz lay still as a corpse in the dim light, monitoring the fat man’s chest as it rose and fell. Was he asleep yet?
Earlier, the springs had screeched in protest, the bed bouncing like a dinghy in a hurricane. The clock on her dresser had flipped over to 1:11 while he hammered away inside her and grunted like a pig at a trough.
Now his massive arm felt like a fallen tree trunk sprawled across her. The thick hair on his forearm scratched her naked skin like the bark of that ill-fated tree.
Her chest felt like a steel band had tightened around it. She fought back tears, struggling to overcome her helpless feeling. Her clothes were locked away in a closet. She never needed them except to dress for meals. The remainder of the time, she spent imprisoned in her room, languishing naked on the bed, waiting for the next john. Day after day, night after night, men violated her.
Liz wasn’t a prostitute; she was a sex slave. She wiped away an escaped teardrop and swore she wouldn’t be helpless much longer. Soon, very soon, she would be free, or she would be dead.
Tommy had told her to treat the fat man right. This john was an ambassador from some Latin American country, the Republic of San Something-or-other. But who knew? Tommy lied for the fun of it.
Liz had trembled when Tommy told her the ambassador had returned and the creep asked for her. For an entire night. Again.
Behind the john’s back, Liz and the other captives called him Jabba the Hutt.
“Show him another good time, Liz,” Tommy said, squeezing her breast hard enough to hurt. One more reason to hate Tommy. She wondered now what she had ever seen in Tommy.
Liz had almost protested, then she recalled the fat man’s cellphone and kept quiet. Tommy kept his girls away from cellphones, but the ambassador was different. Tommy let him keep his phone. Jabba the Hutt was a big man in more than waistline. She wanted that phone. With a phone, she had a chance to reach the outside. A slim chance, but any chance was better than a slow death.
If Tommy caught her, he would make the other girls watch as he killed her. And she would not die quickly. The memory of Evelyn’s death made her shudder. Free or dead.
Tommy had kidnapped six women over a few weeks, addicted them to drugs, and rented them out for sex. He called them Tommy’s Angels. Now there were five. Three weeks ago, the women had witnessed Evelyn die by Tommy’s order. “Angels, this is what we do if you try to escape.” He had taunted the remaining five while he and three gang members raped and strangled Evelyn. “Don’t make the same mistake she did.”
Ironically, Evelyn’s gruesome death rekindled Liz’s burning desire for freedom—a desire that drugs and depravity had dulled to the brink of extinction. Since Evelyn’s murder, Liz had only pretended to swallow the pills Tommy gave her every day. Once her captor turned away, she spat them out and hid them under the mattress. If all else failed, she had accumulated enough pills to kill herself. She hoped.
Tommy called her an angel, but Liz lived in hell with the devil. She would rather die.
There was nothing good about “good times” with the fat man. He provided drugs for them both, including blue pills for him. He appeared young enough not to need chemical help, but maybe he wanted to last extra long. He demanded rough sex in repulsive variations for an endless two hours. The previous times the drugs kept her from realizing how disgusting he was, but stopping the drugs let the reality of her situation sink in. She almost wished she had swallowed the last pills instead of tonguing them into her cheek. They would have made her pain and humiliation more bearable. The fat weirdo made her sore for days.
She shivered through the night, unable to sleep through the snores of the rancid, sweaty john. He kept the air-conditioning on its frostiest setting, and the room felt as cold as a meat locker. Still the stench of his sweat polluted the air. She stared at the ceiling in the icy room trying not to breathe the foul air. She dreaded the morning. He would awaken, swallow another blue pill, and rape her again. He always did.
He tipped her well, but no tip could compensate for the feeling of degradation. With no opportunity to spend money in captivity, she stashed the tip money in a plastic bag hidden in the toilet tank. If she escaped this brothel—no, when she escaped—she would need money to get home. The hope of escape gave her a reason to stay alive.
After an eternity, the john’s breath slowed to a regular rhythm. His lips puffed ragged breaths. He rolled onto his side, and his bulky arm rasped like a cheese grater across her skin. The cheap mattress bounced like a bowl of Jell-O with his movement. Heavy musk from his after-shave mixed with the dirty socks smell of sweat and sex. She gagged and choked back the bile that rose from her empty stomach.
Tonight was her first opportunity to call for help since she had decided to escape or die, but did she dare move? What if Jabba the Hutt woke? Would he throw his disgusting body on top of hers, groping for her breasts with his slobbering mouth while he mounted her?
She scooched away from the ambassador toward the edge of the mattress. The bed shifted ominously, but he didn’t wake. He snorted once and rolled over.
She used his movement to mask hers, and she inched closer to the edge of the bed. She wiped cold sweat from her forehead, careful not to jiggle the bed. The fat man squirmed onto his back, and she scooted enough to dangle one leg off the bed, reaching for the floor with her foot.
The clock on the dresser flicked over to 2:17.
Do it before you chicken out. She shifted more weight to the foot on the floor and held her breath.
As gently as a lava flow, she eased the other foot off the bed and lowered it to the worn carpet, alert to the slightest change in his sleep. She began to sit up, but the springs vibrated and she froze. Her heart pounded like it would burst through her chest.
His snores halted. She froze. Jabba wasn’t breathing. Sleep apnea. She had learned about it in a high school health class. Don’t panic. He’ll breathe in a few seconds.
The pressure grew in her chest. Damn, she was holding her breath. Jabba snorted like a pig and Liz exhaled. He resumed snoring, louder this time.
She sat upright, shifting more weight to her feet, and boosting her butt off the mattress. The springs remained quiet, and she breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
The john’s clothes were draped over a chair in the corner. Slipping his phone from the belt holster, she eased toward the bathroom, keeping her focus on the sleeping john. The phone was different from the one she owned before Tommy imprisoned her. She fumbled with it in the dark. How do I turn this damn thing on? Her hands shook so much that she dropped it. Liz froze when it clattered on the tiled floor of the bathroom. I’m a dead woman. No one could sleep through that noise. Breathing deeply but quietly, she glanced back towards the bed. Jabba snored on.
Liz had another horrid thought. What if his phone is broken? No, that’s not the end of the world. I’ll replace it in his holster and he will never notice. He’ll be back someday with another phone. The pig always comes back. Always.
&
Carlos McCrary
My office phone rang. “Wilbur Jenkins on line one.”
“Thanks, Betty.” After scribbling the name on a notepad, I tapped the other phone button. “This is Chuck McCrary, Mr. Jenkins. How may I help you?”
“Are you the guy who shot that cop?”
The phone number of McCrary Investigations is listed. Who would hire a private investigator with an unlisted number? Hopefully, this wasn’t another nut job calling to accuse me of murder. Such is the price of fame. Or is it notoriety? Sometimes the caller is a new client. Those are my favorites.
“I prefer to accentuate the positive and say I rescued a woman who was kidnapped by a crooked cop,” I responded modestly.
“So, you are that guy?”
“That’s me. How can I help?”
“I’m Will Jenkins. My daughter’s been kidnapped. I want you to find her.”
“Did you talk to the police?” There’s no point wasting someone’s money to do a job the cops do for free.
“That’s the first call I made. They’re working the case mighty hard, but they ain’t got doodly-squat. He said to call you, and he give me your phone number. That Castellano fellow, he’s the police detective that you sprung from that murder charge, ain’t he?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Maybe the lieutenant weren’t too proud of that murder charge, even after he did beat the rap.”
“Maybe.”
“The main thing he said was that you might could find my daughter.”
“Can you come to my office?”
Offering my hand, I said, “I’m Carlos McCrary.”
My visitor switched his faded John Deere hat to his huge left hand so he could grab my hand with his right. “Wilbur Jenkins. Friends call me Will.” His hand was scarred and calloused.
“And I’m Chuck.” I handed him a business card. Maybe I should add a magnifying glass logo.
“The lieutenant, he already give me one of your cards.”
Will’s callused palm matched his sunburned face. With his worn blue jeans, faded cotton shirt, and scuffed work boots, he reminded me of my father. His forehead was white below his thin brown hair. A farmer’s tan, I thought.
I got him coffee and led him to my conference room. “What did Lieutenant Castellano say?”
“First, you oughta read these texts my Lizzie sent me early Tuesday morning.” He handed me his phone.
The first text was sent at 2:22 a.m.
Daddy, held captive in Port City FL by white man named Tommy Flannigan, five foot ten, thirty to forty years, medium build, palm tree tattoo on left forearm, pierced left ear with diamond stud. Sex slave. DO NOT CALL OR REPLY TO THIS TEXT. HE WILL KILL ME IF HE LEARNS I USED THIS PHONE. It belongs to a john. Love, Binky
When I saw sex slave, my stomach clenched like a fist. It stirred a memory of my cousin Emily. No, not merely a memory; the two words stirred a dread and a fear.
The second text was sent at 2:25 a.m.
Four other girls held too, maybe more. Sex slaves. Jill from Chicago, Tawnya from Philadelphia, Delores from Shawnee, and Morgan from Cleveland. Don’t know last names or any addresses. DO NOT CALL OR REPLY TO THIS TEXT. Binky
The last one was sent at 2:30 a.m.
Held in house with three stories, 30 feet wide 80 feet deep, on busy street with two lanes of traffic and parking on both sides. Sex slaves. Three gangsters. Scruffy, black, skinny, fifty. Vince, white, medium, forty. One big bald guy no name. DO NOT CALL OR REPLY TO THIS TEXT. Love, Binky.
Swallowing hard, I pushed away anxieties about my cousin Emily while I composed myself. “What did the police say?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. First thing I got to know is, can you find her?”
“Did she leave of her own free will, or was she kidnapped?”
“She went to Disney World. Her and her friend Jennifer.”
“Jennifer?”
“She and Jennifer, they been friends since they was this high.” He held his palm three feet off the floor. “Jennifer lives on the farm next to ours, maybe a half-mile down the road. Jennifer’s parents give her a new car for graduation and the two of them decided to take a road trip to Disney World. I fought it, but Lizzie, she saved the money herself and she was legal age. There wasn’t nothing I could do to stop her.” He lowered his head. “We wasn’t getting along too good, her and me, since her mom died.”
Will didn’t say anything else, so I prompted him. “She and Jennifer went to Disney.”
He contemplated his hands in his lap. “She was so mad at me that she wouldn’t return none of my calls. Three weeks later, Jennifer come back without her.”
“Where was Liz?”
Will sighed. “At Disney, Liz and Jennifer met a group of young’uns on a high school trip from Brazil. Liz, she was real taken with one boy in the group. The Brazilians was going to visit Fort Lauderdale after Disney. Liz decided to go with them. Jennifer, she drove back by herself.”
“Drove back to where? Where do you live?”
“Butler County, Nebraska. I’m a farmer. I grow corn.”
“With you living in Nebraska, how did you learn about my gunfight with the cop who kidnapped that woman?”
“After the lieutenant give me your card, I Googled you. Just because I’m a farmer don’t mean I don’t use the internet. Then I Googled the lieutenant.”
“Always a good idea to know who you’re dealing with.” I wrote Butler County, Nebraska. Corn. “How long since she disappeared?”
He swallowed hard. “A little over a year.”
“Did she send you any letters, emails, anything similar?”
“Nope. Not even a postcard.”
“Did she give Jennifer a note with the boy’s name or address, maybe a phone number where you could reach her?”
“Sure. She didn’t sneak off or nothing. She gave Jennifer the boy’s name and phone number. But she made Jennifer promise not to tell me what she done until she—that is, Jennifer—until she got back home to Butler County.”
He tugged a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his eyes. “By the time Jennifer come home, the Brazilian boy, he was back in Brazil. I called him long distance. He said the last time he seen my Lizzie was at the Miami airport when the Brazilians was leaving for home.”
“You hadn’t heard from her before those texts?”
“Nary a word.”
“Was her cellphone on your plan?”
“Yeah. After Jennifer come home, I called the sheriff in David City—that’s the county seat. He attempted a phone trace, but Lizzie’s phone wasn’t on the network. The phone company said the last time her phone was used was in Port City a week after them Brazilians flew home. The Brazilian boy, he wasn’t involved.”
His eyes were moist. “I pay for her phone every month. I know it’s lost or stolen or some such, but I keep hoping someday she’ll turn it back on. The preacher, he says a faint hope is better than no hope, and I should live with faith.”
“Are these texts the only clues?”
“That and the fact the phone was last used in Port City. Can you find her?”
“With so little to go on, it won’t be easy. I’ll do my best, but there are no guarantees.”
Will sat straighter. “Mr. McCrary, I got one of the biggest farms in Nebraska, and if my Lizzie don’t come back, I got no one to leave it to and nothing to live for. Corn prices are real good; I can pay.”
