DISCLAIMER: Okay, so I forgot in chapters one and two to remind people that
these characters aren't mine. In case there's any mistaken impression:
they're not. Well, Jack and the WaT characters aren't. The others, I guess,
are.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter is a little darker that the previous two. Please remember the 'R' rating. I've tried to handle things as delicately as possible. Thanks for the reviews and encouraging comments! EOlivet, your enthusiasm and kind words alone will make me try very hard to get this story finished and posted before the long weekend! Oh: and if anyone can tell me how they manage to keep italics and spacing the way they want it to when uploading, I'd appreciate knowing how it's done. Everything always looks fine in the preview, but when it shows up on fanfiction.net, I've lost it.
Needed Chapter 3
-48 HOURS MISSING
*On their early morning flight to Tampa, Jack had looked at his watch and noted, "Forty-eight hours."
Samantha had leaned her shoulder up against his, then put a hand on his arm. "We'll find her."
He'd found her touch reassuring.*
Now, driving towards Rebecca Smith's home for the second time, he continued to hope she was right. The problem was, nothing about this case was going the way he wanted. The father was an easy suspect, and as of a few minutes ago, their only one. A quick call from Vivian when they'd landed had told them that the mother's boyfriend had checked out okay. They didn't seem any closer to finding Murray, though, than they were to finding Shelly. He sighed inwardly. A twelve year old, he told himself, didn't just disappear without a trace. Somewhere, somehow, they had to catch a break. For Shelly's sake, he hoped it was soon.
Nodding towards an exit sign, he asked, "It's the next one, right?"
"Yup," Samantha answered, "A few miles down, turn right off the exit, make a left on Collingwood, a right two streets later onto Baker Ave, and she's- "
"-309 Littleton. You should call her. Tell her we'll be there in about ten minutes."
Samantha did as he suggested. Putting her phone away after the call, she noted, "She still doesn't seem too happy we're back. She said something about having to get to work."
"Too bad," he said, unsympathetically. "I offered to see her there and she said no. She-"
Whatever he might have said was forgotten when his cell phone rang. "Damn. Could you get that?" he asked, looking over his shoulder for an opening in the fast moving traffic. "I'm gonna miss the turnoff." Undoing her seatbelt, she reached over him, moved his suit jacket aside, and unhooked the buzzing phone from his belt. Sliding back into her seat, she flipped it open and said, "Agent Spade speaking."
Samantha winced and held the phone away from her ear. Jack could hear the excited cadences of Martin's voice from where he sat. His heart quickened. A break. They'd got a break. A quick move of the steering wheel and the car swerved into the exit lane, two inches behind a car with an Ontario licence plate and not many more inches in front of one from Michigan. Cursing all tourists, but thankful they'd made it, he waited impatiently a moment and then gestured that he wanted to speak to Martin himself. Samantha said goodbye and passed the phone to him wordlessly.
"Well?" he asked her as he took the phone.
"Let him tell you."
He put the phone to his ear. "Well?" he asked again.
Martin let loose another cascade of words. They'd found a cabbie who had a stand outside Murray Smith's office building who recognised Murray from the picture they showed him. Yeah, he'd said, he was almost a regular - once, sometimes twice a week, sometimes a couple nights in a row - he'd pick him up outside the building and take him across town. Did he remember where? Hell, yes. It was a good fare, and almost regular. He tipped okay, too. The cabbie had given them the address.
"It's an apartment building, low income," Martin said. "Could use a good cleaning and a lot of paint; you know the sort of place: might have been half decent fifty years ago; only a few steps away from hell to live in now. We're standing across the road from it. My guess is Smith would be pretty noticeable here: it's a mostly Asian area."
Jack nodded, pleased that they were making some progress. He recognised the address as being in one of the poorer Asian parts of the city. The area was charcterised by a mobile population not always in the country legally, poor living conditions, and low incomes. "Keep me posted," he instructed. "We're seeing Rebecca Smith in about..." He glanced at the digital clock in the dash of the car, "...five minutes."
Pressing the 'end' button, he clipped the cell back onto his belt.
They followed Rebecca's petite form into her livingroom and sat on the sofa she briskly gestured them towards. She was wearing a cream coloured blouse and a straight navy blue skirt. Her suit jacket and briefcase were beside her chair, a not-so-discreet reminder that they were keeping her from work. In spite of her apparent eagerness to leave, however, she asked, "Is there any word on Shelly? Shouldn't there have been by now?"
"We're sorry. Nothing has changed," Samantha told her as she sat down.
Rebecca shook her head. "Someone must have taken her: she wouldn't just up and leave without letting someone know that she was okay." She sat down on a chair upholstered in the same blue-patterned fabric as the sofa and looked at them. Spreading her hands to emphasise her confusion, she said in a slightly harder tone, "I don't understand why you've come back. I told you on the phone: I can't add anything to what I told you about my brother. This is a long way to come for nothing."
Noting the impatience in her voice, Jack responded, "We're still trying to gather information. We need to be absolutely certain that there isn't anything you can tell us about him that could help us understand him or the situation better. He seems to have been leading a kind of double life: trips he's told his wife he was going on didn't happen. As far as we can tell, he didn't even leave the city on those occasions. Would you know anything about that?"
Rebecca looked troubled. She thought a moment, then seemed to come to a conclusion. Shaking her head, she said, "No, I'm sorry. I can't think of why he'd do something like that. I can't help you."
"Are you certain? Shelly may be with him."
Again, she hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yes. Of course I am," she said with a frown. Anger crept into her voice as she continued, "I told you: I can't help you. I've had next to nothing to do with him since I left home fifteen years ago. I don't know him anymore. I don't *want* to know him anymore- I-" She winced, and looked as though she would take back that last sentence if she could. Lapsing into silence, she gazed fixedly at her hands.
Letting the silence lengthen, Samantha regarded her with dark eyes. Finally, she asked softly, "Did Murray ever do anything to you, Rebecca?"
Jack looked at her, surprised. A heartbeat, and he understood what she was thinking.
"What do you mean?" the woman asked.
"A girl grows up in an apparently happy household; she moves out as soon as she can, and as far away as she can and never looks back. She stops almost all contact with her family. She uses excuses not to visit, even though it's not so far that she couldn't." Holding the woman's gaze, Samantha insisted gently, "There's usually a very good reason for that scenario, Ms. Smith. There's usually something the girl is running away from. Something she wants to avoid remembering; something she wants to forget." She paused a moment to let her words sink in, then said, "That something is often abuse. What did he do to you?"
Rebecca looked away. "Nothing," she insisted, her face tight. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do," Samantha insisted softly.
Refusing to meet the other woman's gaze, Rebecca rose. "I'm sorry, but this is not helping you find Shelly. Isn't she the one you should be concerned about? She's a child. Why waste your time on an adult who can look after himself? I've got to get to work. I can't help you."
Walking from the house, Jack glanced sideways at her. "Wow."
"Just a hunch," she said.
"It certainly got a reaction. Think she's telling the tuth?"
"If she is, there's still something buried there she won't talk about. I still think she was abused, though, by either her father or her brother. From her reaction to Murray's disappearance, my money's on the brother. There has to be a reason she cut herself off almost completely from her family but feels concern about a niece she hardly ever sees."
The theory was at least worth entertaining. "A niece she perhaps identifies with? Because she's afraid he'll abuse Shelly the way he did her?"
She nodded. "Look at his wife: you saw the wedding picture the parents showed us. The mother-in-law was right: Monica looked about 14. Perhaps that's what Murray's into. Perhaps that's why he married who he did when he did. It was his stab at a normal life, but with the benefit of satisfying his little kink. Monica's matured. She looks young for her age, but not grade school young, so he's had to go elsewhere to get his thrills."
Jack frowned, pondering their conversation with Rebecca. "Then why didn't she jump on the chance to say something when I mentioned that Shelly could be with him? Wouldn't she be terrified of that thought?"
Samantha shook her head helplessly. "Some abuse victims can't bring themselves to ever talk about it, no matter who else gets hurt by the person who hurt them. It's almost as though they're paralised into inaction. Or perhaps she's convinced herself Shelly isn't with him. Maybe a part of her believes he wouldn't do it to his own daughter."
"Do you think she could be right?"
She looked troubled. "I don't know. Maybe he wouldn't. But it's just as likely he's working on trying to set himself up sexually with her. Who knows what's going through his mind?"
Jack clenched his jaw. Their visit had produced more questions than it had answers. Though he didn't like condeming a man too readily, there was something that rang true in what Sam had said. Sighing, he commented, "Let's hope Danny and Martin turn something up at that apartment building. We need to talk to the parents again. And we've got to find Murray."
* * *
The super of the apartment building, if he existed as anything more than the battered nameplate on an equally battered door near the entrance, was nowhere to be found, so Danny and Martin began their door-to-door search without him. Starting on the top floor of the six-storey building, they made their way, door by door, down dark hallways of scuffed lineoleum and scarred walls. The muffled sounds of crying babies and radios turned up too loud wafted towards them, borne on air filled with the smells of sweat and food and urine, and of garbage long past due to be thrown out. Occasionally, a surly looking kid in expensive running shoes would walk by. Eying the two smartly dressed agents suspiciously, they'd glance briefly at the picture of Murray they proffered, shake their heads, then continue their aimless shuffle. A mangey cat with one ear half bitten off and a tail that twisted awkwardly pressed itself up against a doorway and hissed at them sullenly when they knocked on the door it leaned upon.
Their unexpected knock on the door was greeted by either silence (no one home) or a loud, usually indecipherable yelled response (which they took as a 'one moment, please'). After a wait of varying lengths, the door would slowly open, letting out all the pent up sounds and smells trapped in the apartment's shabby, but, to their surprise, often neat interior. Fear, respect, caution, and curiosity usually vied with one another in the tenants' eyes when they realised it was the FBI come calling. No matter the initial reaction, however, they would look at the picture of a roundfaced, brown-eyed man with a roman nose and thinnish lips and shake their heads regretfully.
Until the third floor, where they showed Murray's picture to a short, middle aged Asian woman who, like a number of the people they had spoken to previously, seemed to know little English. The picture produced nods and gestures. Over the loud blare of a television game show, Martin pointed to the picture Danny held and asked, "You know him?"
She nodded again, this time more quickly. "Yes, yes. Mur-ray."
"You know where he is?"
She continued to nod her neatly coiffed head, looking at them curiously. Finally, she pointed to the picture and said "Mur-ray, yes. I know Mur- ray."
"We need to talk to him," Martin said. "It's important."
To their surprise, she motioned them to come in, closing the door behind them firmly once they were safely inside. Taking several steps away from them, she stopped in front of a closed door. "Mur-ray, Mur-ray," she said softly, knocking on the door lightly with the back of her hand.
Martin followed quickly, reached in front of her, and threw the door open. In a sparsely furnitured room, two people scrambled to sit up in a bed set against the wall opposite the door. Martin recognised the man as Murray Smith. Beside him sat a young girl.
"What the hell?!" exclaimed Martin. "Danny! Get down here!"
When Danny arrived, Smith was already thrusting pale, hairy legs into a pair of pants, showing a flash of bare ass as he stood to pull them up. The girl, her straight dark hair brushing her bare shoulders, remained frozen, clutching a sheet against her thin chest.
"Who the fuck-" Murray began.
"Murray? Murray Smith?" Martin asked.
"Yeah. Who the hell are you?"
"Agent Martin Fitgerald, FBI," Martin said, flipping his badge at him. "Is your daughter here, Mr. Smith? Do you know where she is?"
He hoped to hell not.
Murray grabbed a brown, long-sleeved shirt the older woman obligingly held out to him. Shrugging it on, he asked, "Why? What's going on?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Martin said roughly. He looked over at Danny, his face filled with rage.
"We're looking for your daughter," Danny said. "Do you know where she is?"
Murray looked confused. "No. What are you talking about? She's in school."
"We're taking you in for questioning, Mr. Smith. Your daughter has been missing since Tuesday morning. When we found out you weren't in New Orleans like you told your wife, you became part of our investigation. You have no idea where your daughter is?" he asked again, looking pointedly at the young girl in the bed.
Smith shook his head. Making an obvious attempt to straighten things out, he looked over at the raven haired girl. With a touch of bluster, he said, "It's not what you think. Tam-li is 17. I've been helping them out financially, teaching them English..."
"I'm sure you have, Mr. Smith. We'll be discussing those activities as well," Danny said, making no attempt to hide his disbelief. The girl, he decided, wasn't more than twelve or thirteen.
"Look, I never laid a hand on her."
"Who? Tam-Li, or your daughter?" Martin spat. "Get your stuff together. We're taking you in."
Danny turned to the mother and daughter. "You will have to come too." From the livingroom, he could hear the game show's theme music blaring and the loud, animated voice of an announcer congratulating a winner.
The young girl nodded. "Is Mur-ray okay?" she asked in a soft voice.
Danny shook his head, sickened. "No, he is not okay. He is in big trouble." He wanted to tell her no man should be messing with a child her age. Wanted to tell her she should have gone to the police the first time he tried to touch her. Wanted to tell her this was wrong, wrong, wrong, and she was just a kid...
The words stuck in his throat. Instead he managed gruffly: "You need to get dressed now. We'll wait outside for you."
Wide-eyed, the girl nodded, still clutching the sheet, her thin shoulders hunched up near her ears.
In the livingroom, Murray began to babble, trying to excuse himself over the sound of televised applause. "I didn't know," he blustered, running shaking fingers through his curly brown hair. "You know they always look younger than they are. She came on to me, how was I-"
Over the blare of Don Darker awarding a skidoo to an excited ex-Marine, Martin told him to shut up.
Murray didn't. "Look, can we keep my wife out of this?" he wheedled. "She doesn't need to-"
"Sit down, and shut the fuck up," Martin ordered, his tone deadly.
Murray did as he was told. On the television, a contestant spun a large wheel. The crowd cheered loudly. Martin strode over and stabbed the 'off' button ferociously.
* * *
Striding quickly through the airport with his cell phone pressed tightly to his ear, Jack ordered, "Wait. We're finished here and are on the way to the plane. We'll be there in about three hours." Not slowing his pace as he entered the departure area, he continued, "I want to be in on the interview. It won't hurt him to cool his heels a bit." He turned his cell phone off and moved to hook it back onto his belt.
Samantha could see the look of controlled satisfaction on his face. "Good news?" she asked, not certain she understood the half of the conversation she'd heard.
"Yes and no. I think we have some confirmation of your suspicions: they've found Murray Smith." He presented their boarding passes to a young, dark haired flight attendant. "Let's get our seats," he told Samantha, "and I'll fill you in."
* * *
Following Jack out of the interview room, Martin leaned his back against the wall and brought his clenched fist down against it with a thud. Jack turned to look at him and opened his mouth to speak, then stopped when his attention was drawn to a blond-headed figure walking down the corridor towards them. He waited until she was closer before asking, "What did you get, Sam?"
"Mother: Li Chang. Arrived illegially with husband Su and daughter Tam-Li two years ago. Made a subsistence living until a year ago, when husband disappeared. Mother and daughter barely scraping by. They were begging on street corners when Murray Smith appeared, took a liking to the daughter, and offered money to help put a roof over their heads. Mother isn't proud of the fact that she basically ended up pimping her daughter to him, but is unrepentant. Claims 'what needed to be done was done', and says that 'Tam- li is a responsibile daughter."
"And the daughter herself? What does she have to say?" Jack asked.
"She's very frank about the sexual nature of her relationship with him. She says that considering their circumstances, she knew what needed to be done. It was better that than to starve - and far better, she claims, than what she would have had to do had they been deported back where they'd come from. Claims that Murray being clean was a big benefit." She stopped, shaking her head. "She said she'd seen far worse in her homeland."
"Different degrees of hell," Jack murmered.
"Yeah, well, one thing of note: they both say that Murray was with them in the apartment since Monday afternoon. They say he didn't leave at any point Tuesday morning-"
"You believe them?" Jack interjected.
Samantha nodded. "They insist he didn't leave-"
Unable to hold his thoughts in any longer, Martin broke into their conversation: "No one has to do what that kid was doing to survive. Someone could have helped them: there's Social Services, if they were worried about starving; food banks-"
Samantha turned. "Not for illegals worried about being sent back, there isn't. They don't know the system and are scared to use it anyway, because they're terrified of being caught and deported. They felt they had nowhere to turn and there was no one out there to tell them any different. The mother could only find occasional, poorly paid under-the-table cleaning jobs because of her status and her lack of English. That couldn't possibly bring in enough to support them. To them, the choice of what to do when Murray appeared was obvious. I doubt having a choice even entered their minds."
Jack watched Samantha carefully as she spoke. Though her tone was even, he knew her well enough to recognise the veiled anger behind her words - and the pain she felt for the young girl. In spite of her outward calm and matter-of-fact demeanor, the interview had shaken her. Without thinking, he reached out and placed a hand on her arm. "We don't leave for Boston for a while, right? Why don't you take some time to see what you can do for them? There must be a few people we can call."
As he had hoped, he was rewarded with a slight lightening in her features. When she held his gaze, her eyes said more than the simple 'thanks' her lips spoke. Warmed, he gave her a parting nod and she turned to leave.
Still angry, Martin shook his head in disgust. "Sick son of a bitch," he said of Murray Smith. "To do something like that to a kid and then have her be grateful to you for it...God, it mades me feel dirty just being in the same room. That sort of thing shouldn't happen here."
Unsurprised by the young man's reaction, Jack turned his attention back to his newest agent. "It's not something you ever get used to, but the first time is always the worst," he said. "And it does happen: more than we like to think. This kind of stuff doesn't just happen on the internet."
"Can we be sure Smith didn't take Shelly? What if he messed with her, then killed her because he was afraid she'd talk? And if they're crazy enough to feel grateful to him, maybe they're crazy enough to lie for him, too." Martin asked.
"Martin, don't judge them," Jack said quietly. "They're the victims. You don't know where they came from or what they've lived through. We'll have Murray take a lie detector test, but I'm pretty certain he has no idea where his daughter is. You heard Sam: the mother and the girl provided him his alibi, and she thinks they're being honest. As far as finding Shelly is concerned, we're back to square one: missing without a trace."
As he said the words, Jack felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. In an attempt to divert it, he said, "At least we aren't looking for him anymore. And Sam and I are heading for Boston to track down Rebecca's friend, Nancy Thatcher. We're hoping she may have some answers."
Martin hoped so as well. He and Danny had gone back to speak to Monica about her daughter's friendship with the older woman. They'd learned that Nancy Thatcher and Shelly had been pretty close - Shelly had called her 'Aunt Nancy'. Martin said, "She mentioned that Nancy used to take her out shopping and stuff, so they spent time alone together. Maybe Shelly told her something. Still, it sounds like an awful long shot."
Silently, Jack agreed, but it was all they had.
"All we've done is spin our wheels," Martin said, pushing himself away from the wall, his expression one of anger and frustration.
Jack stopped him before he could leave. In a low voice, he said, "Martin, today you nailed a bastard. You and Danny saved some young girls from a very sick man. The job's not done, but you've made a difference. Don't lose sight of that. And don't forget there's still someone out there you've got to concentrate on, either. Don't let this distract you: Shelly Smith needs your full attention."
Martin looked at his feet a moment, then raised eyes less shadowed with defeat. "Yeah, you're right," he nodded. "Thanks. I'm going to put out that media notice we spoke about: see if there's anyone out there that saw something who hasn't stepped forward yet. I'd better get on it now." Turning, he made his way down the carpeted hallway towards the elevator.
Jack turned the opposite way. Looking at his watch, he calculated how much time he had before his plane left for Boston. He had just enough time to call home and say 'hi' to his girls.
End Chapter 3
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter is a little darker that the previous two. Please remember the 'R' rating. I've tried to handle things as delicately as possible. Thanks for the reviews and encouraging comments! EOlivet, your enthusiasm and kind words alone will make me try very hard to get this story finished and posted before the long weekend! Oh: and if anyone can tell me how they manage to keep italics and spacing the way they want it to when uploading, I'd appreciate knowing how it's done. Everything always looks fine in the preview, but when it shows up on fanfiction.net, I've lost it.
Needed Chapter 3
-48 HOURS MISSING
*On their early morning flight to Tampa, Jack had looked at his watch and noted, "Forty-eight hours."
Samantha had leaned her shoulder up against his, then put a hand on his arm. "We'll find her."
He'd found her touch reassuring.*
Now, driving towards Rebecca Smith's home for the second time, he continued to hope she was right. The problem was, nothing about this case was going the way he wanted. The father was an easy suspect, and as of a few minutes ago, their only one. A quick call from Vivian when they'd landed had told them that the mother's boyfriend had checked out okay. They didn't seem any closer to finding Murray, though, than they were to finding Shelly. He sighed inwardly. A twelve year old, he told himself, didn't just disappear without a trace. Somewhere, somehow, they had to catch a break. For Shelly's sake, he hoped it was soon.
Nodding towards an exit sign, he asked, "It's the next one, right?"
"Yup," Samantha answered, "A few miles down, turn right off the exit, make a left on Collingwood, a right two streets later onto Baker Ave, and she's- "
"-309 Littleton. You should call her. Tell her we'll be there in about ten minutes."
Samantha did as he suggested. Putting her phone away after the call, she noted, "She still doesn't seem too happy we're back. She said something about having to get to work."
"Too bad," he said, unsympathetically. "I offered to see her there and she said no. She-"
Whatever he might have said was forgotten when his cell phone rang. "Damn. Could you get that?" he asked, looking over his shoulder for an opening in the fast moving traffic. "I'm gonna miss the turnoff." Undoing her seatbelt, she reached over him, moved his suit jacket aside, and unhooked the buzzing phone from his belt. Sliding back into her seat, she flipped it open and said, "Agent Spade speaking."
Samantha winced and held the phone away from her ear. Jack could hear the excited cadences of Martin's voice from where he sat. His heart quickened. A break. They'd got a break. A quick move of the steering wheel and the car swerved into the exit lane, two inches behind a car with an Ontario licence plate and not many more inches in front of one from Michigan. Cursing all tourists, but thankful they'd made it, he waited impatiently a moment and then gestured that he wanted to speak to Martin himself. Samantha said goodbye and passed the phone to him wordlessly.
"Well?" he asked her as he took the phone.
"Let him tell you."
He put the phone to his ear. "Well?" he asked again.
Martin let loose another cascade of words. They'd found a cabbie who had a stand outside Murray Smith's office building who recognised Murray from the picture they showed him. Yeah, he'd said, he was almost a regular - once, sometimes twice a week, sometimes a couple nights in a row - he'd pick him up outside the building and take him across town. Did he remember where? Hell, yes. It was a good fare, and almost regular. He tipped okay, too. The cabbie had given them the address.
"It's an apartment building, low income," Martin said. "Could use a good cleaning and a lot of paint; you know the sort of place: might have been half decent fifty years ago; only a few steps away from hell to live in now. We're standing across the road from it. My guess is Smith would be pretty noticeable here: it's a mostly Asian area."
Jack nodded, pleased that they were making some progress. He recognised the address as being in one of the poorer Asian parts of the city. The area was charcterised by a mobile population not always in the country legally, poor living conditions, and low incomes. "Keep me posted," he instructed. "We're seeing Rebecca Smith in about..." He glanced at the digital clock in the dash of the car, "...five minutes."
Pressing the 'end' button, he clipped the cell back onto his belt.
They followed Rebecca's petite form into her livingroom and sat on the sofa she briskly gestured them towards. She was wearing a cream coloured blouse and a straight navy blue skirt. Her suit jacket and briefcase were beside her chair, a not-so-discreet reminder that they were keeping her from work. In spite of her apparent eagerness to leave, however, she asked, "Is there any word on Shelly? Shouldn't there have been by now?"
"We're sorry. Nothing has changed," Samantha told her as she sat down.
Rebecca shook her head. "Someone must have taken her: she wouldn't just up and leave without letting someone know that she was okay." She sat down on a chair upholstered in the same blue-patterned fabric as the sofa and looked at them. Spreading her hands to emphasise her confusion, she said in a slightly harder tone, "I don't understand why you've come back. I told you on the phone: I can't add anything to what I told you about my brother. This is a long way to come for nothing."
Noting the impatience in her voice, Jack responded, "We're still trying to gather information. We need to be absolutely certain that there isn't anything you can tell us about him that could help us understand him or the situation better. He seems to have been leading a kind of double life: trips he's told his wife he was going on didn't happen. As far as we can tell, he didn't even leave the city on those occasions. Would you know anything about that?"
Rebecca looked troubled. She thought a moment, then seemed to come to a conclusion. Shaking her head, she said, "No, I'm sorry. I can't think of why he'd do something like that. I can't help you."
"Are you certain? Shelly may be with him."
Again, she hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yes. Of course I am," she said with a frown. Anger crept into her voice as she continued, "I told you: I can't help you. I've had next to nothing to do with him since I left home fifteen years ago. I don't know him anymore. I don't *want* to know him anymore- I-" She winced, and looked as though she would take back that last sentence if she could. Lapsing into silence, she gazed fixedly at her hands.
Letting the silence lengthen, Samantha regarded her with dark eyes. Finally, she asked softly, "Did Murray ever do anything to you, Rebecca?"
Jack looked at her, surprised. A heartbeat, and he understood what she was thinking.
"What do you mean?" the woman asked.
"A girl grows up in an apparently happy household; she moves out as soon as she can, and as far away as she can and never looks back. She stops almost all contact with her family. She uses excuses not to visit, even though it's not so far that she couldn't." Holding the woman's gaze, Samantha insisted gently, "There's usually a very good reason for that scenario, Ms. Smith. There's usually something the girl is running away from. Something she wants to avoid remembering; something she wants to forget." She paused a moment to let her words sink in, then said, "That something is often abuse. What did he do to you?"
Rebecca looked away. "Nothing," she insisted, her face tight. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do," Samantha insisted softly.
Refusing to meet the other woman's gaze, Rebecca rose. "I'm sorry, but this is not helping you find Shelly. Isn't she the one you should be concerned about? She's a child. Why waste your time on an adult who can look after himself? I've got to get to work. I can't help you."
Walking from the house, Jack glanced sideways at her. "Wow."
"Just a hunch," she said.
"It certainly got a reaction. Think she's telling the tuth?"
"If she is, there's still something buried there she won't talk about. I still think she was abused, though, by either her father or her brother. From her reaction to Murray's disappearance, my money's on the brother. There has to be a reason she cut herself off almost completely from her family but feels concern about a niece she hardly ever sees."
The theory was at least worth entertaining. "A niece she perhaps identifies with? Because she's afraid he'll abuse Shelly the way he did her?"
She nodded. "Look at his wife: you saw the wedding picture the parents showed us. The mother-in-law was right: Monica looked about 14. Perhaps that's what Murray's into. Perhaps that's why he married who he did when he did. It was his stab at a normal life, but with the benefit of satisfying his little kink. Monica's matured. She looks young for her age, but not grade school young, so he's had to go elsewhere to get his thrills."
Jack frowned, pondering their conversation with Rebecca. "Then why didn't she jump on the chance to say something when I mentioned that Shelly could be with him? Wouldn't she be terrified of that thought?"
Samantha shook her head helplessly. "Some abuse victims can't bring themselves to ever talk about it, no matter who else gets hurt by the person who hurt them. It's almost as though they're paralised into inaction. Or perhaps she's convinced herself Shelly isn't with him. Maybe a part of her believes he wouldn't do it to his own daughter."
"Do you think she could be right?"
She looked troubled. "I don't know. Maybe he wouldn't. But it's just as likely he's working on trying to set himself up sexually with her. Who knows what's going through his mind?"
Jack clenched his jaw. Their visit had produced more questions than it had answers. Though he didn't like condeming a man too readily, there was something that rang true in what Sam had said. Sighing, he commented, "Let's hope Danny and Martin turn something up at that apartment building. We need to talk to the parents again. And we've got to find Murray."
* * *
The super of the apartment building, if he existed as anything more than the battered nameplate on an equally battered door near the entrance, was nowhere to be found, so Danny and Martin began their door-to-door search without him. Starting on the top floor of the six-storey building, they made their way, door by door, down dark hallways of scuffed lineoleum and scarred walls. The muffled sounds of crying babies and radios turned up too loud wafted towards them, borne on air filled with the smells of sweat and food and urine, and of garbage long past due to be thrown out. Occasionally, a surly looking kid in expensive running shoes would walk by. Eying the two smartly dressed agents suspiciously, they'd glance briefly at the picture of Murray they proffered, shake their heads, then continue their aimless shuffle. A mangey cat with one ear half bitten off and a tail that twisted awkwardly pressed itself up against a doorway and hissed at them sullenly when they knocked on the door it leaned upon.
Their unexpected knock on the door was greeted by either silence (no one home) or a loud, usually indecipherable yelled response (which they took as a 'one moment, please'). After a wait of varying lengths, the door would slowly open, letting out all the pent up sounds and smells trapped in the apartment's shabby, but, to their surprise, often neat interior. Fear, respect, caution, and curiosity usually vied with one another in the tenants' eyes when they realised it was the FBI come calling. No matter the initial reaction, however, they would look at the picture of a roundfaced, brown-eyed man with a roman nose and thinnish lips and shake their heads regretfully.
Until the third floor, where they showed Murray's picture to a short, middle aged Asian woman who, like a number of the people they had spoken to previously, seemed to know little English. The picture produced nods and gestures. Over the loud blare of a television game show, Martin pointed to the picture Danny held and asked, "You know him?"
She nodded again, this time more quickly. "Yes, yes. Mur-ray."
"You know where he is?"
She continued to nod her neatly coiffed head, looking at them curiously. Finally, she pointed to the picture and said "Mur-ray, yes. I know Mur- ray."
"We need to talk to him," Martin said. "It's important."
To their surprise, she motioned them to come in, closing the door behind them firmly once they were safely inside. Taking several steps away from them, she stopped in front of a closed door. "Mur-ray, Mur-ray," she said softly, knocking on the door lightly with the back of her hand.
Martin followed quickly, reached in front of her, and threw the door open. In a sparsely furnitured room, two people scrambled to sit up in a bed set against the wall opposite the door. Martin recognised the man as Murray Smith. Beside him sat a young girl.
"What the hell?!" exclaimed Martin. "Danny! Get down here!"
When Danny arrived, Smith was already thrusting pale, hairy legs into a pair of pants, showing a flash of bare ass as he stood to pull them up. The girl, her straight dark hair brushing her bare shoulders, remained frozen, clutching a sheet against her thin chest.
"Who the fuck-" Murray began.
"Murray? Murray Smith?" Martin asked.
"Yeah. Who the hell are you?"
"Agent Martin Fitgerald, FBI," Martin said, flipping his badge at him. "Is your daughter here, Mr. Smith? Do you know where she is?"
He hoped to hell not.
Murray grabbed a brown, long-sleeved shirt the older woman obligingly held out to him. Shrugging it on, he asked, "Why? What's going on?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Martin said roughly. He looked over at Danny, his face filled with rage.
"We're looking for your daughter," Danny said. "Do you know where she is?"
Murray looked confused. "No. What are you talking about? She's in school."
"We're taking you in for questioning, Mr. Smith. Your daughter has been missing since Tuesday morning. When we found out you weren't in New Orleans like you told your wife, you became part of our investigation. You have no idea where your daughter is?" he asked again, looking pointedly at the young girl in the bed.
Smith shook his head. Making an obvious attempt to straighten things out, he looked over at the raven haired girl. With a touch of bluster, he said, "It's not what you think. Tam-li is 17. I've been helping them out financially, teaching them English..."
"I'm sure you have, Mr. Smith. We'll be discussing those activities as well," Danny said, making no attempt to hide his disbelief. The girl, he decided, wasn't more than twelve or thirteen.
"Look, I never laid a hand on her."
"Who? Tam-Li, or your daughter?" Martin spat. "Get your stuff together. We're taking you in."
Danny turned to the mother and daughter. "You will have to come too." From the livingroom, he could hear the game show's theme music blaring and the loud, animated voice of an announcer congratulating a winner.
The young girl nodded. "Is Mur-ray okay?" she asked in a soft voice.
Danny shook his head, sickened. "No, he is not okay. He is in big trouble." He wanted to tell her no man should be messing with a child her age. Wanted to tell her she should have gone to the police the first time he tried to touch her. Wanted to tell her this was wrong, wrong, wrong, and she was just a kid...
The words stuck in his throat. Instead he managed gruffly: "You need to get dressed now. We'll wait outside for you."
Wide-eyed, the girl nodded, still clutching the sheet, her thin shoulders hunched up near her ears.
In the livingroom, Murray began to babble, trying to excuse himself over the sound of televised applause. "I didn't know," he blustered, running shaking fingers through his curly brown hair. "You know they always look younger than they are. She came on to me, how was I-"
Over the blare of Don Darker awarding a skidoo to an excited ex-Marine, Martin told him to shut up.
Murray didn't. "Look, can we keep my wife out of this?" he wheedled. "She doesn't need to-"
"Sit down, and shut the fuck up," Martin ordered, his tone deadly.
Murray did as he was told. On the television, a contestant spun a large wheel. The crowd cheered loudly. Martin strode over and stabbed the 'off' button ferociously.
* * *
Striding quickly through the airport with his cell phone pressed tightly to his ear, Jack ordered, "Wait. We're finished here and are on the way to the plane. We'll be there in about three hours." Not slowing his pace as he entered the departure area, he continued, "I want to be in on the interview. It won't hurt him to cool his heels a bit." He turned his cell phone off and moved to hook it back onto his belt.
Samantha could see the look of controlled satisfaction on his face. "Good news?" she asked, not certain she understood the half of the conversation she'd heard.
"Yes and no. I think we have some confirmation of your suspicions: they've found Murray Smith." He presented their boarding passes to a young, dark haired flight attendant. "Let's get our seats," he told Samantha, "and I'll fill you in."
* * *
Following Jack out of the interview room, Martin leaned his back against the wall and brought his clenched fist down against it with a thud. Jack turned to look at him and opened his mouth to speak, then stopped when his attention was drawn to a blond-headed figure walking down the corridor towards them. He waited until she was closer before asking, "What did you get, Sam?"
"Mother: Li Chang. Arrived illegially with husband Su and daughter Tam-Li two years ago. Made a subsistence living until a year ago, when husband disappeared. Mother and daughter barely scraping by. They were begging on street corners when Murray Smith appeared, took a liking to the daughter, and offered money to help put a roof over their heads. Mother isn't proud of the fact that she basically ended up pimping her daughter to him, but is unrepentant. Claims 'what needed to be done was done', and says that 'Tam- li is a responsibile daughter."
"And the daughter herself? What does she have to say?" Jack asked.
"She's very frank about the sexual nature of her relationship with him. She says that considering their circumstances, she knew what needed to be done. It was better that than to starve - and far better, she claims, than what she would have had to do had they been deported back where they'd come from. Claims that Murray being clean was a big benefit." She stopped, shaking her head. "She said she'd seen far worse in her homeland."
"Different degrees of hell," Jack murmered.
"Yeah, well, one thing of note: they both say that Murray was with them in the apartment since Monday afternoon. They say he didn't leave at any point Tuesday morning-"
"You believe them?" Jack interjected.
Samantha nodded. "They insist he didn't leave-"
Unable to hold his thoughts in any longer, Martin broke into their conversation: "No one has to do what that kid was doing to survive. Someone could have helped them: there's Social Services, if they were worried about starving; food banks-"
Samantha turned. "Not for illegals worried about being sent back, there isn't. They don't know the system and are scared to use it anyway, because they're terrified of being caught and deported. They felt they had nowhere to turn and there was no one out there to tell them any different. The mother could only find occasional, poorly paid under-the-table cleaning jobs because of her status and her lack of English. That couldn't possibly bring in enough to support them. To them, the choice of what to do when Murray appeared was obvious. I doubt having a choice even entered their minds."
Jack watched Samantha carefully as she spoke. Though her tone was even, he knew her well enough to recognise the veiled anger behind her words - and the pain she felt for the young girl. In spite of her outward calm and matter-of-fact demeanor, the interview had shaken her. Without thinking, he reached out and placed a hand on her arm. "We don't leave for Boston for a while, right? Why don't you take some time to see what you can do for them? There must be a few people we can call."
As he had hoped, he was rewarded with a slight lightening in her features. When she held his gaze, her eyes said more than the simple 'thanks' her lips spoke. Warmed, he gave her a parting nod and she turned to leave.
Still angry, Martin shook his head in disgust. "Sick son of a bitch," he said of Murray Smith. "To do something like that to a kid and then have her be grateful to you for it...God, it mades me feel dirty just being in the same room. That sort of thing shouldn't happen here."
Unsurprised by the young man's reaction, Jack turned his attention back to his newest agent. "It's not something you ever get used to, but the first time is always the worst," he said. "And it does happen: more than we like to think. This kind of stuff doesn't just happen on the internet."
"Can we be sure Smith didn't take Shelly? What if he messed with her, then killed her because he was afraid she'd talk? And if they're crazy enough to feel grateful to him, maybe they're crazy enough to lie for him, too." Martin asked.
"Martin, don't judge them," Jack said quietly. "They're the victims. You don't know where they came from or what they've lived through. We'll have Murray take a lie detector test, but I'm pretty certain he has no idea where his daughter is. You heard Sam: the mother and the girl provided him his alibi, and she thinks they're being honest. As far as finding Shelly is concerned, we're back to square one: missing without a trace."
As he said the words, Jack felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. In an attempt to divert it, he said, "At least we aren't looking for him anymore. And Sam and I are heading for Boston to track down Rebecca's friend, Nancy Thatcher. We're hoping she may have some answers."
Martin hoped so as well. He and Danny had gone back to speak to Monica about her daughter's friendship with the older woman. They'd learned that Nancy Thatcher and Shelly had been pretty close - Shelly had called her 'Aunt Nancy'. Martin said, "She mentioned that Nancy used to take her out shopping and stuff, so they spent time alone together. Maybe Shelly told her something. Still, it sounds like an awful long shot."
Silently, Jack agreed, but it was all they had.
"All we've done is spin our wheels," Martin said, pushing himself away from the wall, his expression one of anger and frustration.
Jack stopped him before he could leave. In a low voice, he said, "Martin, today you nailed a bastard. You and Danny saved some young girls from a very sick man. The job's not done, but you've made a difference. Don't lose sight of that. And don't forget there's still someone out there you've got to concentrate on, either. Don't let this distract you: Shelly Smith needs your full attention."
Martin looked at his feet a moment, then raised eyes less shadowed with defeat. "Yeah, you're right," he nodded. "Thanks. I'm going to put out that media notice we spoke about: see if there's anyone out there that saw something who hasn't stepped forward yet. I'd better get on it now." Turning, he made his way down the carpeted hallway towards the elevator.
Jack turned the opposite way. Looking at his watch, he calculated how much time he had before his plane left for Boston. He had just enough time to call home and say 'hi' to his girls.
End Chapter 3