The Traffickers (Badge of Honor 9)

sely furnished, and the majority of the chairs looked as if they belonged outdoors. The women stopped talking to look toward him, then looked away and went back to their conversation.

“Come into the kitchen, please,” Esteban then said.

The kitchen was still a mess from the making of breakfast. Nesbitt could hear the coffeemaker burping steam as it finished brewing a fresh pot.

Esteban had two cheap coffee mugs in his hand. He did not ask if Nesbitt wanted any; he simply poured coffee in both, then handed one to him.

Nesbitt didn’t feel he could refuse.

“Milk? Sugar?” Esteban said.

“Black is fine. Thank you.” Then he said, “You said you had pictures?”

“Si. I thought that a smart man like you could get them to someone who could help.” He hesitated as their eyes met. “I am not comfortable speaking with authorities.”

Nesbitt nodded.

Esteban brought out his cell phone. He punched a few keys, then handed it to Nesbitt.

“Push this one here to go from one to another,” El Nariz said, indicating a particular key.

As Nesbitt keyed through the images, El Nariz gave him a running commentary as to how he’d gotten the pictures and who was in them. He got to one that had been taken inside the convenience store, the bottom of the frame cut off, showing, barely, the two young Hispanic girls sitting at the folding table and flipping through old magazines.

“Rosario said those two are from Mexico.”

“They don’t even look fourteen years old!” Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV said indignantly, almost spilling his coffee.

He felt shocked to his very core.

“Si.” El Nariz said softly. “Fourteen, Rosario says.”

Nesbitt clicked again. The next image was shot at a forty-five-degree angle, but the subject miraculously was completely within the frame.

“That is their guard, who watches over them. And, sometimes, forces them to have sex with him.”

Chadwick Nesbitt shook his head in disbelief.

He clicked some more, but the images either repeated what he’d already seen or captured display shelving of automotive motor oil cans and toilet paper. Then the first image came back on screen. He handed back the telephone to Esteban.

“And you say you have the address of this evil man’s house?”

“S?. Where El Gato keeps the girls. Hancock Street-2505 Hancock Street. I will never forget that address as long as I am alive.”

Nesbitt wrote “El Gato” and “2505 Hancock” on the back of the gasoline station receipt.

“And I have the number of the van they drive the girls around in,” Esteban said with more than a little pride.

Nesbitt looked him in the eyes, clearly impressed.

“Give it to me,” he said.

Esteban recited, “ ‘ GSY696.’ It is a Ford van. No windows. The color is tan. And very dirty.”

Nesbitt nodded as he wrote it down, trying to squeeze all the information on the small slip of paper.

Nesbitt looked at Esteban. “And is the… the girl’s…”

Esteban nodded. He crossed himself, then said, “May God take pity on me, Ana’s head is still in the freezer in the basement.”