to include trafficking.”
“How do you know that?” Curt asked.
Sinclair hesitated, his eyes taking on an icy sheen in the dim glow of the shaded lamps. “Off the record?”
“I told you I wouldn’t print any of this,” Curt protested.
“Yeah, well, you said that before I found my name and one of my operative’s names broadcast all over Texas in your glad rag.”
Curt sipped the last of his wine and placed it just so on his napkin, his bright head bent but a flush coloring his cheekbones.
Looking between the two men, Emm intervened. “My niece and sister won’t care who gets credit for what . . . if they’re even still alive. Our only chance of finding them is to work together . . . Please . . . Can you tell us how you know the Los Lobos cartel is in the human trafficking trade?” She focused on Sinclair.
He shoved his half-finished wineglass back and said shortly, “Surveillance picked up a semi crossing back into the US from Mexico. ICE agents found a false bottom in it that was empty, but there were traces of human hair and no drug residue whatever. The driver was a known accomplice of the Los Lobos gang. We arrested him, but he’s refused to talk even under threats of life imprisonment, which, frankly, we probably can’t make stick without more evidence. We can’t deport him because he’s a US citizen.” He saw the words trembling on Emm’s tongue and held up his hand. “Of course we took samples, but in most cases these girls are young, with no record, so we don’t have DNA on them to cross-reference anyway.”
“Yancy has a record. Disorderly conduct, possession, even a shoplifting charge when she was younger,” Emm pointed out. “It’s possible they took samples on her last arrest.”
Sinclair nodded. “I know, it’s in her file. If we get any matches, we’ll know at least where she went across, but this semi was searched just a month ago, long after she and your niece disappeared.”
“And were you able to trace ethnicity on any of the . . . hair fibers?” Emm hated the word merchandise , and victim was equally stark. “I know DNA tracing has advanced hugely in the last five to ten years.”
Sinclair nodded. “We found seven fibers, two of one vic, the other five across the spectrum in ethnicity: Irish, English, Scandinavian, American Indian, Hispanic, Jewish.”
“In other words, the hairs could belong to just about anyone in the US,” Emm said.
Sinclair nodded grimly.
Curt asked, “Were you able to trace when and where the driver came across the first time?”
“Of course. He checked out with a full load of manufacturing equipment for a new factory in Sinaloa. The agents who cleared him vaguely recalled the vehicle and driver. Both said they heard zip from the cargo bay, smelled nothing, and the dogs didn’t alert anyone.” Sinclair fiddled with his napkin in a nervous way uncharacteristic of him, which Emm realized spoke volumes about his state of mind. “Tests indicated the occupants of that cavity were so drugged they were undoubtedly comatose, so they couldn’t make a sound. And any scent the dogs might have picked up on was disguised by cans of paint and chemicals, part of the shipment. It was also the type of truck with built-in vent fans that are on continuously.”
Emm pictured a stifling cargo hold, pitch black, with barely enough air to breathe, and women—no, girls—bouncing against one another, the hell of where they were still better than the hell of where they were headed. She looked down to disguise her tears as she thought of what Yancy and Jennifer must have done in the last year to survive. If they survived . . .
Sinclair’s hand on top of hers was comforting in a way she couldn’t think about right now, but she knew she needed a clear head, so she equally gently withdrew her hand from his. Again, Curt looked curiously between them.
“All right, I suggest we all take a week to work the case and then see where we are,” Emm
“How do you know that?” Curt asked.
Sinclair hesitated, his eyes taking on an icy sheen in the dim glow of the shaded lamps. “Off the record?”
“I told you I wouldn’t print any of this,” Curt protested.
“Yeah, well, you said that before I found my name and one of my operative’s names broadcast all over Texas in your glad rag.”
Curt sipped the last of his wine and placed it just so on his napkin, his bright head bent but a flush coloring his cheekbones.
Looking between the two men, Emm intervened. “My niece and sister won’t care who gets credit for what . . . if they’re even still alive. Our only chance of finding them is to work together . . . Please . . . Can you tell us how you know the Los Lobos cartel is in the human trafficking trade?” She focused on Sinclair.
He shoved his half-finished wineglass back and said shortly, “Surveillance picked up a semi crossing back into the US from Mexico. ICE agents found a false bottom in it that was empty, but there were traces of human hair and no drug residue whatever. The driver was a known accomplice of the Los Lobos gang. We arrested him, but he’s refused to talk even under threats of life imprisonment, which, frankly, we probably can’t make stick without more evidence. We can’t deport him because he’s a US citizen.” He saw the words trembling on Emm’s tongue and held up his hand. “Of course we took samples, but in most cases these girls are young, with no record, so we don’t have DNA on them to cross-reference anyway.”
“Yancy has a record. Disorderly conduct, possession, even a shoplifting charge when she was younger,” Emm pointed out. “It’s possible they took samples on her last arrest.”
Sinclair nodded. “I know, it’s in her file. If we get any matches, we’ll know at least where she went across, but this semi was searched just a month ago, long after she and your niece disappeared.”
“And were you able to trace ethnicity on any of the . . . hair fibers?” Emm hated the word merchandise , and victim was equally stark. “I know DNA tracing has advanced hugely in the last five to ten years.”
Sinclair nodded. “We found seven fibers, two of one vic, the other five across the spectrum in ethnicity: Irish, English, Scandinavian, American Indian, Hispanic, Jewish.”
“In other words, the hairs could belong to just about anyone in the US,” Emm said.
Sinclair nodded grimly.
Curt asked, “Were you able to trace when and where the driver came across the first time?”
“Of course. He checked out with a full load of manufacturing equipment for a new factory in Sinaloa. The agents who cleared him vaguely recalled the vehicle and driver. Both said they heard zip from the cargo bay, smelled nothing, and the dogs didn’t alert anyone.” Sinclair fiddled with his napkin in a nervous way uncharacteristic of him, which Emm realized spoke volumes about his state of mind. “Tests indicated the occupants of that cavity were so drugged they were undoubtedly comatose, so they couldn’t make a sound. And any scent the dogs might have picked up on was disguised by cans of paint and chemicals, part of the shipment. It was also the type of truck with built-in vent fans that are on continuously.”
Emm pictured a stifling cargo hold, pitch black, with barely enough air to breathe, and women—no, girls—bouncing against one another, the hell of where they were still better than the hell of where they were headed. She looked down to disguise her tears as she thought of what Yancy and Jennifer must have done in the last year to survive. If they survived . . .
Sinclair’s hand on top of hers was comforting in a way she couldn’t think about right now, but she knew she needed a clear head, so she equally gently withdrew her hand from his. Again, Curt looked curiously between them.
“All right, I suggest we all take a week to work the case and then see where we are,” Emm
Similar Books
