Cross Current - Kling Christine (онлайн книги бесплатно полные TXT) 📗
I wondered if she was referring to our friendship or just this afternoon’s meeting, but I supposed she was right in either case. “I’m not giving up, Martine. I’m not going to let them send Solange back, and I’m going to report this restavek business to the authorities.”
She looked at me thoughtfully, then opened her door. Just before she climbed in, she paused. “Miss Sullivan, I am a civilian contractor for the Fort Lauderdale Police Department. I have worked with them for almost five years. You think they are going to believe a word of this nonsense of yours?” She made that dismissive spitting sound again, then looked at her watch. “This is going to take most of the day. The Swap Shop,” she said, shaking her head. “They couldn’t have picked a place with more Haitians.”
“It’s at the Swap Shop?”
“Oui, probably some kind of gang activity. Kids these days, eh?” She slammed her door and the van started up.
I jumped into Lightnin’ and backed out of her way. After she had turned out of sight, I followed. I hadn’t been willing to ask her if it was a boy or a girl, but in my gut I knew.
When I pulled back into the Swap Shop parking lot, there were more than half a dozen police cruisers, several unmarked county vehicles, and a white van with the words Fort Lauderdale Police Crime Scene Unit emblazoned across the side. The sad part was how little attention the crowd of police vehicles warranted among the weekend shoppers; they passed by as though this level of police activity was something they saw every day.
Inside the building, it was different. A crowd had gathered around to peer in under the circus bleachers at the shrouded body lying on the cement floor next to a dusty carousel horse. Mothers stood on tiptoes, holding their children’s hands, the children’s eyes wide in their painted faces, their helium balloons bobbing overhead. An older black gentleman wearing red suspenders to hold up his sagging black trousers was mumbling a prayer, though it was barely audible over the calliope music being broadcast over the PA system.
On the far side of the building, families sat eating their McDonald’s burgers, people were buying Lotto tickets at the Tic Tac Dough window, and ladies were bargaining with a turbaned shopkeeper for imitation eelskin handbags.
She was just a kid who was trying to help me, trying to get back at the man she suspected of killing her brother. What part had I played in her death?
A woman started wailing somewhere in the crowd. I pushed my way to the front where bodies pressed up against the crime scene tape. The woman stood between two uniformed officers, her face covered with both hands, her fingernails brightly detailed little jewels sparkling in the flash of a camera. She lowered her hands suddenly and turned her back to me. She began to speak to someone on the far side of the crowd, but I couldn’t see who was there because the two patrolmen, who supported her on either side, blocked my view. I tried to get the attention of the female cop who was handling the crowd, to ask permission to speak to the saleswoman, as if I didn’t know who was there under that black plastic sheet.
I was concentrating so hard on getting her attention that I didn’t even notice who had walked up on the other side of me.
“It’s happening again, Miss Sullivan,” Collazo said.
Even with all the noise in that place, hearing his voice startled me. I jumped back and collided with him.
“Geez, Collazo, give me a heart attack, why don’t you.”
“I go to a scene, and somehow you are involved.” He had removed his jacket, and when I bumped into him, his freshly ironed shirt felt damp. He mopped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
I pointed to the covered body and said, “I didn’t have anything to do with this.” But even as I said it, I knew I was protesting more to convince myself than the detective. She was dead because she had talked to me.
“Madame Renard, the store owner,” he said while flipping through the pages of his note pad. “She just identified you as a customer who was here this afternoon. You talked to the victim and bought a dress.”
He didn’t have to finish the thought. I’d been accusing myself the entire drive here.
I could not stop staring at the tarp. “She just wanted to go to school, Collazo.”
He pulled at the neck of his shirt, and the movement drew my eyes away. He ran a hand around the back of his neck where the tufts of black body hair curled over the top of his collar. The air-conditioning in the building was practically nonexistent, and the humidity was off the chart. “You came here to the Swap Shop to see her, and you were one of the last to see her alive.”
I nodded. “Someone set up the meeting. I wanted information about anyone who had been on that boat that sank up in Hillsboro, and this girl”—I pointed to the draped body— “her name was Margot. She had come over on the Miss Agnes, but several months ago.” I looked around at the crowds and the lights. “Collazo, are you telling me that this girl was murdered here in this crowded place, and no one saw anything?”
He nodded. “Either saw nothing or will say nothing.”
“What about the store owner. What does she say happened?”
He shrugged. “The girl was there. The owner went into the back room, came out, the girl was gone.”
“What about that snitch, that guy, Gil Lynch. I saw him in the crowd while I was talking to the girl.”
“Interesting.”
“And I came with Joe D’Angelo. After I talked to the girl here, Joe took off to have lunch with some buddy of his.”
“Miss Sullivan, start over. Tell me how you got here, what you talked about.” He had his gold pen out, and he flipped to a new page in that little notebook of his. I found it reassuring somehow: As long as Collazo made those little notes in his neat writing, he might help me make sense of this.
After telling him the whole story, I added, “The Haitian term for them is restaveks, but they are really child slaves. It’s not unusual for them to be molested by family members— they are seen as the property of the family. Apparently this restavek business has been going on for decades in Haiti, but Joslin Malheur, the captain of the Miss Agnes, and all his crew, they’ve imported the concept here to the U.S. They are in the business of bringing girls here and selling them into slavery. Margot said Malheur is a former Tonton Macoute. He likes to hurt people. Gets off on it.” As I was telling him the story, it began to sound more and more far-fetched. “I think he’s responsible for all these DART killings. Including this one.
“Miss Sullivan, you are telling me that these killings are about child slavery, here in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Yes, Collazo, that is exactly what I’m saying. Okay, so the restaveks aren’t the only part of their cargo—they do make money from bringing in your standard, old-style, illegal immigrants, too. In fact, this girl, Margot,” I said, “told me that her brother paid eight hundred bucks to come here to the States in order to take her away from these people.”
“These people. You mean the slavers.”
The tone of his voice told me what he thought about my theory.
“You’re telling me,” he continued, “that the police translator who is here somewhere right now taking witness statements is really a child slaver.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true, Collazo.”
“And this young Haitian girl was telling you all about this when most Haitians won’t say anything to an American.”
“The only reason she was helping me out was because she wanted to bring this Malheur guy down. He killed her brother. She said he was going back to the Bahamas on the Bimini Express—a little freighter that usually sails out of Port Laudania. Please, check that out, even if you don’t believe me.”
He didn’t say a word for almost a minute.
