Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(17)
Two hours later, she’d filled three pages with various tidbits of information, and as she read what she’d compiled, she felt a frisson run up her spine. She sensed she’d stumbled onto the victim profile of the human trafficking conduit that had swept away Yancy and Jennifer. The girl was the same age as Jennifer, the same wild, party girl type, and from the picture in the article, she even looked like Jennifer. Now she had the name of the bar where the girl had been taken, Emm was pretty sure it was even in the same seedy Baltimore area as the bar Yancy had been searching when she was grabbed.
Why had none of the authorities picked up on this link? Or had they, and dismissed it as circumstantial? She knew the Baltimore cops she’d worked with had never mentioned this missing girl. Surely they’d made the connection? Emm debated calling them and demanding they follow up on their end now that the missing persons case had become a murder, given the discovery of the body. But she knew the Baltimore cops would have sent all their findings to the Texas Department of Public Safety, especially after the case was reopened as a murder investigation. Sinclair would probably have information in his files. She closed out the menus she had open and logged off, debating whether she should raise the issue with him or contact the TxDPS office in Lubbock, which now had jurisdiction.
She was so deep in thought that as she slipped down off the stool, her elbow caught the bag of the woman sitting next to her and knocked it to the ground. The contents spilled out. “I’m so sorry,” Emm began, but she froze in reaching out to help pick everything up when she saw a small revolver gleaming on the linoleum.
A large, capable hand nonchalantly put the gun back. Still kneeling, Emm looked into the sharpest gray eyes she’d ever seen. The woman waved a dismissive hand as she stood to her full, imposing height. “No problem; I should have shoved it to the other side.” She offered a hand. “Hermione Abigail Doyle, just arrived in Amarillo a few days ago.”
“Mercy Magdalena Rothschild. I just got here, too.” Emm was much shorter than this Amazon, and she tried not to feel intimidated as she shook the woman’s hand, which swallowed her own.
“And on a similar mission, I perceive.”
Emm was puzzled. “Uh . . .”
“Investigating human and drug trafficking. I believe we may be interested in the same case, for different reasons. You’re from Baltimore?”
Now Emm was floored. “How could you possibly know that?”
The woman nodded at the key fob attached to Emm’s purse. “There’s only one BMW in the parking lot and it has a Baltimore dealership above the Maryland plate number.” That laserlike gray gaze zeroed in on the articles showing beneath Emm’s notes. “ ‘Human Trafficking Texas Task Force Offers Rewards,’” she read off the title.
Impressed in a way she seldom was upon first meeting someone, Emm shoved her notes and articles back into her briefcase. “Great deductions.” She looked the tall woman up and down, noting the conservative gray suit and plain white cotton blouse that boasted no adornment. Even the buttons were hidden. “Your parents were from England, because there’s a trace of it in your voice. And you have to hide how smart and capable you are because you’re a woman in a man’s field.”
Those gray eyes flickered in surprise, and it was obvious few people ever used Ms. Doyle’s own deductive reasoning against her.
Emm smiled warmly. “In that way we’re kindred spirits; men dominate my field, also.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card, which she offered.
After reading the card, Abigail smiled and reciprocated with her own card. Emm read, “Dr. Hermione Abigail Doyle, Consultant.” Below that, in smaller print, was the title, “Forensics, Texas Rangers.” The address was in Austin.
Emm carefully stuck the card in the zipper pocket of her purse. “It might be helpful if we compared notes. Would you be available for lunch?”
Ms. Doyle hesitated. Somehow Emm knew this imposing woman was not married, not only because she didn’t wear a ring but because she probably intimidated the heck out of most men.
“I can’t share much with you.”
“I know. But I can share with you. I have a feeling you catch things other investigators might miss. Most importantly, we both very badly want to see this human trafficking ring broken into bits, do we not?”
Ms. Doyle didn’t bother to deny either assertion. She motioned a hand before her. “Lead on, Ms. Rothschild.”
Emm led the way to the parking lot.
CHAPTER 4
It was almost five when Ross finally took time to eat his take out sub sandwich, now stale, but he hardly noticed. He was growing increasingly frustrated at the progress—or, more accurately, lack thereof—of the human trafficking investigation, no matter how much money they threw at it. Public awareness of the problem had finally brought in billions in federal dollars and more than six hundred million from State of Texas funds to purchase gunboats, drones, listening devices, weapons, surveillance cameras, and even seismic equipment to help them locate tunnels at the porous 1,241-mile border between Texas and Mexico. Hundreds of new Border Patrol agents had been hired, and the governor had once even called in the National Guard to battle the flow of illegal immigrants.
However, though the unaccompanied minors fleeing Central American violence were trying to get into the US, as opposed to the young women being smuggled out, the modes of transport were very similar and often involved the same coyotes and gangs. And both were highly lucrative for the myriad criminals and Mexican nationals involved in the trade, with money greasing palms all the way down the line from cartel boss to paisano. It was literally impossible to keep up with all the potential links because they were so fluid. By the time they had proof enough to arrest a source, like the independent big-rig driver who’d been stopped at the border with drugged women hidden in the false bottom of his cargo bay, the conduit moved to another location and another trafficker.