Chapter Twenty-Three
Now
It was hard to get out of bed the next morning. In all honesty, I contemplated calling out sick, but ruled against it when I realized it was Friday — not to mention the fact that my boss was also my ex-boyfriend who, coincidentally, hated me and would most certainly notice if I didn’t show up.
I’d been up all night, ensconced in a bundle of indecision about the things I’d learned in Red Hook. Half of me was impulsive, craving action and immediate results. That half wanted to call the police, the FBI, the mayor, and the freaking President, just so I could tell someone what I suspected was happening on a forgotten dock in a dark corner of my city. But my other half, the half that had studied journalism for four years, urged caution, warning me that I might not know the full story just yet. Not only did I lack any physical proof, if I went forward with this information too soon I could end up warning Santos and his friends of an impending raid before it happened. The people operating out of the old brewery obviously had police connections — just how high those connections went was yet unclear. Until I knew for sure, I’d have to proceed with the assumption that Santos might not be the only officer involved.
The way I saw it, I had one shot. One chance to involve the authorities and bring this organization down for good. Because if I misfired — if I cried wolf and called in the cavalry at the wrong moment — I could miss my chance forever and end up jeopardizing everything I was trying to accomplish, as well as the lives of Vera and the other missing girls.
Without law enforcement at my back, there was really only one recourse — an exposé. A story in every newspaper, at every breakfast table across the country that would stop people in their tracks as they sipped their morning coffee or prepared for their commute to work. A tale so awful, so unforgettable, that people couldn’t stand by impassively anymore, swaddled in their safety blankets of denial, convinced that bad things only happen in third world countries.
I had to write something to make sure that Vera was the last girl that disappeared. It was my obligation as a journalist, but also as a basic human being. So as much as I wanted to storm that warehouse, guns blazing, with a hundred armed SWAT team members by my side, I had to do this the right way, with irrefutable evidence that would not only bring the ringleaders down, but ensure they stayed down for good.
I took a deep breath and tried to assure myself that I could do this.
I’d keep my personal feelings at bay. I’d be methodical, calculated, and smart. After all, I was a reporter — this was what I’d been trained for, even if I had been out of practice for the past few years, writing about booty-blasting workouts and natural facial exfoliant alternatives.
So, after tossing and turning for several hours, around midnight I’d given up on sleep and struck an internal compromise to reconcile my own indecision. Research, writing, surveillance — those would be my outlets for action, while I bided my time for concrete evidence. With my computer propped in my lap I typed for hours like a woman possessed, the words pouring from my fingertips in a flood, filling the blank word document on my screen. I typed everything I could remember from my conversations with Miri and my trips to Brooklyn, creating a timeline of events and detailing what little I knew about the brewery operation.
There was Santos, who supplied drugs and perhaps played a part in scoping out vulnerable girls using his NYPD connections. Then there were Smash-Nose and the Neanderthal, lackeys who apparently provided pure muscle and handled new “shipment” arrivals. And, lastly, there was the mysterious “Boss” they’d mentioned more than once during their discussion. Other than those few small details, though, my picture remained vastly incomplete. I needed to figure out exactly how many players were involved, and I knew there was only one way to do that.
I had to go back.
I had to somehow find a way inside that warehouse without detection and get a good look around, taking photographs and gathering proof as I went. The plan sounded simple enough on paper. Somehow, though, I had a sinking feeling that no matter how many episodes ofVeronica MarsI watched, I’d never possess the P.I. skills necessary to succeed at such a stunt.
But I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
I used up an entire ink cartridge, printing out pages of documents related to sex trafficking in America. Statistics, figures, common trends — anything I thought might be useful. Then I printed out my notes, along with photos of The Point and any images I could find online of the pier and the old Rochester Brewery. I even found some photographs of the brewery interior that a local historical society had scanned and uploaded to their website.
Finally, using nearly ten pieces of paper, I printed out a massive street map of the city and used clear tape to adhere the puzzle back together into one cohesive chart. I laid the map alongside everything else I’d printed on the floor next to my bed, my head pounding with stress as I stared down at the collection. The sheer amount of information before me was overwhelming, and as I looked at the images, the small nervous pit in my stomach expanded to become a cavernous crater of anxiety.
There were too many sheets jumbled together to make any kind of sense or begin to think things through logically; I needed a way to see everything at once and to track my progress through the city. Grabbing the large chart by an edge, I walked over to the small kitchen table that doubled as my desk area and grabbed an unopened container of thumbtacks.
I paused in the middle of my studio and deliberated for a full minute, contemplating whether I was standing on the threshold of whatever normal boundaries exist between a reporter and her story. Turning my apartment wall intoa pin-board of notes and theories didn’t feel exceptionally detached. Was I about to cross the line of demarcation between overly-obsessive, verge-of-insanity involvement and normal, professional interest?
Staring at the blank wall adjacent to my kitchen, I shrugged my shoulders, thought of Vera, and told that line to go straight to hell. I wasn’t just any journalist, and this wasn’t just any story. It wouldn’t do me — or Vera — any good to pretend I didn’t have an emotional stake in this.
I crossed the room, positioned my map with one hand, and jabbed a pin into its corner with the other. Within minutes, I’d used most of my thumb tacks and my studio wall had been transformed into a virtual storyboard, much like those used atLusterwhen planning out an issue but, instead, full of macabre images and figures. Thankfully, when I’d moved in last year I’d run out of money before spending a big budget on wall decorations — but who needed Crate and Barrel when you had a creepy, DIY serial-killer-esque shrine of photos and clippings to color your walls?
I studied my work with a mixed sense of accomplishment and concern. It felt good to do something with my hands, to make a small amount of progress, even if it was only the illusion of productivity. The map spanned a good chunk of the wall, framed on either side by charts, images, and notes. A portrait of Vera and me that Fae had snapped on my camera phone one day last summer hung on the left, the picture of Santos I’d found online was pinned on the right. Miri’s handwritten letter was tacked up at eye level, and I’d marked distinct locations — the tenement in Two Bridges, the coffee shop in East Village where I’d met Miri, the precinct where Santos worked, the brewery on The Point — with red pins, so I could keep track of all the different locations I’d visited since this misadventure began.
A resigned sigh slipped from my lips. Creating a conspiracy-theory mosaic — à la Carrie inHomeland— was typically an indicator that someone was about to plunge straight off the deep end into Crazytown. If Simon and Fae saw this, they’d have me committed to a mental facility immediately, no questions asked.
Fae had been right that day in Two Bridges, when she’d said I’d stumbled down the rabbit hole.
Naive blonde girl wandering a strange, unfamiliar landscape?
Check.
Enemies lurking around every corner, waiting gleefully for a chance to chop off my head?
Double check.
***
I should’ve known the day was going to be a train wreck when I spilled coffee down the front of my favorite little black dress and got whacked in the head by four separate umbrella-wielding madmen on the way to work.
Rain in New York is always an experience. Never in your life can you be nearly bludgeoned to death by the overwhelming volume of commuters’ umbrellas competing for airspace overhead, except on a rainy day during rush hour in the city. As if the overflowing sewer drains and traffic jams didn’t cause problems enough, whenever the slightest drizzle fell from the sky, New Yorkers would have their umbrellas out in spades, poking each other in the eyes and pushing one another off the sidewalks rather than risk a single raindrop wetting their hair.