Abel Traces Trafficked Alice to US Congressman

24 Oct Abel Traces Trafficked Alice to US Congressman

“Hey, Peter! I saw you on TV this morning. Next time, make sure they get your good side.” Maxwell Elliot chuckled. At the other end of the phone connection, Abel cringed.

“I’m glad you find it so funny”, he said with an edge to his voice. “I’m a goddamned murder suspect. I’m in hiding for God’s sake.”

“I wouldn’t sweat the cops in this town, Peter. They couldn’t find their ass with both hands.”

Abel shook his head. He was as cynical as the next reporter, but right now he wouldn’t mind some sympathy.

“Look, I spent the night hiding in some Motel 6, so I’m in no mood, Maxwell. I need your help.”

“No shit.”

“When can we meet?”

Abel could hear Elliot fumbling around with some papers.

“Hold steady there, Abel”, Elliot encouraged. “Let me get a few things together for you. Meet me outside that coffee shop in half an hour. And try not to get shot.”

“Thanks for the advice”, Abel muttered. He could hear the sarcasm in his tone. If Elliot heard it as well, it didn’t bother him.

Abel could hear Elliot laugh as he snapped his cell phone shut.

***********************

Abel’s hands were beginning to ache in the morning cold as he made his way to the coffee shop. As he approached the entrance, he spotted Elliot standing on the sidewalk. He was surprised to see him dressed in a business suit.

Abel shook his head in mock admiration. “You dress up just for me?”

“I always put on my so-fines when I aid and abet a murder suspect.”  Abel gave him a look and Elliot shrugged. “I figured we might be less conspicuous if we both looked like businessmen.”  Elliot studied Abel’s rumpled suit, which he had worn now for the better part of two days. “Although that suit doesn’t exactly sell the concept.”

“You want to buy me a change of underwear I’m all yours.”

“Undies are a little personal. Maybe a new tie.”

Before Abel could think of a smart rejoinder, Elliot headed off down the street. “Come on. We need to find a less conspicuous place to talk.”

Ten minutes later they were in the quiet corner of a local park. Across from them, asphalt basketball courts already were taking a pounding from groups of kids either skipping school or waiting for a drug deal to go down. Or maybe looking out for a scout from the NBA. Abel and Elliot sat on a bench near some broken swings and a sandbox no mother in her right mind would let her kid get near. Abel looked around, uncomfortable.

“Nice spot.”

“Cops avoid it. I figured that might be an advantage considering your circumstances.” Elliot pulled some papers out of his ratty briefcase. “Dead hooker’s last name was Tripps”, he announced.

“Marcy Tripps”, Abel repeated, memorising it.

Elliot handed him a four-by-six colour photograph. “At least that’s the name she went by. I managed to find a little bit on her. Father was Sudanese. Mother was Jamaican.”

In the picture, Marcy was standing beside a short portly Caucasian man with a bad comb-over. The guy had to be three times her age.

A siren wailed somewhere nearby and Abel turned, startled. He and Elliot shared a look. The siren belonged to an ambulance, which flew past unmindful of them. It occurred to Abel he might not be the only fugitive in the park.

“When was this photo taken?” he said.

Elliot flipped it over and pointed to the date on the back. It was about six weeks old.

“Who’s the man?” Abel said. “Dennis?”

Elliot shook his head. “That’s Congressman Jason Schroeder, from Kentucky. He’s one of those Moral Majority types. Made his bones opposing gay marriage and supporting the military. He’s a Vietnam vet – sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“National Guard.” Elliot said. “The closest Schroeder ever came to Southeast Asia was stir-fried noodles at his local Thai restaurant.”

Abel’s eyes narrowed as he continued staring at the photograph. “What’s Mr. Moral Majority doing with a high-end prostitute?” Abel knew the answer, but he was curious to hear Elliot’s version of it.

“He’s doing the same thing that any other holier-than-thou hypocrite would do”, Elliot said, deadpan. “Saving her soul.”

Abel grunted. “Where’d you get this?”

“Private detective. Worked for Schroeder’s wife. I guess the happy couple worked it out because they’re still married, and I think Schroeder still manages to see Ms. Tripp.”

“How come his political enemies haven’t splashed this all over the Post?”

“Man, for a reporter you are one naïve dude. Look, Democrats, Republicans, Independents. They all swim in the same sewer, all drink from it. They all have secrets. Someone starts a pissing contest, everyone goes down. You understand? Everybody knows everything about everybody else. Nobody talks. It’s one cosy club. One. As in undivided by issues affecting the public good. They might take swings at each other on political stuff, but it’s bullshit. You know. Theatre for public consumption. In the end, they’re rich and privileged, and they run the country for their own benefit and the benefit of their friends and benefactors, and this red-state-blue-state stuff is all crap. The rest of us saps just think we have a choice when we vote. You never read Gore Vidal?  The man’s a prophet. Only he’s Cassandra because nobody believes him.”
“That’s cynical, even for an American journalist”, Abel said. “Surely, there are a few honourable people serving your country.”

Elliot thought about that for a moment and then nodded as if it violated his wishes.

“Yeah, there are”, he said. “But they only get so far before they hit the glass ceiling. They never grab the brass ring. Never. Those who have too much to lose see to it that the ring stays within the conspiracy.”

“So, what’s your stake in this?”

“I don’t know how much you’ve heard about this in your part of the world, but American spirituality has been hi-jacked, mostly by guys like Schroeder, who sell God as a commodity for their own gain. You’ve got your story, the human trafficking stuff. This one is mine. I’ve been looking to bring down Schroeder and his pals for quite a while now, the ones who get the faithful in America to vote for them on the claim they’re doing the Lord’s work, when they’re doing exactly the opposite. The guys who imply their actions are dictated by the will and the word of God, when in fact they were dictated by the sources of their campaign contributions. The ones who only walk in the front door of a church for a photo opportunity. I’m still getting my evidence together. This photo is just one piece of it.”

Elliot let out a frustrated sigh. “I was hoping to talk to Marcy about Schroeder, but I could never get close enough. Dennis keeps his girls under lock and key.”

“Boy, it happens in Nigeria too. Politicians flaunt religion on telly, and God must be shaking his head in regret. It is a story I will look at someday, but for now, it is Alice.” Abel took the photo back from Elliot and looked at it again. “Marcy said she knew Alice. And that Alice works for Dennis.”

“I have informants who say Schroeder’s taste runs to girls like your Alice. Young African women with fat bums. I hear he has no patience for elaborate foreplay which our women insist they must have for full sex.”

Abel studied Elliot. “Then he might be sleeping with her.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad guess. She’s hot new talent. Dennis is gonna sell her to his best clients.”

“What now?”

“Schroeder’s careful when his wife’s in town. But she’s on a trip with other Congressmen’s wives now. Some goodwill tour of Mexican schools. Chances are, he’ll be playing while the cat’s away.”

“You know his schedule?”

“I do my homework. I’m just as eager to bring this asshole down as you are to save Alice. He’s giving a speech tonight at the Mayflower Hotel. My guess is, after the speech, he retreats upstairs and has a little fun.”

“That sounds like a long shot.”

“Oh ye of little faith. I checked with my source in the hotel. Someone in Schroeder’s office booked a room. Under as assumed name, of course.”

“What room number?”

“He won’t tell me. He’s already shitting a brick about giving me this much. But if we know Schroeder’s going to be there for the night, we can trail the guy right to his room. Provided we can avoid the bodyguards.”

“For Schroeder?”

Elliot shook his head and pointed at the photo. There was another figure walking a few paces behind Schroeder and Marcy. “One of Dennis’s men. Always shadowing the girls when they work.”

Abel’s eyes hardened. “He might have killed Marcy because she was with me. How could they know who I was?”

“You told me it was no secret you were in town”, he said. “Someone tipped him off.”

“Damn!” Abel muttered under his breath. “They must’ve known it was me from the start. When I described the girl I wanted, someone who looked like Alice, I gave myself away.”

Elliot shrugged. “If it went down that way, then Marcy was a sacrificial lamb.”

“You mean, they planned to kill her when they sent her to me?”

“Sure. It’s why they arranged for you to meet her in the bar. Got you on video with the victim-to-be.”

“That’s a lot of trouble to go through for a foreign journalist.”

“They probably think you have bigger targets than you actually do”, he said. “You just want to save your Alice. They think you want to take down their entire operation.”

“If it would save those girls from this filthy life, I would take down their entire operation”, Abel said.

“You’re what we call in the States a real Boy Scout.” Elliot said with a laugh.

Abel looked at the only friend he had in the entire country and thought how different they were. Elliot hadn’t been this much of a cynic when they met. Perhaps years of investigating crime, corruption and deviance produced his bitter, rawhide façade. Abel found himself suddenly uncomfortable with his friend. Maybe Abel had allowed himself to get too emotional about his pursuit of a story, the way Elliot got overly emotional about his investigation. Chief Benson’s words echoed in his ears. A reporter out for revenge is not good at this job.

As Abel pondered this, Elliot put the pictures back in his briefcase and got up. “Come on. We need to get you a shower and a clean change of clothes before tonight.”

“You really think Schroeder will end up with Alice?”

“He won’t be with Marcy”, Elliot remarked, “unless he has an unknown fondness for necrophilia.”

“Jesus, Maxwell.”

“You have to admit, it’d make the Schroeder story much more interesting.”

Abel just looked at him. “Where exactly is the Mayflower Hotel?” Abel said.

“Not necessary. I’ll take you there.”

Abel shook his head. “I’m going alone. You can’t be involved. If things go bad I won’t have you on my conscience.”

It was a noble gesture, but Abel wondered if it wasn’t being selfish. He was getting tired of Elliot’s cynical remarks and edgy attitude. And in any event, he worked better alone. On the few occasions where he’d had a partner, he never felt comfortable, and things had gone badly, perhaps inevitably. This time, with his own life at stake, Abel needed to be able to control everything, make his moves and not feel responsible for someone else.

Elliot didn’t argue. He gave Abel the address and the time and place of Schroeder’s speech.

“After the speech and dinner, maybe around eleven, Schroeder will head for the room. That’s when you make your move.”

“Thanks, Maxwell. I appreciate this. Do me a favour? Call my cell if you come up with anything more.”

Elliot nodded. “No problem. Just remember. You share what you learn. I still have my story to write. Got it?”

Able nodded.

“Okay, before I send you on your way, let’s attend to your hygiene.”

Abel smiled at the jibe. He had to admit, he’d be grateful for a shower and a fresh outfit.

After a visit to the local YMCA where he showered, Abel emerged to find Elliot had somehow found him an entire change of clothing. Elliot told him the underwear and socks came from a local department store and the suit and shirt from the Goodwill.

“Thought underwear was too personal”, Abel teased.

“I did it out of self-interest. You were pretty ripe. You’d never make it ten feet inside that hotel tonight before security jumped all over you. Then I’d have no story.”

“You got heart, my friend.”

Elliot wished him luck, reiterated the request for an update on Schroeder once Abel had secured Alice, and departed.

*********************

It qualified as the longest day of Peter Abel’s life. There was no way to find Alice safely until late that night when Abel planned to slip into the hotel where Congressman Jason Schroeder was scheduled to speak, eat and, Abel hoped, enjoy some female entertainment. There was no guarantee, of course, that Schroeder was meeting a hooker, and even if he were planning that, his companion might not be Alice.

Despite Elliot’s dismissal of the Washington, D.C. Police Department, they continued to hunt him. Abel knew when it came to politics and power, all countries, democracies, monarchies, Communist regimes and dictatorships were exactly the same. The local police were going to protect the powerful.  It’s just how things worked in this world.

Now who was getting cynical? Abel thought.

Yet he had no doubt that powerful forces were putting out the word that he was dangerous and needed to be apprehended quickly. And not necessarily alive.

It also occurred to Abel that getting arrested might be the least of his worries. The syndicate who ran these girls had already slaughtered Marcy without a second thought. If he was their target, and he certainly was, they were probably in a race with the police to see who could get to him first.

Either way, chances were if he tried to throw up his hands in the middle of a crowded street and surrender, he’d likely still get shot by someone claiming they saw him going for a weapon.

These circumstances forced Abel to remain suspicious of anyone who looked in his direction. Every time he caught a pair of eyes glance his way, he wondered if they belonged to a member of the syndicate. Or were they informants?  Or police investigators?  Or simply people going about their business with no interest in him whatsoever?  But if they were ordinary citizens, did they recognize his face from the news broadcast, and if so, would they reach for their cell phones and call the police?

One woman who walked past Abel, suddenly pulled out her cell phone, quickly punched in a number, and appeared to speak nervously. Abel’s heart was in his throat as he carefully turned his head to get a better look at her. After a few moments, the woman flipped her phone shut and slipped it back into her pocket without looking back. Abel felt foolish but relieved.

He had read about paranoid people and all their crazy fears, and now he found himself highly sympathetic to them. And who knew? Maybe they had damned good reason to be paranoid. Maybe he did.

Abel found a quiet place to ponder his fate and make plans, the local library. It was perfect. He found several books on the Washington. D.C. area so he could familiarise himself with the city, then settled into a seat among the stacks.

He needed to make a contingency plan if Alice did not show up that night. He’d have to find Dennis, her pimp. But how? He had no idea what the man looked like or where he was located. He didn’t even know if Dennis was in Washington. Or for that matter if Dennis was his real name.

From the sound of his voice, Abel guessed Dennis was a white man in his forties. The man had coughed a couple of times, not from a cold, but a deep chronic smoker’s cough. One small clue. Lots of people smoked, but not, perhaps, as many in the United States as overseas. He accepted the cough for what it was, a clue, and better than nothing.

Abel hoped Alice would appear that night at the Mayflower. Otherwise he would have to look for Dennis with the police looking for him, and that seemed an impossible task. He couldn’t even think of a disguise he could adopt to any certain advantage.

Abel shook his head at this idiotic train of thought. He was getting woozy and losing his focus. His energy was definitely at an ebb. He wanted nothing more than to find a nice warm bed and take a long nap.

The thought flashed through Abel’s mind that perhaps he should give up this mission and get the hell out of Washington.

He didn’t know why that notion occurred to him. He’d done this sort of investigation plenty of times before in his homeland. He wasn’t new to danger. Whenever bad guys felt threatened, they took out after the threat, to wipe it out. They’d already tried to shoot him once, when they ambushed his car back on the bridge. The danger had followed him and would continue to follow him until one side prevailed.

This was an international problem. Abel knew he had nothing to gain by fleeing. Even if he left the United States and didn’t make another move against Dennis and the rest of the syndicate, the people who wanted him dead would continue to hunt him down wherever he went. They would assume, even if he stood down now, that he would take up the cause again someday, never giving up his mission. That was his reputation. That was his vulnerability. He was stubborn.

Thus, he made a solemn pledge to himself. He was not leaving the United States without Alice.