“How were you aware they were coming through the private airport?”
“Local drug dealers use the private airport to move product, so we monitor it with hidden surveillance cameras.”
“Did you capture the Sokolovs on video when they came in?”
“Sure. My laptop’s in the car. Give me a second, and I’ll go get it.”
Erce placed his laptop on the table so she could see the screen, and retrieved the surveillance videos of the Russians. They had been shot during the day, and showed the brothers exiting a twin-engine plane accompanied by three women wearing tight-fitting clothes. Their skin was dark, and they appeared to be either Mexican or Latin American.
Daniels still had the video of the wild party that Sierra had shared with her on her cell phone. The three women in that video had also been Latinas. She pulled the video up, and compared the three women to the trio on the surveillance videos.
It was a match.
She showed Sierra’s video to Erce.
“Wow,” he said. “Do you have any idea who they are?”
“They’re friends of a Russian girl named Katya, who’s involved with the Sokolovs,” she said. “Their tattoos identify them as members of the Latin Kings.”
“I’ve dealt with the Latin Kings. They don’t mix very well.”
“I know. We’re not sure what the deal is. Do you have any other videos of these girls that were taken that day?”
“I think there’s another. Let me look.”
Erce searched the library of videos stored on his laptop. He said, “Here we go,” and a new video filled the screen that showed the Latinas sharing a plastic bench. The Sokolovs stood beside them, waving their hands and talking furiously. The video had no audio, but from what Daniels could surmise, the Latinas were being lectured.
“This was taken inside the airport’s terminal,” Erce said.
“Same day as the other video?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She studied the three Latinas. They sat close to one another, their shoulders touching. In Sierra’s video, they’d acted like wild women, while in this video, they looked cornered, and a little afraid of what the Sokolovs might do to them.
“Did you watch all the surveillance videos of the Sokolovs that were taken at the airport?” Daniels asked.
“I did,” Erce said.
“How many times are these women in them?”
“Nearly all of them.”
“How often did they stay?”
“Usually two or three days.”
She resumed studying the video. The Sokolovs were taking turns berating the Latinas, who shrank beneath their verbal onslaught. The Russians were being abusive, and she was surprised the three women didn’t stand up and leave.
The video was reaching its end, and she watched as the Sokolovs ushered the Latinas out an exit door of the terminal. They were treating them like cattle, and not fellow human beings. The door closed, and the screen went dark.
She heard the air catch in her throat. Something was wrong with this picture, and it dawned on her what it was. The Latinas had no luggage or personal belongings, not even a purse. Nor did she see the rectangular bulge of a cell phone in their pants pockets.
They had no earthly possessions.
She had seen this before, and knew exactly what it meant.
They were slaves.
Chapter 20
Lancaster had no trouble finding Dr. Angela Sircy. She was old school, her address and land line phone number in the white pages, and he had the Uber driver drop him off in the street in front of her two-story clapboard house. Like many dwellings in Saint Augustine, the residence reeked of southern charm, with rocking chairs on the front porch and a hand-painted sign that said BE NICE hanging on the front door.
He lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. His reflection in the front window made him frown. His shirt was rumpled, and his hair was askew. He’d cleaned himself up before leaving, but it hadn’t lasted long. His mother had once likened him to Pig-Pen from the Peanuts comic strips, who had attracted a permanent cloud of dust wherever he went. Try as he might, he’d never been able to keep himself looking neat.
He heard shuffling feet inside the house. A teenage girl in braces answered the front door. With one hand, she held back a snarling Doberman, who looked ready to tear his head off. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any. Go away,” she said.
He flipped open his wallet and flashed his detective’s badge. “My name is Jon Lancaster, and I’m a former detective, now a private investigator. I’m working a case in town, and was hoping to speak with Dr. Angela Sircy. Is she available?”
“Can I see that?”
He handed her his wallet. In the act of taking it, she let the pooch go, and the animal jumped on his chest with his front paws and began to lick his face.
“What’s his name?”
“It’s a she. Her name’s Sheena, and she’s a pussycat.” The teen returned his wallet and reined in her dog. “Is my mom in some kind of trouble?”
“Not at all. I want to talk to her about a man she worked with at the hospital.”
She made a face. “Let me guess. This is about Martin Daniels.”
“It is. How did you know?”
“Because my mom said that one day, there would be an investigation into all the crazy stuff Martin was doing before he died. She said it was just a matter of time.”
She had called him Martin, not Dr. Daniels, suggesting a friendship.
“How well did you know him?” he asked.
“I thought I knew Martin really well,” she said. “He used to take us out on his boat, and he had us over for dinner a few times. He was an amazing cook, especially on the grill. Then it all turned to shit.” She clicked her fingers. “Just like that.”
“Did he and your mother date?”
“Yep. They were hot and heavy for a while. He even proposed to her.”
Neither Beth nor Melanie had ever mentioned that there was a woman in their father’s life, and he imagined it was yet another secret he’d been keeping from them.
“Did your mom say yes?”
Tears blurred her eyes, and she nodded. An awkward silence followed. The Dobie lay down at her owner’s feet and fell fast sleep.
“Some watchdog, huh?” The teen wiped away her tears, but her sadness didn’t go away. “My mom’s behind the house, working on her chopper. She can fill you in.”
And with that, she shut the door in his face.
There was a detached garage behind the house where a redhead wearing a long-sleeve denim shirt was working on a motorcycle with a power tool. Parts of the bike were strewn on a workbench and also on a blanket at her feet. Several of his buddies liked to work on their bikes, and they did so with a beer in one hand, and a butt in the other. Sircy took a more conservative approach, and she wore a pair of work gloves and protective goggles, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Seeing him approach, she killed the power tool and yanked off her goggles. She was in her late fifties, attractive, with a perfectly even tan that came from riding her bike on one of Florida’s endless highways.
“I’m sick of you god damn Jehovah’s Witnesses coming onto my property,” she said. “Get out of here before I sic my dog on you.”
He’d been mistaken for many things in his life, but never a religious zealot, and he promised himself that he’d ditch the clothes as soon as he could. He took out his wallet and showed his badge. “My name’s Jon Lancaster, and I’m a private investigator. Your daughter was kind enough to send me back here. I’d like to talk to you about Martin Daniels.”
“My daughter must have thought you were okay. She’s very protective.”