Kiser said, “Nam Thring is his name. This fellow is Jerry, a translator we use.”
Jerry nodded.
Kiser said, “Mr. Thring, uh, evidently has had a relationship with this Silvia Volpi. At least twice. He says she was very beautiful, very innocent. Second time he saw her, it was business as usual, except that on his way out she slipped him a folded piece of paper. Pressed it into his hand, clamping her hand over his mouth to tell him don’t say anything. She pushed his hand into his pocket to hide it there. Then watched him walk out of the room without a word.
“He says he didn’t open the note until he got back to his home. It was a flyer for a car wash place, the kind people leave under doors and elasticized to door handles. There was writing in the margins, done in a small hand. It was all in Spanish. Mr. Thring does not speak Spanish, but knew a friend who did and brought the note to him. Mr. Thring thought it might be a mash note or something, I guess. Instead it was a plea for help.
“It gave her full name, the Mexican city she was kidnapped from, the names and addresses of her parents. In it, she said she was being held captive by force, in total silence, unable to leave the building she was in. She said she did not know where she was, what town or city. She feared she was going to be traded or sold again. She asked him to go to the police.”
Fisk exhaled. “Which he did not.”
“Too scared,” said Kiser. “That’s his excuse. He didn’t do anything except throw away the note. He didn’t come here on his own. His friend, the one who translated the note from Spanish, turned him in. Recognized the girl’s name. Mr. Thring is also living in this country illegally.”
Fisk looked at Jerry, the translator. He was a little too disgusted at Mr. Thring to look at him just yet. “How did he first meet her?”
Jerry asked Thring in rapid-fire Vietnamese. Thring answered him slowly, eyes downcast.
Jerry relayed, “An online advertisement for massages, on a Vietnamese site.”
Kiser said, “Illegals advertising for illegals. That way nobody goes to the authorities.”
Fisk said to Jerry, “I need an address. Right now. Where was she?”
Thring answered back that he did not know.
Fisk said, “A house? An apartment? You weren’t blindfolded. Describe!”
Thring answered that it was in a part of the city he was unfamiliar with.
Fisk said, “Jesus, you went there twice. He have GPS on his phone? The address in there?”
Thring shook his head, unable to meet the eyes even of his translator.
Fisk dug out his own phone. He went to Google Maps Street View. “Give me his address.”
Fisk entered it. A tall apartment building in Kew Gardens, Queens.
“Okay,” said Fisk, taking Jerry’s seat so Thring could see the display. “Turn right or left?”
It went like that, painstakingly, and with many wrong turns. Block by block. Fisk learned the Vietnamese words for right, left, and straight.
The display had him heading toward the Williamsburg end of Bushwick, just over the line from Queens into Brooklyn. A residential area gave way to a mostly industrial area on the other side of Flushing Avenue. Lightly traveled, no retail business. The neighborhood was still a decade away from loft conversions, coffee bars, and hipsters.
Fisk moved virtually through the side streets of this neighborhood, coming to a large garage door covered in peeling paint the color of dried blood. Opposite the garage was an unbroken wall of warehouse.
“This is it?”
Thring nodded, relieved that his eyes could find the floor again.
Fisk turned to Jerry. “I need the layout of the place inside.”
Thring was not very helpful. Jerry translated, “You knock on the door. It is dark. They take money and bring you down basement, unlock door to room.”
“Unlock door?” said Fisk.
“Many doors,” Jerry translated.
Many girls, thought Fisk.
CHAPTER 61
Fisk knew Garza would not be answering her phone, so he texted her and e-mailed her a link to the address in Bushwick. She probably wanted to stay put with the Mexican president, but it was her call.
Dubin was at lunch when Fisk reached him. He talked over Dubin’s opening diatribe, laying out where he was headed and why.
“You want a SWAT team?” said Dubin.
Fisk had had about enough. He said, “Barry, this is me. Do it. Or don’t. I’m not waiting.”
And he hung up.
Dammit, Fisk thought. I’m going to have to do this alone.
CHAPTER 62
Fisk parked two blocks away. He jumped out and popped his trunk, pulling the Remington 870 shotgun from the bracket inside. He checked to make sure it was fully loaded, then filled the elastic cartridge carrier on the stock with another ten rounds of buckshot.
He pulled on his ballistic vest, did the straps, then slipped on a blue Windbreaker over that. It read NYPD on the back in bold yellow letters. If and when the SWAT team arrived, he hoped that and the badge in his belt carrier would be enough.
He slammed the trunk shut. A woman walked by him, carrying a string grocery bag, looking at him nervously, speeding up as she hit the corner and turned away.
Fisk’s heart was beating rapidly. He started down the sidewalk with the shotgun held out in front of him with both hands.
CHAPTER 63
Cecilia Garza did not check her messages until President Vargas was safely away from the podium and back in the clutches of his security detail. Two persons had been intercepted in the crowd, one suspicious man with a backpack and another wearing a hoodie in the hot midday sun. Neither turned out to be any threat.
The text from Fisk was vague and contained misspellings. That alone spoke to its immediacy. Did he have a lead on the Mexican prostitute who had pointed out Virgilio to Chuparosa? She found the address. She tried to call Fisk, but it went right to voice mail.
Vargas was moving back to the hotel soon. She did not know what to do.
CHAPTER 64
Fisk jogged down the sidewalk toward the red garage. He could see the camera mounted on the building above it, but he was not in range yet. Trying the garage door was a third option at best, and going in through the door Thring had entered was a suicidal second. So he looked for a better first option.
Cutting around the building before it led to a side door up a flight of four rusted stairs. It was locked, of course, but the door had a little give against his hip, so he brought the butt of the shotgun down on the handle. It broke, and he kicked in the door.
Abandoned. Or at least emptied, awaiting a new tenant. Concrete dust lay on the floor, a file cabinet on its side. Through that room and down a hall, he found another exit door. Through the window he could see his target building. There was a bulkhead secured with a chain and lock.
Fisk rushed back through the rooms looking for anything heavy he could use. He found a length of post pipe and picked it up. He only had one shot at this, two at the most.
He rushed back to the exit and unlocked the door, opening it to daylight. He hopped off the stairs quickly and crouch-ran to the bulkhead, looking up at the building for windows. There were none. He heard nothing from inside.
He set down his shotgun and slid the chain so that the lock was fully exposed. He could not hope to break the lock, but thought the force of the blow might pull off one or both of the bulkhead handles.