“Cool.”
Rojas switched to Spanish when he told Krista to follow him. He led her out of the kitchen into the utility room and then into the garage. The utility room held a washer and dryer. A door that probably opened on the side of the house was covered by plywood just like the windows. There would be no way to open the door without removing the plywood, but a dozen wood screws held it in place.
Earlier, when they arrived at the house, the big truck had backed up to the garage, and black plastic hung to hide its cargo as they unloaded. Now, the truck and the dim red lights that illuminated the garage were gone, and the garage held a charcoal gray Lexus SUV and a long blue BMW sedan.
Rojas said, “Smells like pepperoni. Yum!”
The BMW’s back seat was filled with three stacks of giant pizza boxes, five boxes per stack. Rojas handed five boxes to Krista, took ten for himself, and also two plastic grocery bags. When she followed him back between the cars to the utility room, she saw a switch mounted on the wall by the door inside the garage. Wires ran up the wall from the switch, across the garage ceiling, then down to the overhead door’s motor. Krista instantly knew this was a switch to open and close the garage door.
Krista’s heart beat faster as she considered the switch. The door would be noisy, and would take precious seconds to rise, but one push, and she could be free.
Then they were through the door and inside the utility room. Like the rest of the house, it was small and cramped, and Rojas clumsily bumped into the washing machine with his stack of pizzas. The top two boxes fell, Rojas tried to catch them, and three more boxes hit the floor with a crash. Rojas cursed, and told her to help him pick up the food. When she set her own boxes on the washing machine to help, Krista noticed a square access door in the ceiling. It had not been blocked or screwed shut, and would open into the attic so people could service air- conditioning ducts or pipes or whatever was in the crawl space.
It was in the ceiling, but she could reach it by climbing onto the washer.
Krista Morales, who was smart and resourceful, began to work out a plan.
15
Five seconds after they took her, Jack pushed to the door and tried the knob, but it was locked. He twisted as hard as he could, pushed, jerked back and forth, but it was no good. These weren’t ordinary interior doorknobs and locks. The knobs had been changed so the doors could be locked from the outside, and the locks were deadbolts. Jack punched the door in frustration and edged through the crowd, trying to burn off his fear, but had no place to move. He finally made his way to a spot against the plywood, and leaned with his back to the wall, studying the other prisoners.
The little room felt like a steam bath. A laser of cold air blew from an AC vent in the ceiling, but was immediately swallowed by the heat of so many bodies crowded into the tiny space. Their smell was making him sick, and he wondered how many days they had been traveling.
Thirteen people were wedged into the room. Jack and Krista made fifteen. Nine were Asians who appeared to be in their twenties or thirties, though three were much older. There were two singleton Latins and the Guatemalan couple. All of them looked hungry, tired, and poor. Their shabby, sweat-stained clothes were either too thin or too coarse, and their eyes were frightened. A few hugged meager cloth bags, but these had been looted when they were taken.
The Asians had clumped in the opposite corner, most skinny young women and men who sat on their heels with vacant expressions, but one sat to the side by himself. He was young, too, but didn’t look like the others. He was muscular and fit, with nice clothes and glistening hair that was short on the sides and straight up on top. His eyes were hard and angry, and his face rippled as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. He must have felt Jack’s stare because he suddenly looked dead into Jack’s eyes, and Jack glanced away.
Jack said, “Does anyone here speak English? Any English speakers?”
The Guatemalan man answered.
“I say a leetle some.”
A slim Asian girl raised a delicate hand.
“I understand some. My speaking not so well.”
“Where are you from?”
“Korea. Are we close to Olympic Boulevard? We go to Olympic Boulevard.”
Her accent was so bad Jack did not understand her at first, then realized she was saying “Olympic Boulevard.” So many Koreans had settled between Olympic and Wilshire in the midtown area, the neighborhood was now known as Koreatown. Jack and Krista had been twice, once for galbi and once to a karaoke bar. Neither of them had sung, but it had been fun to watch.
They were interrupted when the door opened, and two guards entered. The first guard was a short, muscular African-American. He cast his eyes around the room, then pointed at the tough-looking Korean kid.
“You. Yeah, you, c’mon, get up.”
He spoke perfect English, but Jack couldn’t tell if the Korean kid understood English or not. The guard motioned him to get up, so he slowly stood. The guard motioned him closer, so he went closer. He didn’t shuffle forward with downcast eyes like the others. He held himself erect and met the guard’s eyes. The guard took his arm, and they left.
Two minutes later, the door opened again, and Jack felt a rush of relief when he saw Krista. Her eyes told him to play it cool, so he showed no emotion as she came toward him.
The guard who had taken her stepped in, looked at Jack, and motioned him over.
“Jack Berman?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
As Jack passed through the crowd, Krista blocked his path for one second with her back to the guard, just long enough to whisper.
“Remember what I told you.”
Then she moved aside and sat with the Guatemalans as Jack followed the guard, trying hard to remember what Krista had told him.
The man led him to the big room off the entry of the house near the kitchen. Once upon a time this had been a living room, but now it was a box with the doors and windows covered by heavy sheets of plywood. Jack caught a strong smell of pizza that left him feeling hungry.
The man pointed at a spot on the floor near the entry, and told Jack to sit. The tough Korean kid was with two guards in the far corner, and another guard was speaking with a Latin woman in the opposite corner. The Korean glanced at Jack, then glared at his guard.
“My name is Samuel Rojas. You can call me Sam.”
Jack nodded, but said nothing. Rojas had a spiral notebook and a pen.
“There was a silver Mustang. Was this your car?”
“Yeah. Where is it?”
“You’re a U.S. citizen?”
“Yeah. What did you do with my car?”
“How do you know Krista?”
“I don’t. I know her mom. She and my mom are friends. What the fuck is going on here? Who are you?”
“What’s your mother’s name and phone number? We’d like to call her.”
“Good luck. She’s in China.”
Rojas looked doubtful.
“She lives in China?”
“A tour. She went with our church group. Why are you asking this stuff?”
“Your father?”
“He died last year. Why are we in this boarded-up house?”
While they spoke, a tall man with a ponytail and a shorter man with bad teeth emerged from the hall and stopped in the entry. They spoke softly in Spanish, but the tall man didn’t look Latin.
