going to tell her and how I was going to say it. I rolled down the window and filled the car with the thunder of rushing air. The tail lights ahead were frozen red eyes; the oncoming headlights were screaming white tracers. I had been racing hard all day, maybe too hard, maybe so hard I needed to slow down before I made a mistake that cost Krista Morales her life.
Pike had given me the tags off the Subaru and Beemer. I rolled up the window, found the scrap with the numbers, and called an L.A. County Deputy Sheriff I knew who worked the West Hollywood night watch. She was fast, efficient, and happy to cooperate for two guaranteed Dugout Club seats to a Dodgers-Giants game.
The DMV showed the Subaru was registered to a Paul Andrew Willets in Northridge, California. I wasn’t an expert on Subarus, but the DMV showed Mr. Willets as owning a blue Subaru, and the hat man’s car was tan. This told me the hat man was driving a stolen car, and had swapped plates with Mr. Willets’s vehicle.
The BMW told a different story. It was registered to something called Yook Yune Entertainment with a Wilshire Boulevard address showing a suite number. The suite might be an actual office, but I suspected it was a mail drop. I used my iPhone to google Yook Yune Entertainment, but found no website, business listing, or mentions of any kind.
Joe Pike was still parked one block from the strip mall when I called to fill him in. Neither the Beemer nor the Subaru had moved. It was seven minutes after ten that night.
Pike said, “Yook is a family name. Don’t know about Yune.”
“Forget the hat. Follow the Beemer when it leaves. A residential address might help us get an ID.”
“Remember Jon Stone?”
“Sure.”
“Jon speaks Korean. He spends time here. He might be able to help.”
“Great idea. Call him.”
Pike hung up without waiting for a response, and left me with no one but my phone and Nita Morales. I went through what I was going to say, then dialed her number. There was much to tell, and most of it was bad. Even tough-guy detectives like me hate to spread the bad word.
But when she answered my call, her voice was as brittle as dried parchment, and my rehearsal was useless. She had already heard something far worse than what I was going to say.
“This is real, isn’t it? Krista’s been kidnapped.”
“What happened?”
“She called this evening, in that funny voice with the accent. When the man took the phone, he demanded more money. I told him they had gotten their last cent from me-”
Her voice broke when she said it, but she pushed through the sob.
“They made her scream.”
I said, “Did you wire the money?”
“Not yet.”
“Pay them. Pay, and keep paying, and they will keep her alive.”
“Did you know this was real?”
“Yes. Yes, I found out what happened, and how, and I know who took her.”
“Who did this?”
“A bajadore called the Syrian. You know what that is, a bajadore?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Where is she?”
“With the Syrian. I’m looking for him. When I find him, I’ll find Krista.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Bring her home.”
“How? How will you do that?”
“I’ll take her. Trust me, Ms. Morales. I’ll find her, I’ll take her, and I will bring her home.”
“Please. Please, Mr. Cole-”
Her voice broke, and was swallowed by tears.
“Cry, Nita. Cry all you want. Talk. I’m with you. I won’t let you go.”
I pushed on through the darkness, whispering to Nita Morales until her signal was lost in the roaring black night, wondering what they had done to make Krista Morales scream.
Jack and Krista: four days after they were taken
18
Jack spoke louder than necessary when he asked for the soap.
“Can I have some soap? I got a mess back there.”
Her answer was just as formal.
“Sure, but I need it back. I have all these pots.”
“I’ll bring it right back. Promise.”
They were in the kitchen in open view of two guards, one who sat in a lawn chair in the entry, and another who leaned against the dining room wall at the opposite end of the kitchen.
Jack checked to make sure the guards weren’t watching, and lowered his voice.
“Did you see? Piece of cake. They let me come.”
“Shh.”
Krista gave Jack the bottle of Dawn dishwashing liquid. He started away, then turned back.
“Could I have some of those paper towels, too? I’m going to need more than toilet paper to get up this mess.”
“Okay. Sure. Take the roll.”
She gave Jack the roll of paper towels and watched him walk back to the bathroom at the far end of the house. Krista worked in the kitchen. Jack’s job was emptying the bucket of urine from their room. It was a disgusting job, and the contents of the bucket weren’t always liquid. Jack was allowed to carry the bucket to the bathroom three or four times a day, where he flushed the contents and cleaned the bucket in the bathtub. A few minutes earlier, he had spilled some of the contents onto the toilet seat and floor so he could come to Krista for the soap and towels. He had done this on purpose to see if the bathroom guard would follow him to the kitchen or let him go alone. The guard had let him go by himself.
Having the soap and the towels would also allow Jack to return, which was part of their plan. Krista wanted Jack to have a few minutes alone in the utility room. She had been unable to pry open the service hatch in the ceiling, so now Jack would try, but he needed a reason to be in the utility room.
Krista returned to the sink and continued washing the pots.
The guards had assigned jobs to the Spanish and English speakers. Only two of the Koreans spoke English, and none spoke Spanish, so the Koreans were kept in their rooms. Now, on the fourth day, Krista still did not know how many people were in the house even though she and two other women cooked for them. She rarely saw the second group of prisoners, and the number of guards kept changing, sometimes six and sometimes eight. Krista guessed the total number living in the house was over forty.
The prisoners were given one meal a day, in the late afternoon. Krista and two other Spanish-speaking women prepared the meal, served it, and cleaned up afterward. This was good because Krista had more freedom than Jack and most of the others. They cooked large pots of beans or soup with huge quantities of rice or noodles. There was little meat, though sometimes a guard brought extra beef or chicken for himself and the other guards, and often brought takeout pizza or tamales. They never shared.
The cooks were given three large dented pots, one enormous skillet, two peelers, and a bucket of battered spatulas, ladles, and spoons. They were not given a knife. If onions or cabbage needed to be chopped, a guard chopped it, or let one of the women use his knife while he stood by. This was the guard in the lawn chair, whose name was Miguel. For cleaning, they were given a box of S.O. S soap pads and the large bottle of Dawn soap. Blue.
Krista’s duties took three to four hours, start to finish, which she spent in the kitchen and utility room with its ceiling hatch and door to the garage. Miguel had wheeled a large plastic garbage can into the utility room at Krista’s
