McCone And Friends

“All we need is access. Take some pictures. Tape a statement from one of the workers. Are you with me?”

She nodded. “I’m with you. And as backup, why don’t we take Willie?”

“My Willie? The diamond king of northern California? Shar, this is an investigation, not a date!”

“Before he opened those discount jewelry stores Willie was a professional fence, as you may recall. And although he won’t admit it, I happen to know he personally stole a lot of the items he moved. Willie has talents we can use.”

“My tennis elbow hurts! Why’re you making me do this?”

I glared at Willie. “Shh! You’ve never played tennis in your life.”

“The doc told me most people who’ve got it have never played.”

“Just be quiet and cut the wire.”

“How d’you know there isn’t an alarm?”

“Shar and I have checked. Trust us.”

“I trust you two, I’ll probably end up in San Quentin.”

“Cut!”

Willie snipped a fair segment out of the razor wire topping the chain-link fence. I climbed over first, nearly doing myself grievous personal injury as I swung over the top. Shar followed, and then the diamond king-making unseemly grunting noises. His tall frame was encased in dark sweats tonight, and they accentuated the beginnings of a beer belly.

As we each dropped to the ground, we quickly moved into the shadow of the three-story frame building and flattened against its wall. Willie wheezed and pushed his longish hair out of his eyes. I gave Shar a look that said, Some asset you invited along. She shrugged apologetically.

According to plan we began inching around the building, searching for a point of entry. We didn’t see any guards. If the factory employed them, it would be for keeping people in; it had probably never occurred to the owners that someone might actually want in.

After about three minutes Shar came to a stop and I bumped into her. She steadied me and pointed down. A foot off the ground was an opening that had been boarded up; the plywood was splintered and coming loose. I squatted and took a look at it. Some kind of duct-maybe people-size. Together we pulled the board off.

Yep. A duct. But not very big. Willie wouldn’t fit through it-which was fine by me, because I didn’t want him alerting everybody in the place with his groaning. I’d fit, but Shar would fit better still.

I motioned for her to go first.

She made an after-you gesture.

I shook my head.

It’s you case, she mouthed.

I sighed, handed her the camera loaded with infrared film that I carried, and started squeezing through.

I’ve got to admit that I have all sorts of mild phobias, I get twitchy in crowds, and I’m not fond of heights, and I hate to fly, and small places make my skin crawl. This duct was a very small space. I pushed onward, trying to keep my mind on other things-such as Tommy and Mae Jones.

When my hands reached the end of the duct I pulled hard, then moved them around till I felt a concrete floor about two feet below. I wriggled forward, felt my foot kick something and heard Shar grunt. Sorry. The room I slid down into was pitch black. I waited till Shar was crouched beside me, then whispered, “D’you have your flashlight?”

She handed me the camera, fumbled in her pocket, and then I saw streaks of light bleeding around the fingers she placed around its bulb. We waited, listening. No one stirred, no one spoke. After a moment, Shar took her hand away from the flash and began shining its beam around. A storage room full of sealed cardboard boxes, with a door at the far side. We exchanged glances and began moving through the stacked cartons.

When we got to the door I put my ear to it and listened. No sound. I turned the knob slowly. Unlocked. I eased the door open. A dimly lighted hallway. There was another door with a lighted window set into it at the far end. Shar and I moved along opposite walls and stopped on either side of the door. I went up on tiptoe and peeked through the corner of the glass.

Inside was a factory: row after row of sewing machines, all making jittery up-and-down motions and clacking away. Each was operated by an Asian woman. Each woman slumped wearily as she fed the fabric through.

It was twelve-thirty in the morning, and they still had them sewing!

I drew back and motioned for Shar to have a look. She did, then turned to me, lips tight, eyes ablaze.

Pictures? She mouthed.

I shook my head. Can’t risk being seen.

Now what?

I shrugged.

She frowned and started back the other way, slipping from door to door and trying each knob. Finally she stopped and pointed to one with a placard that said STAIRWAY. I followed her through it and we started up. The next floor was offices-locked up and dark. We went back to the stairwell, climbed another flight. On the landing I almost tripped over a small, huddled figure.

It was a tiny gray-haired woman, crouching there with a dirty thermal blanket wrapped around her. She shivered repeatedly. Sick and hiding from the foreman. I squatted beside her.

The woman started and her eyes got big with terror. She scrambled backwards toward the steps, almost falling over. I grabbed her arm and steadied her; her flesh felt as if it was burning up. “Don’t be scared,” I said.

Her eyes moved from me to Shar. Little cornered bunny-rabbit eyes, red and full of the awful knowledge that there’s no place left to hide. She babbled something in a tongue that I couldn’t understand. I put my arms around her and patted her back-universal language. After a bit she stopped trying to pull away.

I whispered, “Do you know Mae Jones?”

She drew back and blinked.

“Mae Jones?” I repeated.

Slowly she nodded and pointed to the door off the next landing.

So Tommy’s mother was here. If we could get her out, we’d have an English- speaking witness who, because she had her permanent green card, wouldn’t be afraid to go to the authorities and file charges against the owners of this place. But there was no telling who or what was beyond that door. I glanced at Shar. She shook her head.

The sick woman was watching me. I thought back to yesterday morning and the way Darrin Boydston had communicated with the boy he called Daniel. It was worth a try.

I pointed to the woman. Pointed to the door. “Mae Jones.” I pointed to the door again, then pointed to the floor.

The woman was straining to understand. I went through the routine twice more. She nodded and struggled to her feet. Trailing the ratty blanket behind her, she climbed the stairs and went through the door.

Shar and I released sighs at the same time. Then we sat down on the steps and waited.

It wasn’t five minutes before the door opened. We both ducked down, just in case. An overly thin woman of about thirty-five rushed through so quickly that she stumbled on the top step and caught herself on the railing. She would have been beautiful, but lines of worry and pain cut deep into her face; her hair had been lopped off short and stood up in dirty spike. Her eyes were jumpy, alternately glancing behind her. She hurried down the stairs.

“You want me?”