The Janes Page 2

  Vega leaned down to look at the wounds, but let her eyes wander to the hand. Dirt was encrusted under the short nails and in the pockets of the cuticles. The fingers were long and slender and appeared to be resting so lightly on the table Vega almost had the impression they were hovering just above the surface. She glanced at the other hand, wondering if it looked the same, and oddly, it did not. The fingers on the right hand were slightly tucked under the palm, as if the girl were just starting to make a fist.

  The smell filled Vega’s nose again; this time it was all meat, and Vega tried not to think of food, of the dogs and the breakfast sandwich, turkey on Thanksgiving, fish sticks. She bent over, hands on her knees, breathed through her mouth.

  “You sick?” said Mia, not unkindly. “Happens to me sometimes, too. Happened last week. I was really hungover, but still.”

  Vega barely heard her, fuzz filling her ears.

  “Try this,” Mia said, holding something in front of her face.

  Vega squinted at it: a bright white pill.

  “Altoid,” said Mia.

  Vega took it, placed it on her tongue. The mint spiked through the roof of her mouth, and she could breathe again. She exhaled and stood up straight.

  “Thanks,” she said, lifting her goggles to wipe the wet corners of her eyes.

  “NP,” said Mia. She looked back down at the body. “Where were we?”

  “Were they found in the same place?” said Vega, pushing the mint to her back teeth with her tongue.

  “No,” said Mia. “Rowlie will give you those details, crime scene stuff. We didn’t have any of our people there. But no. Different days, different places. Jane Two we had to clean a lot more. Lot of dust.”

  Vega walked between the two bodies, looked from one to the other.

  “Cause of death, type of victim, but that could still be random, right?” said Vega. “So what makes us think they’re definitively linked?”

  Mia smiled, round cheeks pressing up against the bottom of the goggles. Brainy squirrel, thought Vega.

  “The new girl had an IUD, too,” she said, pleased.

  Mia paused then, and Vega sensed more was coming.

  “I bagged them,” she continued, and she pulled two plastic evidence bags from the shelf below the gurney, held one up in each hand. “Copper. From the same company.”

  “How do you know?” said Vega.

  “Name’s printed on the coil. Health-Guard.”

  Mia paused another moment and looked almost giddy, like she had a secret.

  “Can I show you something?” she said.

  Vega nodded.

  Mia grinned, lifted her goggles to her forehead.

  “Come.”

  She went to a counter in the corner of the room, where there was a desktop monitor and a microscope. Vega followed and watched as Mia removed one of the IUDs from its bag and placed it on a small plate under the lens of the microscope. She flipped on the monitor, and the screen was white with a blurry image of the IUD.

  “I’ll make it as sharp as I can,” said Mia, peering through the eyepiece and adjusting the lens.

  The image grew clearer and Vega stepped closer to the screen. The lettering on the IUD was visible now, the words HEALTH-GUARD engraved on the tines at the top.

  “Take a look here,” Mia said, not lifting her head away from the eyepiece.

  She turned the plate that held the IUD sideways, so the longer tine was lengthwise across the screen. There was something written there as well.

  “Numbers,” said Vega.

  “Yeah,” said Mia. “Eight numbers, but you only have to remember the last three.”

  Vega studied the numbers.

  Then Mia removed the plate, and the screen was blank white. She slid the second IUD under the lens, focused again.

  “You remember the last three?” she said to Vega.

  “79433530.”

  Mia raised her eyebrows, impressed.

  “Very good,” she said, tightening the focus as close as she could.

  Vega put her face very near to the screen. Identical make of IUD, HEALTH-GUARD printed on the top coil. She stared at the number on the long tine.

  “79433525,” she read aloud.

  Mia lifted her head from the eyepiece and looked triumphant.

  “Almost sequential,” said Vega.

  “Yep,” said Mia. “Rowlie always tells me if I notice something, not to wait for him.”

  Vega listened to her as she walked slowly back to the new girl. Jane 2. IUD 79433525.

  “That’s smart,” said Vega, studying the body.

  The scowl, the breasts, one hand with fingers curled, the other reaching out. Vega crouched a little to get a closer look, her face near the girl’s shoulder, and thought, Somewhere there’s four more just like you, or not like you at all.

  * * *

  —

  Max Caplan wedged a finger in the knot of his tie as he waited for the client, attempting to loosen it. He’d worn a tie most days as a cop but they were always loose back then, always halfway-to-happy-hour style. Then when he stopped being a cop and started as a private investigator he threw most of them away, only pulled them out for weddings and funerals. But now, working for a lawyer, it was jacket and tie on the days he came to her office to hand in reports.

  Vera Quinn was a one-man shop, just like Cap. No-nonsense, polished, attractive in a senatorial sort of way. She was possibly the most well-known attorney in Denville, PA, had produced a series of print ads boasting the only sentiment a potential client needed to know: I don’t get paid until you do. The classiest ambulance chaser this side of the Allegheny.

  Work had been steady for Cap for almost a year and a half now, since he’d enjoyed a brief stint of notoriety after finding two local abducted girls, the Brandt sisters. But no one paid more or as frequently as Vera Quinn, and the work, though not exactly exciting, when Cap was being very honest with himself, watching the numbers of his direct deposits run up, was so damn easy. No skips, no cheaters, just desert-dry interviews with insurance companies.

  And he was helping people! On top of everything, Vera Quinn was out to help the little guy. Medical malpractice, car manufacturing negligence, dead bugs in the French fries. The only price was he had to wear a tie once a week, and hell, Cap could do that for no black eyes or pulled muscles, for eight hours of sleep a night. Win-win all over.

  “You can go on in, Cap,” said the receptionist, in her sixties, a smoker with a voice like a buzz saw.

  “Thanks, Martha.”

  Cap walked into the office, where Vera leaned against her desk and spoke into a headset with a microphone the size of a pencil eraser. She smiled and waved emphatically to Cap while she wrapped it up.

  “You can expect the memo tomorrow…I appreciate your time. Cheers.”

  She clicked a button on the headset and removed it.

  “Whoo,” she said energetically.

  “Good news?” said Cap, sitting in the chair opposite her desk.

  Vera held her hands up above her head like she was presenting a banner.

  “Turino settled,” she said.

  “Already?” said Cap.

  “Already,” said Vera, laughing. “If I weren’t on the Paleo diet, I’d say let’s get a margarita.”

  Cap laughed, in part because Vera was funny, self-deprecating and humble, but also because the job he’d just started was over and won. Easy.

  “I guess we won’t need Double G’s statements,” he said, dropping a manila envelope on Vera’s desk.

  “Hey, let’s hold on to those. Paperwork’s not signed up yet. Anything of interest?”

  “I got two day laborers saying the foreman told them to work fast and cut corners.”

  Vera sat in her chair behind the desk and rolled forward.


  “Just what you expected them to say,” she said, pointing at Cap.

  He shrugged.

  “Makes sense. Those guys don’t have a dog in the fight. Should we call Mr. Wyse, tell him he can pay for his medical bills and maybe a little trip to Atlantic City?” said Cap.

  “Try the Bahamas,” said Vera, grinning.

  “No shit,” said Cap. “That’s fantastic. Let’s call him.”

  “In a few,” said Vera. “I wanted to run something by you first.”

  She had a look in her eye like she had a nice juicy secret. It was silly for Cap to be nervous but he couldn’t help it. The only other person in the room knowing something you didn’t never felt good.

  But he smiled congenially and said, “Shoot.”

  Vera put her hands together and rubbed them a tiny bit.

  “This is good, don’t you think? Us working together?” she said.

  “Yeah, of course, Vera,” said Cap right away.

  She nodded.

  “Your work is impeccable, Cap. Thorough, fast, you have more experience and ethics than anyone in the field I’ve worked with, certainly.”

  Cap was embarrassed; he didn’t like compliments because he never believed them unless they were coming from his daughter, and then he allowed them to wash over him in a gentle mist.

  “I appreciate that,” he said. “You know the feeling’s mutual.”

  Vera didn’t respond to that sentiment directly, just presented a tight smile and kept talking.

  “I’ve been thinking about our arrangement, and I think we could consider making it a little more permanent.”

  She let that sink in for a moment. She was a lawyer, after all. Let the other guy do the thinking and the talking; maybe he’ll say what you want to hear. But if she was a lawyer at her core, Cap was a cop, and he could play the quiet game too, maybe even better than she could.

  He just kept smiling, allowed a marginally confused expression to cross his face.

  “I’d like to make you an offer,” Vera said finally. She continued: “To become a full-time employee. You could make your own hours, just like you do now. All you have to do is keep doing the work you do. Health benefits, vacation, sick days. All I would ask in return is your word that you’d stay on for two years, and then we’ll reevaluate.”

  Vera then handed Cap a gray envelope. He took it and stared at the blank face.

  “Vera, I…” he began.

  “Please. You don’t have to answer now. Take a couple of days. Talk it over with Nell.”

  Cap smiled because everyone knew his daughter, Nell, was his most trusted adviser. Even though there had been a seismic shift in her personality since she’d been held at gunpoint for two hours during the Brandt case. Whereas before there had been boundless energy and eager curiosity, now there was burgeoning anxiety and uncharacteristic sullenness.

  His ex, Jules, still held an impressive grudge about Cap having put Nell in danger. When Cap had confided in Jules that he had the distinct feeling Nell was hiding things from him, Jules responded, via email, “What the hell do you expect? She’s been through a trauma and now God forbid she acts like a normal teenager!! Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I’m not sure what to say,” said Cap, feeling like an idiot.

  “Think about it,” said Vera. “We make a good team.”

  “Thanks, Vera. This is really something,” he said, good-natured and vague.

  “I hope that’s good.”

  “It is,” said Cap. “It absolutely is. It’s just I’ve gotten so used to worrying about where the next job is. I’m not sure what I’ll do with all that excess energy.”

  Vera smiled and said, “Well, there’s always CrossFit.”

  Cap laughed, and Vera laughed, and then they talked politely and professionally for a few more minutes about the Turino suit, another project in the pipeline, other possible business prospects. Then Vera walked him to the door and opened it. Cap tucked the gray envelope into the inside pocket of his blazer, and they said goodbye.

  Vera said, “Speak soon, then?”

  “Yes, thank you, Vera. Thanks,” said Cap, shaking her hand with both of his to convey his gratitude.

  “I got your two-o’clock holding,” said Martha.

  “Be there in a sec,” said Vera.

  Vera gave a last wave to Cap and retreated into her office. Cap stood still for a moment, a little dazed.

  “See you when I see you, Cap,” said Martha, idly scrolling on Facebook.

  “You take care, Martha.”

  Cap started slow and then hurried to the front door, where he fumbled with the knob and then was out, onto the sidewalk, choking on the humid August air. Come on, Caplan, he thought. No matter what’s inside that gray envelope, this is a solid offer with a good shop and a first-rate boss and a health insurance plan that will make you salivate over its reasonable deductible like it was a medium-rare cheeseburger.

  Then what was the problem? He grabbed hold of the knot in his tie and yanked it side to side until it loosened up. What was that movie, he thought as he bent over to catch his breath. Who was it—Brad Pitt? George Clooney? When he rips the tie off and throws it to the ground to reject corporate job security? Cap didn’t want to do that.

  He had only two ties.

  3

  vega was the only person waiting. it felt more like a doctor’s office than a police department, a young black woman with her hair in a neat bun and starched uniform behind the desk, the landline beeping inoffensively. Magazines fanned out on small tables in the corners. Clean floors, no dust.

  Vega read news about the tunnel while she waited for Roland Otero. She scrolled on her phone, looking at the photos—the lights, ventilation systems, appliances, and the tracks for the carts. Entrance was a hole in the ground on a construction site near the airport, just big enough for a large dog or an average man. Or, Vega thought, two girls side by side.

  A Latino man emerged from a door behind the reception desk. A few inches taller than Vega and with a slight build, dressed in a black button-down shirt and gray suit pants, a patch of white in otherwise black hair.

  “Ms. Vega,” he said, walking quickly to shake her hand. “Roland Otero.”

  They shook, said nice to meet you. Vega noticed pockmarks on his cheeks and forehead, smelled musky cologne on his skin as they returned to the door he’d come from.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said.

  Vega nodded and put on a small, gracious smile. She glanced at the officer answering the phone, the Glock 19 tucked into her belt holster. Then she followed Otero through the door to a room the size of a high school gym. There appeared to be no offices, or even cubes, just pairs and clusters of desks, conference tables, vending and coffee machines—no walls or doors anywhere, just a long clear window wrapping around the whole space showcasing the brilliant sky outside. The room wasn’t that loud either, just the ambient hum of people speaking simultaneously.

  “You met Mia?” said Otero as they weaved through the aisles of the desks.

  Vega saw cops, most of them plainclothes—mostly men with some women. White, black, brown.

  They came to a long desk in the back of the room, almost flush with the window, what Vega assumed was the corner office equivalent. Otero offered Vega a seat and then went to his chair on the other side. The surface of his desk was sparsely covered: a yellow legal pad, a pen, a slim desktop monitor.

  “You were saying,” he said. “About Mia.”

  “I met her,” said Vega.

  Otero waited a second, quickly realized she wasn’t adding anything. He nodded.

  “What did you make of our Janes?”

  Vega wasn’t sure if she was at a job interview, wasn’t sure if she wanted a job, but there was no sense in holding anything close. As of now sh
e wasn’t hired or fired, just a regular citizen being asked for her opinion.

  “Similar cause and manner of death,” she began. “Similar age, ethnicity. I’d guess the first girl was found indoors. Second girl outside.”

  Vega paused, remembered the dirt under the second girl’s nails, the scowl on her face. She pushed the images from her mind and continued: “Both showed signs of recent intercourse, both with IUDs in their uteruses; considering their ages, I’d say they were commercially sexually exploited and possibly victims of human trafficking.”

  Vega looked over Otero’s head, out the window, which seemed for a moment to be without glass, the sky so blue it looked liquid, like it would soon start flooding the panes and spill onto the floor where they stood.

  “The IUDs with serial numbers five apart,” she said. “Would imply there are other girls somewhere with IUDs numbered 526 through 529. At least.”

  Otero studied her for a moment and then stood.

  “That’s our conclusion as well. If you wouldn’t mind coming around, I can show you some photos.”

  Vega joined him on his side of the desk. He typed his password into his computer and scooted the mouse around. Screens opened, and he double-clicked on a file labeled “JD1 8-16.”

  “This is Jane One,” he said.

  Vega recognized her from the medical examiner’s morgue: curly hair, slim build. It was a tight shot of her, curled on her side in the backseat of a car, naked except for a lacy bra and underwear, fresh stab wounds leaking blood like oil.

  “Found in a parked car on a street in El Centro.”

  “That in San Diego County?” asked Vega, trying to picture a map of the state.

  “Imperial,” said Otero. “Sheriff passed it to us because we have more resources, facilities. We have pathologists like Mia.”

  “Car registered?” said Vega.

  “Yes, reported missing six a.m. on Friday.”

  “Does the owner’s story make sense?”

  “On the face, yes.”