I clap my lips closed and gulp. “Yes, sir.”
He folds his hands, one over the other, on his desk, and studies the four of us.
I’m not entirely sure he’s impressed by what he sees.
“I have a situation unfolding a few blocks from here.” He nibbles on the inside of his cheek and casts his gaze along our line. “I’m aware Detective Banks is still settling in, and this is Officer Clay’s first official shift at our precinct. However, with Banks’ past work experience, and Detective Malone’s…” He pauses. Hesitates. Then finishes with, “life experience, I’ve decided this may be the best team I can build on short notice.”
“What’s the situation?” Fletch questions. “What are we walking toward?”
“Seventeen women and girls are holed up in a hotel room three blocks from here. The youngest is eight. The oldest, twenty-two.”
My stomach drops straight into my asshole. My heart thunders painfully against my diaphragm.
Drake’s work experience. My life experience.
Mafia.
“These women are scared, Detectives. They’re malnourished. They don’t speak English, which tells me they’re probably not from around here.”
“Trafficking.” Gritting my teeth, I drop my gaze and shake my head from side to side. “Is one of them dead, Lieutenant? That’s why you’re sending in homicide?”
“The youngest iseight?” Fletch repeats. “Did I hear you right, sir?”
“No one is dead—yet. But these women need our help, and whoever put them there probably intended to come back for them. This is a bit like someone transporting a truck full of stolen electronics; I can’t see why anyone would dump their shipment before payday. It simply doesn’t happen.”
No shit. But I have a feeling I know who was moving them.
“Are we searching for our trafficker?” Drake rumbles. “Or taking care of the girls? Or something else?” His shoulders bristle with adrenaline. “What, specifically, do you want from us?”
“I want you to work together. Put Officer Clay on point, if you think he’s best suited to be with the girls.”
Because he’s young. And gentle.
“We don’t want to scare them any more than they already are. We need to figure out who they are and where they came from. If they knew where they were going, that’s good, too. If they know who was moving them, even better. Detective Banks, you’re not new to this world, and you come with extensive undercover experience. I’ll trust you to adapt your capabilities and make this work.”
Banks drops his chin. “Yes, sir.”
“Detective Malone brings a unique intellect to the team and skills that may prove helpful.”
Say it, Lieutenant. Say I’m mafia, too.
“Detective Fletcher, you’re known for putting a victim at ease. You make them feel safe. The fact that you have a daughter allows you an appreciation for the gravity of this situation.”
Like Drake, Fletch nods. “Yes, sir.”
“I want boots on the ground immediately. Work together, figure this out, and if I catch even awhiffof this friendly bickering between you two,” he glowers at me and Drake. “If I hear so much as awhisperthat casts doubt on your ability to remain professional in the field, then I’m dismantling both partnerships.”
Stunned, my eyes shoot wide. “Sir?”
“In my house, we have what’s called a Get-Along shirt. When my children argued, they had to wear the shirt until they learned how to cut the shit.” He snaps his teeth closed and scorches me with a look. “If you and Detective Banks cannot learn to get along, I’ll force you to work together until you do. Detective Fletcher can take over TO duties for Officer Clay. Do I make myself clear?”
“Lieutenant—”
“Figure it out, Detectives.” He settles back in his chair and flicks his hand toward the door. “Come up with a game plan. Then get out there and make it happen. Go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Closest to the door, Fletch spins and yanks it open first, filing out of the tiny office and spilling into the bullpen. Instantly, he cuts right and makes a beeline for our war room, flipping the placard on the door from unoccupied to occupied, and shoving through.
