“Sam,” Jessie said, turning to study the young detective, who was aggressively staring straight ahead while driving, “I get the distinct impression that you have a suggestion in mind but are holding back. What gives?”
He shrugged.
“I may know someone who can help,” he said, blushing slightly.
“Who?”
“Her name is Claire Vallejo,” he said quietly. “I’ve worked with her before, back when I was in Vice.”
His cheeks had gone from pink to red. Jessie chose not to comment on that for now.
“Tell me more,” she requested.
“Okay, back when I worked Vice, we dealt with a lot of undocumented women who were being sexually trafficked. In a few instances, they were abused by men who weren’t just out to harm women in general, but immigrants specifically. They got a thrill out of sexually assaulting women who were foreign and had little legal recourse. I learned that some of these guys were affiliated with virulently anti-immigrant groups, some of which were known for violence. That’s how I met Claire.”
“Go on,” Jessie prodded.
“She runs a small non-profit that focuses on victims’ rights, specifically those of immigrant women. As part of that, she built a database tracking local hate groups that target that demographic. On at least a couple of occasions, she was able to point us toward potential suspects. In one case, a man carved an image into the arm of a woman he assaulted. Claire determined that the design was associated with a particular hate group. With that information, we were able to show the victim pictures of men affiliated with the group. She picked out her attacker within seconds. In another case, we found a comatose woman from Moldova who had been beaten within an inch of her life. Based on where she was found, at a notorious shipyard at the Port of Los Angeles, Claire connected her to a gang known to use the area to sneak in Eastern European women that they subsequently trafficked.”
“And you think she might have some leads for us on groups that would do this?” Jessie asked, slightly dubious.
“I think that she might be able to connect the individual responsible to a group that shares their philosophy,” hecorrected. “Our victims are from Colombia and Japan, two vastly different countries from opposite ends of the world. Maybe there’s a correlation between them that she can see but we can’t.”
“I’m certainly willing to give it a shot,” Jessie said. “It’s not like Jamil and Beth can’t scour through Cain’s and Tanaka’s metadata on their own. We can always help out later. Where is Vallejo’s non-profit located?”
“About six blocks from Central Station,” he said.
“In that case, let’s go there now.”
*
Ten minutes later, while Jessie stood a step behind him, Sam was knocking on the door of IVA, or Immigrant Victim Advocates.
The “offices” were really just one small office in a run-down office building with outside entrances. Claire Vallejo’s was on the second floor, in between a travel agent and a fortune teller. The door opened to reveal a woman in her mid to late twenties. Jessie suspected she knew why Sam had blushed when mentioning her.
With her short dirty-blonde hair and athletic but slightly curvy build, Claire Vallejo was attractive in an unassuming, low-key way. Her eyes were ocean blue, though they looked tired, not a shocker considering how exhausting her work must be. She wore tan slacks and a casual, untucked black blouse. Jessie noted that the outfit could easily be made more professional by simply tucking in the top and throwing on the blazer that was resting on the hanger next to the door.
“Detective Goodwin,” she said, her eyes growing wide, “this is a pleasant surprise. At least I think it is. Are you here to ask for my help or to arrest me?”
The slightly flirty way that she emphasized the second option suggested that she might not mind a little role-playing with Sam, who blushed the second he heard the words.
“The former,” he said, failing horribly at playing along.
“Ah, well in that case, please come in,” she said, holding the door open wide, “and bring your friend with you.”
“Ms. Vallejo—,” he began once they were inside.
“How many times have I reminded you to call me Claire, Detective,” she interrupted, notably not calling him by his first name.
“Claire,” he tried again, “this is Jessie Hunt. She’s a profi—.”
“Of course I know who this is,” Claire said, turning to her. “You’ve done more for victims that I could in a lifetime. It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Hunt.”
“Thanks, and call me Jessie.”
Vallejo smiled broadly at the offer.
“And you should call me Claire. What can I do for you and the detective, Jessie,” she said before turning serious again. “I assume that if you’re coming to me, it’s not just to hang out.”
