I said, “Neither is kidnapping, yet we do everything we can to educate kids about stranger danger. I feel like we’re dropping the ball on this one.” I felt a knot in my stomach when I considered all the implications of a crime syndicate trafficking young women.
I looked at my husband. “What if they’re all connected? What if some kind of crime ring is behind these dead and missing girls?”
Joe said, “You might be on to something. Something you should really look into onMondaymorning. But right now, hours before the sun comes up, you need some rest.” Then he added, “Maybe you should talk to someone at Interpol. This is the kind of stuff they gather data on all the time.”
“Interpol? Don’t they only handle international crimes?”
“They have experts in different fields. Any kind of human trafficking is documented by them. Couldn’t hurt.”
I’d never had dealings with Interpol during my career. Interpol was based in Europe and mainly collected information. As a working cop, I preferred to be involved with organizations that provided manpower and actual assistance. But it was an idea I couldn’t dismiss out of hand.
Joe said, “I’ll get you the number for their headquarters in France. I have it somewhere in my desk. They’ve been helpful to us over the years. They also have analysts and investigators there who used to work in law enforcement, not just report writers.”
I thanked him with a kiss on the cheek, and Joe gently closed the lid of my laptop. It was exactly what I needed. He held out a hand and helped me off the breakfast barstool. I was already feeling more relaxed.
As we went toward the bedroom, I heard Martha stir and whimper. I turned to Joe. “I’ve got to take Martha out to do her business.”
“No way. I got her.” Then Joe made sure I kept walking toward the bedroom. This kind of husband doesn’t grow on trees.
CHAPTER11
I GOT INTOthe office very early on Monday. I had a specific plan of action. The very first one was using the number Joe had given me for Interpol. He told me not to bother calling the US Interpol office. I was calling the headquarters in Lyon, France. That put them nine hours ahead of us, making it already about four o’clock in the afternoon. I didn’t know how agencies in Europe operated. Here in the US, calling later than four o’clock usually resulted in a short conversation or just a voicemail. Especially if you were dealing with one of the federal agencies.
So I was surprised when someone answered the phone on the first ring.“Centre de commandement et de coordination, bonjour. Alain Creasy à l’appareil.”
“Bonjour, je me—”I tried to use more of my high school French, but the man on the other end of the line interrupted me.
“I understand English.”
“I’m sorry. I thought I could utilize the French I knew,” I said. “My name is Lindsay Boxer. I’m a homicide investigator with the San Francisco Police Department. The FBI gave me this number.”
He chuckled. It was a warm, friendly sound. “I knew anyone calling this number directly was probably in law enforcement. It is nice to meet you, Lindsay Boxer. My name is Alain Creasy. I have worked in missing persons and related areas here in France for a long time. I retired from the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire—in Paris. I’ve been here in Lyon with Interpol for the last four years. How may I help the San Francisco Police Department on this lovely day?”
I wasn’t used to this sort of pleasant chatter with other law-enforcement-related agencies. It was rare someone was nasty, but I would say “efficient” was the best way to describe most of my interactions with other agencies.
I had to comment, “Your English is excellent.”
“I lived in Michigan as an exchange student for a little over a year. I also grew up on old US TV shows. Especially police shows. This is why my American slang is so good.” He laughed out loud.
I took a few minutes to explain my concerns. I didn’t ask any specific questions. I left it up to Alain to give me any information he wanted.
“Unfortunately, there are a number of rings that traffic in young women. We have pretty good information on many of them here in Europe and the Middle East. I know that it happens in the US as well, but I don’t have as much information about it.”
“When you say ‘traffic,’ what’s the purpose?”
“It’s a nasty business. Much worse than narcotics. They will essentially sell these girls as concubines to wealthy Russian oligarchs or Middle East oil barons. The kind of people who are essentially above the law in their own countries. It helps if they can have the girls go willingly. They’ll offer a better life and plenty of luxury. That’s why these traffickers tend to prey on troubled girls, often from poor families. It is most distressing.”
We talked for quite a while. Then Alain Creasy surprised me by saying, “I’m coming to a conference in Seattle soon. Then I planned to spend a week in Paris with my daughter, but I could adjust my schedule and fly into San Francisco afterward if you think I could be of use.”
I loved his courtly way of speaking English. I also liked his eagerness and willingness to jump into a case. I agreed enthusiastically. Then I said, “I have to ask one more important question.”
“Of course. I am an open book.”
“What shows did you watch growing up in France?”
He chuckled again. “I am quite the Americanophile of classic police television. My favorites wereThe Rifleman, Baretta,andThe Streets of San Francisco. Are you familiar with any of them?”
I said, “I’ve never heard ofThe Rifleman. I’ve heard ofBarettabut haven’t seen it. ButThe Streets of San Franciscois practically required viewing for officers in the SFPD.”
