THE MATRONLY woman with the fiery red hair and chubby face is apparently named Augustina, last name currently unknown.
She’s the only one in the house. The upstairs was clear. Vanities covered with makeup, closets full of fancy dresses and kinky costumes, even a tanning bed in one of the rooms.
“You’re under arrest,” I tell her, “for running a house of prostitution. Probably kidnapping, rape, and a lot of other things, too. We could be here all night just listing the charges.”
Her chin up, defiant. “I want lawyer.” The thick accent.
“I know a good one,” I say. “His name is Vasyl Discovetsky. Ring a bell?”
That stops her a moment, but she won’t say so.
“You know Disco, do you?”
“I do not know that person.”
“What about Trev? What about Nicolas? You know those boys?”
“No,” she whips out. Cuffed to a chair, caught dead to rights, but still fighting.
“Trev and Nicolas are dead,” I say.
Her expression breaks, but I’m not getting anywhere using those names. Disco runs the show, Viviana told me.
“Disco’s on the run,” I say. “Though last time I saw him, he was limping more than running.”
She looks at me. That bought me something with her; that detail gives me some cred. Still, she won’t budge.
“You don’t seem nervous, Augustina. But you know who is?” I lean up close. “General Boholyubov.”
I pull back. She doesn’t look quite as hard, quite as collected.
“Boho must be getting really nervous right now. Nervous enough to make sure nobody talks. That’s what you’re thinking right now, isn’t it? You keep your mouth shut, maybe you do some time, maybe you get deported back to wherever you’re from. But ask yourself, Augustina: Is he really gonna let you live? I’m thinking no way.”
“We can help with that,” says Clara Foster. She shows her badge. “FBI, Augustina. I’m working on a joint federal and county task force to combat sex trafficking. Tonight was a big break for us”—she nods to me in thanks—“but we want to stop this thing at its source. We want General Boholyubov.
“You tell us what you know, we put you in WITSEC. Witness protection. You get a new identity and a new life. If”—she wags a finger—“if you can help us take down the general. You help us break up this sex-trafficking ring, you get your life back. You sit there like your mouth doesn’t work, we throw you into the system, and the general takes care of you sooner or later.”
“Still want that lawyer, Augustina?” I ask. “Or do you wanna tell us where Disco is and have a chance to stay out of prison and live a normal life?”
“You have one minute to make a decision,” says Agent Foster. “Make a smart one.”
Augustina looks back and forth between us, doing the math in her head, the pros and cons. “I do not know where he is,” she says. “He is afraid. Afraid of the general. He will…he will run.”
“Run where?”
“I do not know where he will run.”
I give that a moment. It’s her instinct to clam up, but how far her loyalty to Disco goes is something I can’t know.
“Disco’s in a world of shit right now,” I remind her. “Everything’s crashing around him. Your operation here is down the toilet. And yet he didn’t reach out to you, did he? Didn’t warn you. Didn’t call or text you. Didn’t say ‘Run, Augustina, get the hell out, the cops are coming.’ Nothing like that.”
I hold up her cell phone, which I’ve already reviewed—no recent communications from Disco or any unidentified caller.
“Why not?” I ask. “I’ll tell you why not. Because he doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t give one shit about you.”
She breaks eye contact. Hard words to hear, but she can’t argue with the logic.
I bend over, hands on my knees, so we are eye to eye.
“So, Augustina,” I say, “why are you protecting him?”