Chapter Six

After spending two days reinforcing her cover story by digging through spreadsheets, calculating algorithms and reprogramming computer software in her OTB office, Angie was eager to get out of the windowless basement at Nick’s and attend a party. The occasion was the sixtieth birthday of Nolan Zapata, and lots of important people from Lorenzo’s shady businesses all across Denver and the surrounding area would be there. Mingling with this crowd might shed light on her investigation, which was something she desperately needed.

Since her work in OTB relied on computer data, she had access to cyber records for Lorenzo’s businesses. She’d hacked, studied and scanned but had found nothing definite about the size of the human trafficking operation, how it worked and when it was supposed to start. A few disturbing threads of data connected Lorenzo with coyotes known for transporting illegal immigrants and with a cartel involved in the sex trade. One of the main players in that cartel was named Zapata—just like Lorenzo’s chief number cruncher.

She’d expected to find more details about payments. Trafficking in human beings required negotiation and cooperation. There should have been more records and detailed plans, but her cyber search had been mostly futile. Tonight at the party, she planned to sneak into Lorenzo’s office and download data from his personal computer onto a flash drive—a risky scheme. She had a better chance of getting info by chatting up Lorenzo’s associates at the cocktail party. If she played her cards right, she might get these guys to blab about the impending operation.

One thing was for sure: that blabbermouth was not Julian. During the time he’d spent with her over the past couple of days, he’d been funny, polite and—God help me!—sexier than any man had a right to be. He’d told her nothing. She wasn’t sure what it would take to make him open up to her. Maybe they’d never connect. Maybe she’d finally met the man who could resist her teasing and her lies.

Until she had details, there was no point in contacting the local FBI. She had to know enough to catch Lorenzo’s guys in the act, which meant keeping her eyes and ears open at Zapata’s birthday party. Tamara Rigby, also invited, advised her to dress up—the glitzier the better. But Tamara showed up at the door to Angie’s suite on the concierge level wearing a blah cocktail dress with long, lacy sleeves. The beige of her dress was almost an exact match for her straight, chin-length hair.

When she looked at Angie, her eyes popped. “Wow.”

Angie’s jumpsuit was glistening white, strapless and streaked with gold threads. Her jacket and belt were metallic gold. She’d twisted her long platinum locks into a knot on top of her head which was fastened in place with decorative hair chopsticks, one of which doubled as a weapon. The other was a lockpick. “Am I overdressed?”

“You’re perfect. I’m the one who needs sprucing up.”

“No problem.” She went to her closet and selected a curve-hugging red sheath with a plunging neckline. “You can’t go wrong with red.”

Tamara hesitated for less than a minute. “Do you think it’ll fit?”

“I’m sure it will.” Angie grabbed the dress and led Tamara into the landing outside her room where one of the hunky bodyguards sat behind the concierge desk. After a wave to him, she knocked on the door to Jane and Cara’s suite.

As soon as Jane opened the door, Angie said, “We have a problem. Tamara needs to get totally glam before Julian picks us up in fifteen minutes.”

Jane welcomed them inside. “You came to the right place. Come with me, Tamara. We’ll start with your makeup.”

“Shouldn’t I try on the dress first?”

“That comes after I fix your face. I don’t want to get makeup on your clothes.”

Jane escorted her to the big mirror outside the bathroom, sat her down on a dainty little stool and flipped open a makeup box with a rainbow array of highlights, shadows and rouge. While Jane launched Tamara’s makeover, Cara took Angie’s hand and pulled her across the room to one of the windows. Cara’s long brown hair hung loose past her shoulders.

“How are you doing?” Angie asked the little girl.

“Bored,” she said. In case Angie didn’t catch her frustration, Cara repeated, “Bored, bored, bored.”

“You’re not allowed to run around outside the room.”

“It’s like being in jail.”

“Not really. This is a classy place.”

These rooms were a mirror image of her suite. Designed for comfort but with a touch of luxury, the sitting room—furnished with a sofa, two overstuffed chairs and a table—was equipped with a big-screen TV, sound system and video game console as well as a kitchenette. The bedroom was in a separate chamber to the right.

With a dramatic sigh, Cara pivoted away from the window and flopped into the chair behind the desk. “Mom has a thing for one of the concierge dudes. Tomorrow, he’s gonna take us out for target practice.”

“I saw Waylon today.” Angie had her first riding lesson, which meant she’d gotten up on the horse but hadn’t gone anywhere—kind of like her undercover investigation. “He wanted me to say hello to you. As soon as everything is safe, he promises to take you out for a ride.”

“Whatever.” Cara rolled her eyes.

Angie recognized the attitude; this little girl had already learned not to count on promises from well-meaning adults. “Why did you want me to follow you over here? Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Look out the window.”

Squinting into the darkness, Angie could see four stories down to the loading dock and a rear door from the kitchen. A couple of guys were sitting outside on the steps and talking. Across the road and to the left was the light outside the bunkhouse. The horse barn wasn’t visible from this angle. “If there’s something I’m supposed to see, I don’t get it.”

“After lunch, I was looking out and I saw her. I saw Gigi, my friend.”

Her imaginary friend? “Where was she?”

“On the hill behind the bunkhouse. She dodged behind bushes. I think she’s hiding from somebody, maybe the guy who punched Waylon.”

A possible scenario unfolded inside Angie’s head. If Gigi existed, she might have been part of a group being trafficked through this location. She might have escaped and gone into hiding at Nick’s. “Can you remember the first time you played with her?”

“Exactly two weeks ago. I remember because it was a Saturday so I didn’t have school. Waylon was supposed to babysit me but he was busy with the horses.” She twisted a strand of hair in her fingers. “I didn’t mind that he wasn’t paying attention. Hanging out in the barn is cool. That’s where I met Gigi. She’s funny, but I think she might be a liar because she says she’s nine and she’s no bigger than me. She made herself a nest in one of the empty stalls.”

Finding Gigi took on a new importance. The child could be in danger of being taken again by Lorenzo’s men. If Angie could convince Julian to run the video from the surveillance cameras at the barn backward, they might see evidence of Cara’s story. If she told him that Gigi might lead to the guy who punched Waylon, Julian might go along with her plan...or he might totally reject it. She just wasn’t sure where she stood with him. When they first met, he seemed suspicious but friendly. And when they were standing outside the horse barn under the stars, he warmed up to her, let down his guard and talked about his childhood in Wyoming. Then she pushed too hard, and Julian shut down.

He hadn’t been rude over the past few days, but he kept their conversations short and to the point. He didn’t seem to trust her, which was pretty much the way she felt about him. But would he help her find Cara’s mysterious friend? “Have you seen Gigi again?”

“Nope.”

“If you do, have your mom call me.”

“Okay.” Cara popped out of the chair, suddenly brimming with restless energy. “I wish you didn’t have to go to that stupid party. You could stay here and play with me.”

“Here’s the deal,” Angie said. “If you haven’t seen Gigi by Monday, I’ll take you with me on my riding lesson, and we’ll look for her.”

The kid grabbed her around the waist for a clumsy hug that really felt good. Angie stroked her fingers through the girl’s smooth brown hair, and Cara snuggled against her. Their shared warmth reminded her of hugs with Marigold. Their time together on the streets of Denver had been scary but also hopeful. Marigold had been a true friend.

“We’re done,” Jane announced as she escorted Tamara into the room.

The makeup—including an expertly done smoky eye—was gorgeous, and Jane had used some kind of product to make Tamara’s hair shine with a soft luster. The dress was fantastic, as Angie knew it would be—bright red with a deep-V neckline and a cinched waist. “Fantastic!”

“I look good,” Tamara said with a note of wonderment.

“Better than good. You look amazing, and we’ve got to run before Julian gets impatient and leaves without us.”

Tamara gave Jane a hug and thanked her.

“No kisses,” Jane said, “you’ll smudge the lipstick.”

“Got it,” Tamara said with a giggle.

And then, they were off.

JULIAN PARKED AT the entrance to Nick’s, got out of his SUV and walked around to the sidewalk. Though he wasn’t usually a fan of Lorenzo’s parties and did everything he could to avoid them, he had a mission tonight. Somehow, he had to snag a few minutes of private time with the boss. Lorenzo hadn’t returned any of his calls or messages, and Julian needed answers about the man with the scar.

Leif Farnsworth, the former Bronco quarterback who managed the sports betting operation, sauntered over and joined him. Blond, tall and handsome, he wore a brown leather jacket tailored to fit the span of his wide shoulders. Because Leif was a jock and good-looking, many people assumed he was a slab of brainless beefcake. They were wrong.

Not only did Leif have an encyclopedic memory for sporting statistics, he could calculate percentages and odds in his head. He played violin and regularly watched performances of Opera Colorado. When he’d attended Stanford on a football scholarship, he’d actually gone to classes and learned something. Julian enjoyed spending time with him.

“Where’s the rest of our carpool?” Leif asked.

“The ladies are running late. No surprise. We’re going with Tamara and Angie.”

“Angie’s a hard worker. She’s been keeping her pretty little nose to the grindstone.”

“Zapata gave her a deadline.”

“Got it.” Leif nodded. Zapata had a reputation of being dangerous. Not even a semifamous former athlete dared to cross him. “What’s the story with Angie? What makes her tick?”

“She’s single, spent the last couple of years in California, hates horses and is good at hand-to-hand combat. She had Murph on his knees in two minutes.”

“Dangerous and beautiful, that’s a scary combination, like a Venus flytrap.”

The two women came through the exit side by side. When Julian spotted Angie dressed in shimmering white and gold, his heart flip-flopped inside his rib cage, which was not the reaction he wanted. Being attracted to her would, most likely, lead to trouble.

Beside him, Leif seemed to be having heart palpitations of his own. His voice caught in his throat. “I’ve never seen Tamara look like this. Red is good on her.”

In her vivacious dress with the neckline that plunged all the way down, Tamara Rigby transformed from the uniformed supervisor for hotel operations to a creature of passion and maybe even desire. Julian had thought for a long time that Leif and Tamara would make a good couple. Both were smart; Tamara had an MBA in hospitality management. And both were cultured. Both had talents that were wasted at Nick’s. Though Julian paid them well and promoted them quickly, he knew that these two could do better.

He nudged Leif’s shoulder and said, “Let’s make sure she’s sitting in the back with you.”

As soon as the women were seated with Angie in the passenger seat beside him, Julian pulled away from the curb. He tuned the radio to a classical station that was playing Rossini’s greatest hits. The couple in the back seat of the SUV chatted intelligently about lyric opera in the early 1800s and this piece—a favorite of Tamara’s—from The Barber of Seville.

Angie peered into the rear of the SUV, listened to them and then looked at him. “You must have known that Leif and Tamara were both opera fans. I think maybe you were playing matchmaker.”

“I just set up the carpool.”

“And I appreciate the ride.” As she reached up to smooth her already perfect hairstyle, the glow from the dashboard highlighted her delicate profile. “Did you want for us to ride together for some kind of protection, like a safety-in-numbers thing?”

“Why would you think that?”

“After we talked to Waylon, you upped the security. Employees—especially the women—are escorted to the parking lot after dark. Cara and Jane are still living on the concierge level. While I’m on that subject, I approve of those concierge guys who have got to be former military and obviously know how to handle lethal weapons. Anyway, I’m guessing you never found the man with the scar.”

He tried to brush her off. “I have the situation under control.”

“Do you?”

There was an edge to her voice, and he wondered about her underlying motives. “My precautions are to make sure nobody else gets hurt. If you don’t mind, let’s drop it.”

“Okay, but I’m still a little nervous. When you looked at the feeds from your surveillance cameras, did you find anything that might lead to the guy who attacked Waylon?”

“Not a thing.”

He didn’t have to repeat his request for her to drop the topic because Leif and Tamara had launched into a sing-along with the radio—a karaoke performance of the “Figaro, Figaro, Figaro” aria. If he’d told Angie about the surveillance feeds, it would have been a short conversation. He’d seen the man with the scar attack Waylon. There had been no audio to show what they were saying to each other but the video gave a clear picture of a bully attacking an old cowboy.

Over and over, Julian had studied the tapes. He’d memorized the physical characteristics of the man with the scar, learned how he walked and how he gestured with his hands. He and Gordon put together a facial recognition package that would alert them if the man with the scar showed up again at Nick’s. It was important to find out what this guy was after.

The assailant had been lurking around outside the barn and the bunkhouse, which might be significant. Right now, that bunkhouse was unoccupied, but it was furnished with ten bunkbeds, a propane heater and stove. It was big enough for people to live there. Perfect for human trafficking.

As he drove through the western outskirts of Denver, his fingers tensed on the steering wheel. For the past couple of months, he’d been worrying about subtle changes in operations that would affect Nick’s. He’d become aware of a cover-up. Conversations would shut down when he joined the group. His receipts had been audited by Zapata’s team of accountants...twice.

After putting together bits and pieces of information, his best guess was that Nick’s was about to be turned into a hub for human trafficking. He hated that idea. The victims of these operations were little more than slaves—young women used for sex, indentured day laborers, forced housekeepers and nannies. When they were first hiring at Nick’s, he’d been adamant about green cards and fair wages. He’d made his opinions known, and a lot of the guys weren’t happy about his strict rules governing the women who worked in the Burlesque.

Tonight, he had to talk to Lorenzo and get answers. Not knowing what to expect was killing him. The only thing worse would be to learn the ugly truth.