“I think that’s Pierre,” Lara said suddenly, pointing.
He followed the direction of her finger and was certain she was right as he spotted the man carrying a sign that said Looking for Work and standing right where Papa Joe had said they would find him. Brett pulled over to the curb and waved the man over. Quietly he said that Papa Joe had sent them, and Pierre jumped in.
“Drive, please,” he said, his English clear, but slightly accented.
Brett quickly pulled back onto the street.
“I am Pierre Deveau,” the man told them. “Thank you for listening to me. There was nowhere—nowhere for me to go.”
“No. Thank you for speaking with us. Merci. Merci beaucoup,” Brett said. He looked at the man in the rearview mirror.
Pierre was perhaps in his forties, lean and wiry from hard physical work, with strong features, large brown eyes and graying dreadlocks. He nodded solemnly. “We came for freedom, for better... At least my children do not drink mud for water. But my brother...”
There was a sadness in his voice. Clearly he had cared deeply for his brother.
“Please, talk. Papa Joe told us a little of your story, and we believe you,” Lara said.
Pierre began to tell his story. He talked about coming over—about fearing death in the rough, shark-filled waters between the island of Hispaniola and the Florida Keys. When they had finally arrived, they had been lucky. They had reached Islamorada, a small city spread out over several islands, where they had found people to help them. Then they made their way to Miami and found a room in a small apartment that a countryman—who was in the United States legally—rented and allowed his illegal friends to live in. It was a run-down place, but it was better than what they had left behind.
He and his brother had found odd jobs and manual labor easily enough; people didn’t ask for your papers when they needed yard work done or something heavy hauled away. They paid cash. Then he had begun working for Mr. Z, and eventually he’d gotten Antoine a job, too. He admitted that he suspected they were doing something illegal, but all they had to do was deliver bags to certain places.
But then his brother...
He’d seen his brother die. And he’d been grateful to their boss, who had offered to arrange a quiet, private funeral and promised that no one would find out that Antoine and Pierre were there illegally. There had been a priest, they had been at a real cemetery, and Pierre had seen his brother’s coffin go into the ground.
“Do you have any idea where this graveyard was?” Brett asked.
Pierre shook his head. “They brought us—my wife and me and our children—in the back of a van. No windows. We drove for about half an hour from our apartment. I don’t know what direction we went. Antoine received the words of a priest. I threw the first handful of dirt on the coffin. The man led us away.”
“What was the man’s name?” Brett asked.
“Just Mr. Z or Boss Man. I don’t know what the Z stood for, but mostly he liked to be called Boss Man. And he liked it.”
“Can you describe Boss Man?” Brett asked.
“Medium tall, medium size. He wore good clothes, and he liked jewelry. Maybe forty years or a little less in age,” Pierre said.
“But not old?” Brett said.
“No. Not old. And he was white, I think. Maybe Hispanic,” Pierre said.
“Could you describe him for a police artist?” Brett asked.
Pierre shook his head emphatically. “No. No police. Besides, I do not wish to die like my brother.”
“Pierre, I can make sure you’re safe. I can take you somewhere right now,” Brett offered.
“No. I have a wife, and a son and a daughter. I can’t go without them, and...we aren’t real. I mean, we aren’t legal.”
“We’ll get your family right now, too,” Brett promised. “I’ll make sure that you’re protected by the police. No one, not even Boss Man, will be able to get to you. We need your help. And when everything is over, I’ll make sure that you can all stay here legally.”
Tears sprang into the man’s eyes. “Papa Joe said so, but I did not dare believe. It cannot be.”
“It can,” Brett swore to him.
“I’ve heard such things before. Friends...the police make promises, but they are not immigration,” Pierre said.
“Just say the word, Pierre. And give me your address,” Brett said softly.
It took a full thirty seconds for Pierre to respond, but he finally gave them his address. Brett called Diego and passed it on, asking for backup.
By the time they reached the run-down projects where Pierre lived, the building was surrounded by police cars.