Maddocks said, “After the six girls had been nursed back to health in this holding place, did Vancouver Hells Angels members bring them directly to you and Veronique Sabbonnier? For a middleman cut? Or did someone else handle the financial transaction and sell and deliver the girls to you?”
Red spots seeped into the oddly colored skin along Camus’s sharp cheekbones. Maddocks’s blood beat faster at the tell. His own skin grew hot. A Russian international trafficking ring connected to a high-profile local biker gang? If he could get proof, this was huge. Hells Angels were notoriously tough to nail. He needed to get in touch with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s organized crime units on the Lower Mainland. Interpol and other international human trafficking agencies would also need to be looped in. His case may well be intersecting with other investigations already under way.
Camus swayed suddenly in her chair. Apart from the hot spots, the rest of the blood in her face appeared to have drained completely, leaving her a hue of gray.
“Okay, that’s enough, Sergeant Maddocks,” Lippmann said, lurching to his feet and signaling the guard behind them. “We’re done here. My client needs medical attention, rest. We’ll sign any written statements when you’re ready with them.”
Maddocks remained seated while the guard unlocked the interview room door and led Lippmann and his client out.
As the door shut behind them, he blew out a long, controlled breath—this was just getting started. And now he really had the taste of the hunt in his mouth.
Maddocks exited the prison with Holgersen, copies of Zaedeen Camus’s signed statement in his hand. Outside it was dark. Cold. A fine mist rained down.
Holgersen halted under the portico cover beside one of the twin stone lions guarding the entrance to the prison. He fished a squashed pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Now there’s a freaking thing,” he said, battling to extract a cigarette from the packet, “if we can prove a Hells Angels and longshoremen’s union connection to the Ruskie mob.”
“Yeah.” Maddocks nodded to Holgersen’s smoke. “You going to be long with that?”
“Just a few quick drags, boss. Since I can’t smoke in your vee-hickle and all.” He lit his cigarette, blew a stream of smoke into the night.
Maddocks looked out at the rain, agitated with his partner’s delay. “Flint is checking with organized crime divisions on the mainland as we speak. He’s putting out feelers to see if anyone else has run across barcoded sex workers.”
“Good thing we kept them tattoos details outta the press after the Amanda Rose takedown.” Holgersen took a long drag and spoke around the smoke as he exhaled. “Still, my bet is on those Angels and Ruskies having already shut down whatever shipping channel they was using now that news is out about the Amanda Rose busts. Even with those details withheld, they’ll know that we had to have found their girls, and they’ll just take their next shipment of barcoded merch down some other fucking rabbit hole.”
Tension balled in Maddocks’s stomach. He checked his watch. 6:30 p.m. His date with Angie at the King’s Head was set for 7:30 p.m. He and Holgersen still had to drive all the way back down the Saanich Peninsula to the MVPD station in Victoria, where his superior, Inspector Martin Flint, was awaiting the statement.
“So I heard the Vancouver port has this giant X-ray machine they use to screen those shipping containers coming in daily,” Holgersen said, flicking his ash onto the ground. “But they scan only like three to four percent of thems that are deemed high risk. Apparently the customs guys decide which ones to scan from intel they get before them ships come in—they only target ships for inspection reported to have had unusual activity on board. How do they gets that intel, I ask you? Shit gets through those ports every day.” He glanced up at the prison’s castle-style turrets and crenelated battlements and nodded toward the facade of the historic prison. “Looks like a medieval castle, don’tcha think? Would never say so from the insides. Correctional officer told me they calls this place ‘Wilkie’ because it’s on Wilkinson Road. Been in operation over one hundred years. Was the Colquitz Provincial Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane once.” He waggled his fingers near his temple. “Madhouse.”
“Look, do me a favor,” Maddocks said, reaching the limits of his patience. He dug into his own pocket and pulled out his keys. He held them out to Holgersen. “Go ahead to the vehicle. You can drive. I’ll meet you there—just need to make a personal call. And no smoking in the car.”
Holgersen glanced at the keys, then back up into Maddocks’s eyes. “Pallorino?”
“What part about ‘personal’ didn’t you hear, Holgersen?”
He gave a half shrug and stole another quick drag before stubbing out his cigarette on the heel of his shoe. He dropped the butt into a baggie that came out of his pocket. “So when’s the IIO decision coming down?” he said, sealing the bag and repocketing it.
“No idea.”
“Pallorino knows nothing yet?”
“Not that I know of. Now go,” Maddocks said.
Holgersen observed Maddocks for another moment. Then he snagged the keys and skittered down the stairs, his big feet surprisingly agile. He flipped up the collar of his dull-gray jacket, dug his hands deep into the pockets, and slouched off into the rain. When he was out of earshot, Maddocks dialed Angie.
He swore softly as he once more got her voicemail—he’d tried calling her before the interview with Camus. He left a message.
“Angie. We’re playing phone tag here—had to make an emergency trip up to the regional corrections facility.” He refrained from mentioning why he’d come. Or with whom. His ongoing investigation with Holgersen—her junior partner from sex crimes—was going to be a minefield of personal conflict between him and her as they continued to move forward. “I’m on my return to Vic right now but could be running late for our 7:30. If you get there before me, have a drink on me, please. Will be there as soon as I can.”
He killed the call and made for his Impala. Holgersen was behind the wheel, engine warming, heater blasting. Jack-O snoozed on his sheepskin rug on the back seat. So far brass had not complained about Maddocks bringing the dog to work. He’d deal with that if and when it happened.
As they headed down the peninsula, rain lashed harder. Maddocks’s thoughts turned to Angie and the IIO ruling—and what it might do to their nascent relationship. A disquiet seeped low and cold into his stomach.
CHAPTER 9