Anybody's Daughter (Angela Evans Series No. 2) (5 page)

A
ngela race-walked alongside Dre as he strode back toward his sister’s house. Instead of turning into Donna’s driveway, Dre headed for his car.

“We aren’t going back inside?” Angela asked, as she opened the passenger door.

“Too many people in there. I gotta think.” Dre slid behind the wheel, but didn’t start the car.

Angela let him do that. They sat there in silence, Dre’s head pressed back against the headrest, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

“You know what went down, right?” he finally asked.

“Yep. Jaden’s no fourteen-year-old Christian.” Angela had already surmised that Brianna could very likely be the victim of sex traffickers.

“I can’t tell my sister what we suspect. She’ll completely lose it if she thinks Brianna is in the hands of some pervert. I just have to fix this.”

“How?”

Dre didn’t answer for a long time. “I have no idea.”

“I have lots of law enforcement contacts I can reach out to,” Angela volunteered. “One of my FBI agent friends is doing some work with the LAPD’s Human Trafficking Task Force. I can call him and—”

“Human trafficking? What’re you talking about?”

Angela swallowed. “Dre, it’s possible that Brianna’s been kidnapped as part of a sex trafficking ring.”

“She ain’t no illegal alien. I’m figuring she was scammed by some pedophile.”

Angela decided not to push the issue with Dre right now, uncertain just how much of her world she should share with him. Organized gangs were now deep into the sex trafficking business, snatching girls off city streets, not from other countries. She had no facts that Brianna was indeed a victim, but it was a real possibility. She’d call her agent friend anyway.

“I’ll call Foshay in the morning to find out if there’s a Jaden Johnson enrolled there. I’ll also check to see if his mother works at Crenshaw High.”

“That’s fine,” Dre said. “But playing it by the book ain’t gonna get Bree back.”

It had taken Angela a while to admit to herself that she still wanted Dre in her life despite his criminal past. She truly believed that they could both start fresh. But Dre’s statement only confirmed that the street would always be a part of him.

“So what are you saying?”

Dre glanced over at her.

“I’m saying that I ain’t relyin’ on the cops, the courts, the school or nobody else to get Brianna back. You see how that cop acted. He didn’t even wanna take a missing person’s report.
I
have to get Bree back. This is all my fault. So I have to fix it.”

“That’s crazy. How can you possibly think that this is your fault?”

“My sister kept super-tight reins on Brianna. I was the one always urging Donna to back up off her.” His voice trailed off. “I was also the one who gave her that iPhone. She never would’ve been able to have a Facebook page if I hadn’t done that.”

“You can’t think like that, Dre. If she hadn’t had the iPhone, she would’ve found another way to get on Facebook. This is not your fault.”

Dre stared straight ahead, as if focused on something down the block.

“I always teased Donna for being paranoid about child predators. But I guess she was right to be worried.”

Angela could feel Dre’s desperation and it terrified her. She knew he’d do whatever it took to find his niece—legal or illegal. While that concerned her, Dre had been there for her at a time when she’d needed him most and now it was her turn to stand by him.

He started up the engine and pulled away from the curb.

“Aren’t you going to let Donna know we’re leaving?”

“I don’t have time to sit around crying and praying. I gotta go find Bree. I’ll call Donna later.”

They drove in silence all the way back to Angela’s place in Ladera Heights. Dre escorted her to the front door of her apartment.

Angela fumbled with the key, but finally got the door open. “You want to come in for a while?”

Dre smiled. “What? You feelin’ sorry for me now.”

Angela smiled back. “Yep.”

He pulled her into his arms and held her in a long embrace.

“Right now I have to focus everything I’ve got on finding Brianna.” He finally let her go. “Can I get a rain check?”

“Sure. Where’re you going?”

“I don’t exactly know.”

“Be careful, okay?”

“No problem there,” Dre said with a melancholy smile. “Cuz what I gotta do is gonna require a whole lotta careful.”

B
y the time Dre left Angela’s place and headed east on Slauson, it was approaching eleven o’clock. He thought about calling ahead, but decided against it.

As his Volkswagen Jetta chugged up the winding streets of Baldwin Vista, he gave some serious thought to upgrading his ride. Fancy cars were a pretense Dre didn’t care about. But maybe it was time to up his game just a little. Especially since Angela, hopefully, was back in his life.

He reached the top of the hill on Cloverdale Avenue and rolled to a stop in front of a huge three-story home that had a view of downtown L.A. on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. He turned off the engine, dialed a number and waited.

“Hey, man, I need to talk.”

“So talk.”

“In person.”

“Sounds serious. When?”

“Now. I’m outside.”

As Dre had expected, Coop welcomed him into his home.

Cooper “Coop” Ford had been his unofficial mentor in the drug trade. Dre had modeled himself after this simple man who ran his operation like a business and had the smarts to get out when he’d collected enough cash to invest in legal operations. Coop now owned a chain of laundromats, several apartment buildings and two neighborhood bars, all in the hood. He treated his workers fairly and kept his businesses legit.

Greeting him at the door in a T-shirt, sweat pants and bare feet, Coop led Dre into his office, walking him down a marbled hallway lined with expensive African art. Coop had wooly salt-and-pepper hair. His penetrating eyes and the deep folds in his face conveyed a hard edge that seemed out of place in such posh surroundings.

After closing the double doors of his office, Coop perched himself on the edge of an antique desk. The impressive space had two walls of books that Coop had actually read. He was partially responsible for Dre’s keen interest in biographies. Coop lived with a
wife
he’d never married and their two teenage girls.

Dre sat across from him on a cream-colored leather couch.

“What’s up, youngster? You’ve got me a little concerned with this late-night visit.”

“My niece is missing.” Dre looked down at his hands. “She’s only thirteen.”

Dre quickly recounted everything they’d learned from Sydney. “I’m thinking this Jaden dude she went to meet was probably some sexual predator. Since he’s operating in Compton, he’s gotta be a brother.”

“That’s a crazy situation. I can’t keep my girls off Facebook. I’ll never understand why everybody needs to put all their business in the street.”

“I gotta get her back,” Dre said. “I’m trying to figure out where to start. I was hoping you might have a connection to some dudes who might know something.”

“Man, I don’t associate with perverts.” He stood, grabbed a bottle of Brandy from a shelf and poured himself a drink. He raised the bottle in Dre’s direction.

“You still a teetotaler?”

Dre nodded.

Coop took a long sip of his drink and returned to the same position on the edge of the desk. “Man, I’m truly feelin’ your pain. I hate to do this, but I gotta put something on your mind.”

Dre tensed. “I’m listening.”

“The drug biz we knew is no more. These fools out here have no integrity. They ain’t trafficking crack or meth. They’re trafficking girls. Young girls.”

Angela’s comment about Brianna possibly being a victim of sex trafficking came back to him with the force of a solid punch in the stomach.

“I thought that shit only happened to women from Mexico or the Philippines.”

Coop shook his head. “Not anymore. Girls are the new crack, my brother. The Crips, the Bloods and even the Sureños, a Mexican gang, are in on it. They call themselves guerilla pimps. They’re literally snatching girls off the street, breaking ’em down and forcing ’em into prostitution. Having ’em turn ten, twenty tricks a day. The younger the better. Pimping girls is easier, cheaper and less likely to get you shot or land you in jail for any serious time. And unlike a kilo, one girl can be sold over and over and over again. There’s a ready supply and an endless demand.”

Dre locked his arms across his chest. He didn’t even notice that his leg was bouncing up and down. It had been hard enough for him to imagine Brianna in the hands of some pedophile. To think of her being turned out by a pimp was more than he could handle.

“There’s only one dude I know of with the time or the brains to run a scam on Facebook like the one you just described,” Coop continued. “You need to start with The Shepherd.”

Dre squinted up at him. “Who the hell is that?”

“His real name is Rodney Merriweather. Smart young cat, barely thirty, if that. I heard he took a lot of flack from the roughnecks in his neighborhood growing up. So he hooked up with the Stoneside gang when he was at Dorsey High for protection. He went down south to college, then came home with some education and reunited with his boys. He started calling himself
The Shepherd
and talking himself up. The neighborhood dudes were impressed because he had a college degree and they started believing the hype. Eventually he was running things.”

“Sounds like he just made up this persona and everybody fell in line.”

“Basically. But the dudes out there today ain’t like us, man. They’re ruthless. They have no soul.”

You had to be soulless to sell young girls. Dre was no saint, but he could never pimp women, much less children.

“Pimpin’ is high tech now,” Coop continued. “Cuz of the Internet. That’s where they make the real money. Don’t have to have girls walking the track. They arrange everything over the Internet. Set up a motel room and just run the dudes in and out. A hundred, two hundred dollars a pop.”

Dre brushed a hand down the back of his head.

Coop reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “Sorry, my brother. But I had to be real with you.”

“Where can I find this punk?”

“He owns a couple of liquor stores and runs City Stars on El Segundo.”

“The strip club? I used to hang out there back in the day. I thought some older cat owned the place.”

“He sold it several years ago. The Shepherd owns it now. The liquor stores and the club are just a front. His real operation is running ho’s. I also hear he’s also got loads of property, in South L.A. as well as the Valley. He drops in at City Stars from time to time. Easy to spot. Clean-cut-looking guy. Always flossin’. Drives a Bentley. But he runs three or four deep so you may have trouble getting to him. You should also talk to his old bottom bitch.”

“His what?”

Coop smiled. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe how square you are. Bottom bitch. A pimp’s ride-or-die chick. Her name’s Loretha Johnson. Used to be one of the baddest strippers to ever hit the pole. She’s out of the game now. Runs a home that takes in ex-prostitutes. You might be able to find her walking the track in Compton trying to coax young girls off the streets. She’ll probably have some helpful information about The Shepherd and I suspect she’ll be glad to give it up.”

“If he has Bree, I’m gonna get her back. Then I’m personally goin’ after The Shepherd,” Dre said, getting to his feet.

“You gotta approach this with your head on straight,” Coop warned. “Getting your girl back should be the only thing on your mind right now.”

“It is,” Dre said as he moved toward the door.

He would find Brianna and bring her home. Then somebody was gonna pay.

L
oretha Johnson watched the young girl wobble along Long Beach Boulevard dressed in a halter top, cut-off jeans, black stilettos and sparkly red lipstick. She couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred pounds. The awkward manner in which she forced her bony hips from side to side underscored her adolescence.

Standing in the doorway of an abandoned donut shop, Loretha waited for the right opportunity to approach. There was a steady trail of cars slowing down to check out the merchandise. She spotted two other girls on the opposite side of the street.

“You want a date, baby,” the girl in the halter top called out in a child’s voice.

A beige Camry pulled over to the curb a few yards ahead. The girl scampered over, barely able to balance herself on her too-high heels. She bent low, allowing the potential john to get a glimpse of her nonexistent cleavage.

Loretha clasped her hands, then absently twirled a finger around her shoulder-length locs. She sucked in a breath, praying that the girl didn’t get in the car.

“Ten dollars!” the girl yelled, springing back to her full height. “You must be crazy! I charge fifty for a blow job.”

She tottered away cursing as the man drove off.

Loretha glanced up and down the street, making sure the girl’s pimp wasn’t watching. With a kid this young—surely no older than thirteen or fourteen—her pimp had to be close by. If the girl was seen talking to Loretha, she’d get a beating. Hopefully, the pimp was busy keeping an eye on somebody else in his stable.

Confident that he wasn’t nearby, Loretha followed the girl, remaining a few strides behind.

“You don’t have to be out here on the street selling your body,” Loretha called out. “You know that, right?”

Loretha pulled her sweater tighter across her chest and marveled at how the girl could look so comfortable dressed in next to nothing. It was barely fifty degrees.

“I’m from Harmony House,” Loretha continued. “I can help you get away from your pimp.”

Though the girl wasn’t facing her, Loretha could see her body go rigid. She took a quick glance at Loretha over her shoulder.

“I ain’t got no pimp,” the girl snapped. “So just get outta here and leave me alone. My daddy warned us about you.”

Good
, Loretha thought. That meant the girl’s pimp viewed her as a threat.

“Don’t worry,” Loretha assured her. “Your pimp’s not around. I won’t get you in trouble. I know you can’t be seen talking to me. Just keep walking and I’ll stay back.”

“I told you, I don’t have no pimp,” the girl spat, continuing her stroll. “I have a boyfriend.”

It would be a waste of time to explain to the girl that boyfriends don’t sell their girlfriends to other men.

“If you ever need a place to go, you can come to Harmony House. All you have to do is call. Anytime, day or night, and I’ll come get you.”

The girl stopped, put a hand on her hip, but didn’t turn to face her. “I already got a place to stay.”

The bravado didn’t fool Loretha either. She knew it was all an act.

“That’s fine. But if you ever want to leave, I have a place for you to go. What’s your name?”

The girl stepped off the curb and raised her hand high, trying to wave down a car that had reduced its speed. “You want a date tonight, honey?” she yelled out to the driver.

The man rolled down his window, gazed hungrily at the girl, then spied Loretha and sped off.

“You messin’ with my business!” the girl yelled. She finally turned around to get a good look at Loretha, but kept moving. “Get the hell away from me!”

“What’s your name?” Loretha asked again, matching the girl’s steps stride for stride, but careful to stay a safe distance back.

“Lady, I gotta make my quota. Leave me alone!”

“I’m just here to let you know you have options. What’s your name?”

The girl finally turned around. “Peaches. Why you messin’ with me?”

“Nice to meet you, Peaches. I’m Loretha Jones. How old are you, Peaches?”

“Nineteen.”

The streetlight provided a solid glimpse of the cocoa-colored, plump-faced girl. There was no way she was nineteen. Up close, she looked even younger than Loretha had first thought.

“Why you out here tryin’ to be somebody’s fairy godmother?”

“Because I used to walk this track myself,” Loretha replied. “I know what it’s like.”

That
got the girl’s attention. She glanced back at Loretha again. This time, her expression had softened, but only for an instant.

Loretha had indeed lived this life. Every horrible second of it. Older and wiser now, she was doing everything in her power to rescue others. One girl at a time.

She understood that Peaches and girls like her saw no way out. But to meet someone who had managed to escape, meant that it was possible for them to find their way to freedom too.

“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Peaches continued, “but you don’t look like you got what it takes. You must’a been out here a long time ago.”

Loretha didn’t take offense at the girl’s intended slight. “Walking the track is hard work,” she said. “Makes you age much faster than you have to.”

It had been years since she’d strolled this very block, but the memory was like a deep wound. Though healed, the resulting scar would never go away.

These days, Loretha put extra effort into
not
looking pretty. Her skin was no longer porcelain smooth. Her hair still fell past her shoulders, but she didn’t wear it bone straight anymore. Her locs were dyed auburn and were usually pulled back into a bun. She’d also picked up twenty pounds or so and found comfort in her bare face and loose-fitting clothes. Though her exterior appeared shabby, on the inside, she finally felt worthy. That was the kind of beauty she wanted these girls to experience.

Loretha’s smartphone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket, instantly recognizing the number. Another child who needed her help.

“I have to go, but I want you to call me. My number’s easy to remember. It’s 888-3737-888. Loretha pointed up the street. “I’m going to leave my card on the bus bench underneath that streetlight over there. I want you to pick it up and keep it with you. If you ever need help, call me and I’ll come get you.”

Loretha rushed past the girl, dropped her business card on the bench and turned down a side street toward her car. Minutes later, when her Prius reached the corner, the card was no longer on the bench.

She smiled and shook her fist in the air. “Thank you, Jesus!”

In Loretha’s world, that simple act was a victory.