The Slave World Abductions Ch. 01

My '53 Mercury Monterey Coupe is the perfect car for this kind of fun. It's one of my few indulgences besides my books.

It took me eight years to restore it from the beat up piece of junk, I found in an old lot while working a case. She's been a faithful companion since college.

I started from Chicago at 9am and was in Minneapolis by four. I checked into a La Quinta for two days, settled into the room, and rang up MPD.

"MPD, how may I help you?"

"I'm looking for Bill Rowland. He in?"

"I'm sorry. His shift is done for the day. May I ask what this is about?"

"I'm Max Grant. We worked together before. It's about a case. Do you know when his shift starts?"

"He has the eight to four. You just missed him."

If I leave my phone number, can you get him to call me when he comes in?"

"Sure."

"I gave him the motel number, with the extension for the room."

"I'll put in a note but he might not call."

"I'll call back in any case."

I sat at the desk and opened my laptop. I hooked it to the outlet and went to my email. Two in the in box.

The first was more info on the Rosenberg sisters; pictures and video sent by Martha. Nothing more to say beyond a profile; two identical twins, highly intelligent, polar opposites in personalities, no real anomalies in their personal lives. Two sisters; with normal lives, from a normal family, loved by friends and family, with bright futures before them, snatched by dark forces for purposes the reasons I strongly suspected... maybe. I needed verification. I chanted a calming mantra to damp my rising anger.

The second email, "possible candidates", was from Chas. The list was long but Chas divided it into different sections. All the investigations were active.

Disappearances conceivably explained by mundane forces I dismissed immediately. Along with probable accidents, runaways, even standard kidnappings.

Chas had isolated four prospects: disappearances under circumstances not explicable by the available evidence. The disappearances occurred in areas, rooms, alleyways, with few to no other points of egress. The few witnesses interviewed seeing no suspicious activity.

Chas had a good eye for spotting standouts from long and often confusing lists. He'd be a good detective in his own right if he hadn't other interests. I took a look at the four.

Maria Torres-33, Disappeared Feb 19, 20..

CFO Barker and Bernstein Capital. Impressive, given the company and responsibilities at a reasonably young age. Most in her bracket were still climbing the ladder. Lives in Chicago, hmmm. Disappeared from the parking garage in the main building. The building had tight security. No trace of her except a dropped purse.

Sara Sundstrom-28, Disappeared May 4, 20..

Professional dancer. Vanished from Studio F, Broadway, Manhattan. Witnesses saw her go in, didn't see her come out. A maintenance worker on the stairs outside the fire door was questioned and investigated. He saw no one on the stairs, never entered the studio, and his alibi checked out. No criminal record, no way to carry a body without being seen. The fire door was in perfect working order. If it opened the alarm would trip.

Lola Pandit-24, Disappeared Sept 28, 20..

Graduate student, waitress. Last seen outside the Brothers Club, Pioneer Square, Seattle. The alley was blind, well lit, a line of patrons on the sidewalk crossing the entrance. Security cameras in the alley. Last recorded image on official record showed Lola throwing bottles into recycling. Chas noted his contact said Seattle PD were keeping the tapes under tight wrap. Wonder why? Something on them they don't want the wrong people to see?

Kimberly "Kim" O'Brien-23, Disappeared August 12, 20..

Assistant Librarian, Boston Public Library. Last seen in the fiction section: sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. How ironic. I doubt the mysterious blackout the building experienced before she was reported missing, was a coincidence.

So, six young women, possibly more, disappeared over the past year, under circumstances with strong hints of the impossible. It was time to make a phone call.

I sent a note to Chas for more info, pictures, family, and friends on the four prospects. Then I called the Insurance Company.

"Yggdrasil Insurance, how may I help you?"

"Yes, this is Agent Grant. I'm experiencing problems verifying the accident claims on four women." I gave the secretary the names.

"There's possible fraud. I strongly suspect not but I need to be sure. I'm looking for traces of unauthorized monetary exchanges, drugs, criminal associations, you know the drill. There are two other claimants currently under investigation who might be connected."

I gave the secretary Jill and Jane's names. "You have my email."

"Yes we do. We'll send our results. Thank you."

"You're very welcome."

Not much left to do after that 'til tomorrow. I had a meal at the nearby diner, settled into bed, and watched TV until I fell asleep.

Case #54

Lola Pandit cursed. She cursed a lot. Much of it aimed at the patrons of The Brother's Club; the frat boys, the entitled execs, the corporate lawyers, the high rollers, maybe a mobster or two.

The clientele wasn't exclusively male, but mostly. Toxic masculinity dripped from the ceiling. It got especially thick after a Seahawks game.

The Brother's Club catered to a more upscale crowd than the working stiffs. It was one of the more popular bars.

Hot to cold war described Lola's relationships with men. She blamed her father, demanding authoritarian, for that.

She understood his point of view on some level. A near penniless immigrant from Mumbai, who'd worked his way to running his own transport business, had to be tough. He was open-minded enough to marry her mother, an immigrant from the Dominican Republic, but it stopped there.

Lola's childhood resentment at her strict parents exploded into open warfare in her teens. Her dad took her decision to major in psychology badly. He wanted her to follow him into business.

The boys in school and college weren't too satisfying either. Sure, she dated some good ones. One nearly proposed for a couple of seconds. A long streak of bad ones left her cynical.

Tonight, Lola was between boyfriends, and all but estranged from her parents. A mob of mostly male lawyers blew into the club, celebrating some case where their big, bad firm crushed a class action by some poor people, even though the latter were probably in the right.

The bragging, smirking mob grew more obnoxious each passing hour. Lola had to smile, take their orders, ignore their quips, dodge their wandering hands, and quietly take note of each face, to know who to avoid in the future.

She dumped their detritus into recycling, glad her shift was nearly over.

Lola didn't know a mob far more entitled, and far worse than toxic lawyers, had their eyes on her.

The glow in the alley, she attributed to the security lights or the cars from the street. She ignored it until hands grabbed her from behind, restrained her arms, and covered her mouth.

Lola gave them a fight, and a hard one at that. They ripped her dress off for her trouble. Her last sight before, unconsciousness: a shadow silhouetted against an impossible circle of light in the wall.

"Fools!" it said. "Get her into the portal at once!"

The phone rang as I got out of the shower. Nice timing.

"Hello."

"Detective Rowling. That you Max?"

"Yep."

"So what you want?"

"The Rosenberg sisters. Their parents hired me."

"It's an open case Max. MPD doesn't like interference."

"I just want to take a look at the scene."

"I don't know what you'll find that'll make a difference. But you investigate this kind of weird shit so if you get something, I want to know."

"I just want a cop around so I don't run into trouble."

A brief pause as he pondered whether to let me look. "I'll meet you at the Armory. 10am?"

"See ya."

Bill Rowland was eighteen years on the job. He was tall, black, and built like a freight train. He'd played college football, then joined the Marines, and then MPD. He'd seen it all, done it all, but none outside the scope of plausibility. Until he'd met me. I won't go into details. It just involved a silver bullet and a toilet plunger.

Even after, Bill stayed a skeptical man. His mind told him to lay off the whiskey and get some rest. It either didn't happen or he hallucinated. That's how he coped. He'd returned my call though.

Bill was waiting at the front and directed me to parking. I got out.

"I still can't get over that car," he said, admiring. My car draws looks. People love classics.

"My old reliable."

We walked to the wall where the girls disappeared.

"We went over the video every which way and sideways. No one can figure it out. The guys laughed when I told 'em you were here. Half of them think you're a con man scamming the Rosenbergs. The others got a pool on whether you can figure this thing out."

There was police tape around the wall.

"No one can figure out the door. Some of the guys think it was a disguised van."

I looked around the spot. "No one's parked here since?"

"Nope."

I knelt on the floor and sniffed, ignoring Bill's puzzled look. A faint odor. I went to the wall and sniffed again. A little stronger here. The oil used for their leathers has an odor that lingers. Plus, there's that familiar electric tingle I feel in these areas. "Those fucking pieces of shit," I muttered.

"We put an APB on the guys with the girls but the costumes make I.D difficult."

"Those weren't costumes Bill, and forget about a van. These guys are long gone." I walked back to my car.

"That's it?" Bill asked, walking behind.

"I found what I was looking for."

"So you have an idea what's going on?"

"What's going on is MPD won't find the girls... but I can."

"If you know where they are, you have to tell."

"Where they are, you can't follow."

Under other circumstances, Bill would arrest me as a suspect or material witness, but that silver bullet/toilet plunger case...

I got in the car. He leaned close.

"You going to find them and bring them home?"

"Yep."

"Good luck."

"Bye Bill. Thanks."

****

I drove back to La Quinta. I'd be understating it to say I was seething. The Compact had been breached.

I went to my room and opened my laptop. Email from Yggdrasil. "All four claims verified, plus the other two. We took the liberty of notifying the Head Office."

I sent a thank you and leaned back. Five portals in the past year. Six women snatched, possibly more. This case was no longer a private detective issue. It was a matter of law enforcement.

I packed, checked out, and drove back to Chicago. On the highway I made two promises. The first: I would find the twins and the others and bring them home. The second: the people responsible would pay... and pay dearly.

To Be Continued.