Page 19 of Whiskers on Kittens

While Easton raised a brow at me, he took his badge out of his pocket and showed it to her. “I’m out of Chicago, but I’ve been given clearance through the FBI to assist with the case.” Sure enough, he also pulled out a little, laminated card supporting his claim that he kept with his badge.

I wondered when he’d gotten that, although I suspected someone with no head and a bunch of feathers had helped our cause.

“Absolutely. I don’t mind at all.” The barista checked around, and once she determined nobody was nearby, she pulled out her phone. “I took pictures of the people with the kids. They didn’t really look like a family, and I’m not even sure they actually went through security.”

I eyed the security gate and the baggage claim, which had more holes than the average colander. I gave her my phone number and email address, and she sent the pictures to me. “Can you tell me what seemed weird about them?”

“The kids were behaved—too behaved. Airports, even small ones like this one, stimulate kids, and they usually act up somehow, especially at that age. The legit kids are often either curious or terrified because the airport is new and scary. These kids seemed resigned, like they had the life sucked out of them.” After using her phone for a while, the barista turned it so I could see the screen, showing me a picture of three men accompanying four kids, all girls. “This is what first caught my attention.”

The girls were not American, although I had no idea what their ethnicity was based on the photograph. The men were Americans, and while they wore suits, they seemed like the kind to be using their fancy clothes to hide a lot of scars. I frowned. “Easton?”

He joined me in staring at the pictures. “They weren’t even trying to hide it this go around.” He pointed at one of the men. “I know this guy because he’s wanted in Chicago for a myriad of crimes, so he’s on our board at the station. Italian-American mobster, and he’s not working with any of the large Italian mafias. From what we understand of his outfit, it’s a bunch of people who want to be Italian mobsters and have decided to play out the role. They’ve earned the ire of the various mafia groups in Chicago and New York.”

How lovely. My cop was going to be an asset on our mission to rescue the kittens. My virus did her equivalent of purr, which was more of a rumbly growl with chuffs mixed in. “Do you have any other photographs that might be of men like these?”

With a sheepish look on her face, she nodded. “It’s boring working here; we don’t have a lot of customers unless there’s a flight coming or going, and even then, most people bolt for freedom once they have their luggage. Nobody comes in too early because security usually only takes a few minutes at most. The cafe stays open because the military folks drink coffee by the gallon, but we don’t keep a lot of other things in stock because of their shelf life.” She began using her phone, likely sending more images my way. “I started taking pictures six months ago so there are a lot of them. I wasn’t sure what to make of it or what to do.”

In major airports, the airport authorities had taken to putting up flyers about how to help trafficking victims, and it didn’t surprise me such a small place lacked any such signs—and why it made such a convenient place for the masterminds to export their victims to their next destination.

Worse, I feared airport personnel were involved, as three men escorting four foreign children should have been a red flag.

“When did the children pass through here?”

“Three days ago.” With slumped shoulders, she added, “I don’t know where they were going.”

Those poor kids—and the poor barista, who had no idea how to handle the situation. I refused to blame her.

The first opportunity she had been given to help, she had. I pulled out one of my business cards, snagged the pen off her counter, and wrote a contact number for the CDC down on it. “Call this number the next time you see any suspicious activities involving kids. Tell them to put you through to the anti-trafficking unit and that you work in an airport and you have a live lead. You should be put through to their dispatch.”

Easton’s brow raised at that. “You have the CDC dispatch number memorized?”

I flashed him a grin. “I use it for other issues, but it’s the same number for trafficking. If you have to be put on hold, they actually have information on their wait line. I use that number if I uncover a felony through my regular work.”

The woman took the card and put it into her wallet. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. I wasn’t just making things up?”

“No. You had good reason to be concerned. Next time, you know what to do—and nobody pays attention to the baristas, so you might be able to help those kids get rescued. With luck, they’ll assign a task force to the airport and block this as an easy way for them to do their dirty work.”

“I hope so.”

“Can you give me your name and number? Someone will very probably come by to officially question you about what you’ve seen.” I opened a new contact, turned the phone her way, and offered a smile.

She went to work, and I discovered her name was Monica, and that according to her area code, she had lived in New York City at some point. “I’m happy to answer any questions, especially if it means I can help save some kids.”

“Adults, too. But those are a little harder to ferret out, I’m guessing.”

After exchanging pleasantries and giving her another tip of twenty dollars for the help, I headed out of the airport.

My virus wanted blood, she wanted it immediately, and only the blood of child traffickers would do.

“According to your scent, you cut that short because you’re about ready to indulge in violence,” the cop commented when we reached my Lexus.

“I cut it short because we had the info we needed,” I replied. Then I drew a deep breath and gave myself a shake. “I am angry enough to start hissing in public, and she didn’t need that nonsense added to her day. Please tell me you know how to get facial recognition stuff done?”

“I sure do, although I have plenty of intel on the one mobster. The others are probably fellow mobsters, but we’ll find out soon enough. Send me the photographs.”

After the dance to get his contact into my phone, I went through the plethora of messages Monica had sent me, plucked out the most suspicious ones involving adults with children possibly being trafficked, and sent them his way. “This explains why the archangels suggested that we camp here for the night in a hotel room while I feed all eight hundred and ninety pounds of you properly. These pictures will take all day to go through, and we’ll need time to put up a report of everyone we have. Then we have the issue of an active child trafficking ring in Toledo to worry about.”

“Because if you know there’s child trafficking going on right under your nose, you aren’t going to leave that alone.”