Broken, p.8
Broken, page 8
“I worked vice for eighteen years,” he began, “but for fifteen of those, I had no idea how deep the rabbit hole went. I was content busting streetwalkers, knocking down the doors of a few ‘massage parlors.’ Run-of-the-mill stuff, nothing you’d put in a paper, let alone win a medal for. Sure, there were times I looked away. Twisted a few words. Made a deliberate mistake in a report. I knew what I was doing. It goes with the territory. You track a high-class escort to a politician’s holiday home, and you know you’d better walk on by. Unless you want to risk getting put on traffic duty for the rest of your career.”
Dubois took a long drag of his cigarette. As he spoke, the shroud of misery that enveloped him evaporated like condensation. Diana listened carefully but with skepticism. In her view, he was a broken soul still piecing parts back together.
“Vice is a tricky assignment, Hunter. You ever wonder why you can go online and, inside a couple of minutes, find a sex worker to meet whatever outlandish desire you can dream up, yet police have a whole division dedicated to investigating the sex trade? It’s because we’re not really interested in what consenting adults do—for money or for free. What we’re interested in is wherever it crosses a line.”
He used the present tense. Dubois still thought of himself as a detective, as part of the vice squad. Again, not unusual. “What line?” she asked.
“Vice rarely exists in isolation, right? Where there’s streetwalkers, there’s drugs. Where there’s a location, there’s usually money laundering. Where there’s organization, there’s usually trafficking. Prostitution is always but one tentacle on a much bigger beast.
“Anyway, I knew a lot more than which streetwalkers were gonna be out each night. I knew vice, the beast. And because I knew vice, I knew pretty much everything the seedy underbelly of this city was up to. Sure, I was never the best on the force, but I was experienced, and I was dedicated. I had informants everywhere. I had the trust of cops and criminals alike. Didn't matter what it was—drugs, sex, theft—if it happened on my streets, I knew about it. Even if it was outside my personal jurisdiction. If a gang was fighting over territory, often the only thing standing between them and bloodshed in the streets was me. Because I knew my streets.”
Dubois paused to take another drag of his cigarette. He exhaled a long, white puff of smoke into the sky. He stared at the swirling, effervescent fog and conjured up memories of the past: the precinct, the people, the dirt, and the glory.
“Policing requires a sixth sense, you know that. I arrested the right people at the right time. I was good. A street cop. They don’t make them like me anymore—probably cause there’s no place for us. It’s all suck-ups and schoolboys now. But I knew when to make the arrests and how to make them stick.
“But I started to notice things . . . things which didn’t quite add up. Things that should have stuck didn’t. It was like a mirage at first. Something I could feel but couldn’t quite see, and certainly couldn’t grab. For a while, I thought I was imagining it. I thought maybe I was being paranoid. But then I started to poke at it, snoop around. I asked a lot of questions, kept an eye on people, some of whom were extremely powerful. I moved in circles I normally left alone. All because something didn’t feel right.
“Bad stuff started happening. My car was stolen. Two masked men mugged me. They could have been random events, but I suspected they weren’t. I think I was being warned off. But it only made me more determined. I was certain I was on to something. Soon, I discovered the situation was far bigger than I ever imagined: a dark truth at the very heart of this city.”
“What truth?”
“That Vancouver was a key stop in one of the biggest human trafficking operations in North America.” Dubois held Diana’s gaze for a second, then broke eye contact.
“That’s a hell of a claim,” Diana said.
“I know. I staked my career on it.”
“And you lost it. So it wasn’t a good bet.”
Dubois laughed darkly. “The house always wins.”
“What evidence do you have?”
Dubois sighed heavily. “At this level, evidence doesn’t matter. It’s what you do with the knowledge that counts.”
“I’ll need more than clever words to believe you.”
“Who said I wanted you to believe me?”
Diana glared at him. She could see right through his sarcasm, his veneer of cynicism. Many veteran cops ended up as defensive and dismissive as the criminals they chased. They cared so much until they didn’t care at all anymore. It became overwhelming. But Dubois wasn’t there yet. He still cared what happened and wasn’t so jaded that his investment in the situation and righting it overpowered him.
“I think you do.”
“I’ve lost everything. What happens from here on out won’t help me. I’m past that.”
“Listen, you can’t claim disinterest. Not when you’ve been following my investigation so closely. And who else is listening to you? Who else is giving you the benefit of the doubt?”
“Fine,” Dubois conceded. “I’ll explain it to you. If only to hear what excuses you guys come up with this time.”
Dubois tossed his cigarette stub to the ground and immediately pulled out a pack to light another one. “You ready?” Diana nodded and folded her arms.
“The girls come from poor parts of Russia,” Dubois said, popping the dry filter between his parched lips. The cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke. “Places like Siberia. Remote towns with few prospects beyond abject drudgery, especially for young women. Imagine, they’ve got all the hope and energy of youth and nothing to channel it into except snow and alcohol.
“Then the ‘agencies’ come to town. Sometimes they promise wealth and glamour, framing their visits as casting calls for aspiring models or actresses. Sometimes they claim to be looking for people who want to travel to Europe or the US and work as au pairs, cleaners, hostesses. It’s sophisticated—slick presentations, suave recruiters, glamorous ‘graduates’ of the ‘program.’ And it's all lies.” Dubois stopped and waited for Diana’s reaction. She didn’t give him one.
“Go on.”
Dubois shrugged and continued. “They lure the girls away from their families with promises, guarantees, contracts not worth the paper they’re printed on, ‘advances’—small sums of money to you and me, but fortunes to them and their parents.”
Dubois spat, then took another long drag on his cigarette. He grimaced as, still inhaling, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth with some force and flicked the filter with his thumb. A column of ash fell to the ground and broke into inconsequential flakes blown about by the wind. Whatever Dubois was, he certainly cared.
“The poorer they are, the more people believe the lies. And social media made things worse. These girls see what goes on in other countries, and their desire for more and better gets amped. It’s a drug. Then these sharp-suited, snake-tongued men ride into town with their BMWs and nice watches and promise to turn their dreams into reality. But it’s the women that accompany them that get me the most.
“These gorgeous women in their furs and designer duds make the heads of these poor, rural girls spin. They befriend the girls, listen to them, encourage them try on their clothes and makeup. They act like their older, more successful sisters. Then, when they’ve sucked them in with their stories, they promise the girls the same. Who’s going to say no? They have no idea what these guys really have in mind for them. They’re too innocent or simple to even imagine it.
“Once they’re hooked, they bring them through China. The Chinese economy mints new millionaires every day, and the shortage of females makes it a great market. It isn't as profitable as North America, though. There’s a quota for the Chinese and another for the US. Once they drop off the girls earmarked for China, the rest are brought here.”
“To Vancouver,” Diana said.
Dubois nodded. “Precisely. Some of the girls do make it as models. That lends credibility to the whole operation. Those girls usually end up in Japan. You see, the girls are ranked by attractiveness, compliance, and any skills or training they have. Then they are branded—”
“Branded? How?”
“Tattoos, usually on their inner forearm. Something subtle, not obvious. The branding works to indenture the girls and as a code for the traffickers. I never worked out what the tattoos meant, but there were a few different ones.”
Diana shuddered. She knew how human trafficking worked, but thinking about it always repulsed her anew. The sun dropped behind an old apartment block, and a cool breeze pressed against them, flicking Diana’s hair across her face and causing Dubois’s trench coat to flap.
“I’m struggling to believe you, Dubois. It makes no sense. Why would someone bring a steady stream of trafficked women through one city? It’s asking for trouble. Why not disperse them through a network?”
Dubois smiled. “That’s where it gets interesting. But I’ve got to say something to you first, Hunter. You must respect this intel. Not doing so puts you in danger. Treat it with great care and be very careful not to share it. That’s the mistake I made.”
Dubois opened his arms wide, drawing attention to his worn-out clothes, his disheveled hair, and his scuffed tennis shoes, all signs of his downfall. “I’ve already told you too much,” he said, “and if I tell you any more, it will damage you. It will make you a target. It will jeopardize your career, and probably your life, whether you believe what I tell you or not.”
“You’re still alive.”
“Barely. And that could change at any moment. I’m not a fool, Hunter. I’ve lost everything. I’m a nobody. I keep my head down and my trap shut.”
“You’re talking to me now.”
“And I’ve said too much.”
“Then you’ve nothing to lose by telling me the rest.”
“No, but you have.”
“You let me worry about that. It’s my job to know the truth, and it’s my life.”
Dubois laughed, more darkly and more heartily than he had before. “No, it isn’t. Not unless you have literally no one who cares for you. And I don’t believe that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DIANA GLARED AT him. “Just get on.” In her hard eyes lay questions that demanded answers, and after a few moments during which Dubois paced and puffed a little more, he began again with gusto.
“The girls come through Vancouver because here,” he said, pointing at the ground, “the trafficking network is protected all the way.” He turned his finger to the sky. “Up the chain.”
Dubois sounded every bit like a crazed fringe conspiracy theorist. Still, Diana indulged him. “Explain.”
“The PD, members of the government, CSIS—they’re all interested in protecting the operation. Vancouver is where they bring in all the girls because they can. Because no one raises a fuss. And if someone does, like me, they get handled. Some of the girls even get IDs, passports, visas. All without anyone batting an eye.”
Diana looked around. It was getting cold, and the wind was starting to bite. Clouds and buildings had obscured the sun completely, casting the empty train cars and tracks in a grim, dim gloom. “You’re saying that every aspect of law enforcement in Vancouver is compromised?”
“Yes,” Dubois responded.
“And that Vancouver is a hub for human trafficking to the rest of North America?”
“Exactly,” Dubois growled. “The girls are products smuggled through here because there are no checks and balances. Then they’re shipped all over Canada and the States, from California to the East coast.”
“That’s a big claim, Dubois,” said Diana calmly, “and a story bordering on the fantastical. And you’ve still not given me a shred of evidence.”
Dubois grunted in frustration. He paced with even more nervous energy. “I am the evidence, Hunter. My career . . . or the end of it, at least.” Dubois scratched his head, his eyes darting around as if searching the train yard for what to say next. He brushed away the ash that had fallen on his lapel. “Do you know . . . three years ago . . . there was a bust over in Port Moody, fourteen girls living out of a couple of trailers?”
“There was. I familiarized myself with the case. There are similarities with the twenty-two girls.”
Dubois smiled. “Yeah. It is similar.” His smile dropped abruptly. “They made that bust based on my report,” Dubois said, jabbing his finger into his chest. He gritted his teeth. “Even though I expressly told them not to.”
Diana rubbed her forehead. Following Dubois’s incoherent, complex logic was difficult, especially when she was trying to figure out whether he was lying. “Why would you do that?”
Dubois lit another cigarette with shaking hands, then began pacing again, exhaling, then re-inhaling giant plumes of smoke. “I worked this case for years, keeping it a secret all the while. I traveled to China and Siberia on my own dime, in my own time. I told my bosses they were ‘vacations.’” He stopped pacing and stared at Diana. “I didn’t trust my superiors. I suspected that the higher-ups at VPD were keeping secrets. That they were in on it.”
Dubois’s stare turned hard. He looked at Diana accusingly. “So I decided to take my report to CSIS.” He laughed sadly, shaking his head as if he were telling a story about some foolish thing he had done as a kid. “So much for having faith in authority, any authority.”
Diana suddenly felt uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but he seemed so earnest. “What was in the report?” she asked.
“I had been watching locations all across the city. Must have seen thousands of girls come and go. I had the names of customs officers who helped the girls come in, the immigration and port authority officials, politicians who I knew were involved, big business guys as well. Real estate, import-export . . . I even had girls who had made it out of the game willing to blow the whistle and testify if their safety could be assured. Years of work . . . enough to bring down the whole thing with legislative power and the will to apply the letter of the law. But I made a mistake.” Diana raised her eyebrows.
“I trusted you guys. I took it to CSIS. They wouldn’t listen at first, but I persisted, and eventually they threw me a bone. I handed the report to the CSIS Assistant Director of Intelligence—”
“Directly?” Diana’s heart beat rapidly in her chest. Clive.
“Yes, he met with me. I had one request: don’t blow it. One misstep and I knew the whole thing would go up in a puff of smoke. I told him that these guys were powerful, organized, mobile. They wouldn’t hesitate to pull the plug on everything. If they got a whiff that CSIS was on their tail, they’d go deep underground for as long as it took to be safe to come out again—and all the work I’d done would be for nothing.”
Dubois snorted derisively. He brought his latest cigarette to his lips but took it out again immediately, his thoughts overwhelming his nicotine addiction. The dark circles under his eyes were more prominent now, the lines on his face deeper. His voice was hoarse.
“And what did CSIS do?” he continued. “They went blundering in. They made that low-level bust . . . fourteen girls in a couple of trailers . . . and called it a massive victory.
“They did exactly what I told them not to, and the inevitable happened. All the girls in the seventeen other locations I’d mentioned in my report? Poof! Gone. Places were emptied immediately. The customs officials? Transferred overnight. My whistleblowers? I was completely dead to them. The whole operation . . . the entire network . . . it just vanished. All for fourteen girls and a couple of Russian goons who barely knew what they were doing there. Years of work, gone in an instant.”
“There must have been a trail that didn’t go cold. Some thread you could have followed to find out where they went.”
“Nothing,” Dubois said bitterly. “They had an exit plan. They were extremely cautious. The guys bringing in and managing the girls changed every three months—it makes them difficult to investigate. Even then, the muscle doesn’t know what they’re doing, or why they’re doing it. The organization comes from the top, but you don’t see or hear anything from the real brains of the operation. And besides, a few days after the bust, I was . . . what did you call it? ‘Disgraced.’”
Diana sighed sympathetically. “Poor choice of words.”
“Oh no,” Dubois said. “It’s perfect. That’s exactly what I was. Disgraced. According to those who matter, I had abused my power as a vice detective. I’d bent rules. More than anyone else? No, but it counts when they want it to.” Dubois looked at Diana with glassy eyes. It occurred to her that the ex-cop probably hadn’t spoken this much to anyone in a long time.
“I . . .” Dubois began, trailing off and looking away. “I fell for one of the girls . . . Ludmila, one of my informants . . . I promised her that I’d destroy the network—if only for her. We wanted to be together, but she was enslaved and frightened. And brave, so very brave . . . But when CSIS performed that Port Moody bust, she disappeared along with the rest of the operation. I never saw her again. I’ve tried . . . I have no idea what happened to her.” He looked down at the ground, shoving his cigarette into his mouth where it shook between his trembling lips.
Dubois cleared his throat and moved away. He raised his head and stood straight. “And that’s that,” he said, his voice firm again.
“And they used your . . . relationship . . . to discredit you?”
“Of course they did. They threw every bit of mud at me they could. According to them, I’d been working with traffickers, taking bribes, getting involved with a hooker. I’d benefited from my position. They bent the truth and added a healthy dose of their own to discredit me such that I could never recover. No one would work with me inside or outside the job.”
“And yet here you are, years later, still investigating the trafficking.”
“It’s still happening. Nothing has changed. Except I’m also wondering what CSIS is covering up these days.” This time it was Diana who laughed sardonically. “What?” Dubois said. “You think the agency you work for is squeaky clean?”
