I think Roy's got something you might find interesting.

I turned off before I got to the hotel and headed for Dalrymple's.

MY PHONE HADN'T BEEN BACK IN MY JACKET three minutes when it rang again. Thinking it was Arnie calling back, I didn't look at the call display.

Yeah, I said.

Hey.

Kate Wood.

Hello, Kate, I said evenly.

Look, she said. I think I might have done something I shouldn't have.

What might that be, Kate?

Okay, you're going to get mad, but I think I need to give you a heads-up about something.

Really?

The thing is, I was talking to the police, and now I'm starting to think I may have given them the wrong idea.

About what, Kate?

You know how, sometimes, I kind of overreact a bit to things? How, once in a while, I get carried away a little?

I paused. I think I know what you're talking about.

Well, when I was talking to the police, they might have gotten the idea that maybe there really was no call from Seattle. That maybe you were making the whole thing up.

Whoa, I said.

I think, okay, what I think is, I think maybe when I saw you helping that girl into your house the other night, that made me kinda mad, and got me thinking all sorts of crazy things. So I'm calling to tell you, you might be hearing from the police about this, and I'm really sorry if it causes you any problems.

I didn't say anything.

So I was thinking, she said, that maybe there's some way I could make it up to you? To prove to you I'm sorry? I know the other night, when I brought over Chinese, things kind of went to shit and all, but I was thinking we could try that again, I could bring over I flipped the phone shut and returned it to my jacket.

DALRYMPLE'S WAS A ROADHOUSE with weathered beams and fishermen's nets out front. Inside, the walls were adorned with paintings of ships sailing the high seas, life buoys, and other bits and bobs of nautical gear. The place was hopping, most of the tables filled, waitstaff busily crisscrossing the floor.

Arnie must have been watching for me, because he appeared out of nowhere, all smiles.

Hey, great, thanks for coming, he said, shaking my hand. Roy's in his office.

He led me down a hallway, past the two restroom doors, then opened a third door marked Office.

Seated behind a desk was a large bull of a man, hairless except for a thick mustache.

This is the guy, Arnie said.

Close the door, Roy said. Arnie did so, and the restaurant din faded away immediately. You're Tim Blake?

Yes.

The restaurant d+!cor was carried through to the office. More nautical art and several scale models of sailing ships dressed the shelves. One particularly spectacular one, with magnificent tall sails, sat on Roy Chilton's desk. He noticed me looking at it.

The Bluenose, he said, coming around the desk and shaking my hand. A schooner from Nova Scotia. A fishing vessel that was also a racing ship.

Roy Chilton moved his tongue around the inside of his cheek. So, my brother tells me your daughter's missing.

Yeah. She's in a lot of trouble, and I need to find her right away.

Arnie here thinks I might have something important to tell you, but I don't know that it's got anything to do with your daughter.

Just tell it, Arnie said.

Arnie says he already told you about that Bluestein, what I caught him doing here.

Yes.

I'd appreciate you not spreading that around. I kind of made a deal with the little shit's dad to keep the lid on it.

Sure, I said.

Kid caused me a lot of grief. I've still got the credit card companies nosing around. They've red-flagged us.

Is this about Jeff? I asked.

Roy shook his head. Not really. He cleared his throat. You get a lot of turnover in this business. People come and go. Worst is when a chef quits on you. Those you can usually hang on to for a while, maybe years, if you're lucky. But waitstaff, dishwashers, cleaning staff, they come and go. And you gotta be careful who you hire. Illegals, that kind of thing. Some managers, they don't give a rat's ass. So what if someone doesn't have papers or a Social Security number. You pay them dirt cheap under the table, who cares. Truth is, I used to operate that way, but not anymore.

Problems?

I've seen things, he said.

What sort of things?

For a while there, I was getting workers through a guy. He came by, made a pitch, said he could get me help for less than I was normally paying people, and I thought, great. So he brings in these people, I don't know where the fuck they were from. One from India, I think, a couple from Thailand or China. Let me tell you something. These people, they worked their fucking asses off. Did any job you told them. But you think they'd talk to you? Have any kind of conversation? I mean, okay, English was not exactly their first fucking language, but they wouldn't even look you in the eye. They couldn't wait tables. Didn't speak English good enough. Had them in the kitchen, and cleaning up. You know what the thing was about them?

No. What?

They were always scared.

Because they were here illegally, I said.

Yeah, but it was more than that. He went back behind his desk, but stood. This guy supplying them, he'd drop them off at the beginning of their shift and pick them up at the end. I drew up a schedule, so they'd know what days they had off, and the guy says oh, fuck that. You can work 'em seven days a week if you want. And he says, don't worry about long shifts. You want to work 'em twelve, fifteen hours, that's okay, too. I tell him, listen, that's against the law, and he says, you don't have to worry about that. He says his workers aren't covered by those laws.

Who'd you pay? Him or the workers?

Roy Chilton cast his eyes down, as though ashamed. He looked back up. Him. Because it was his agency. So I'd pay him cash and then I assumed he'd pay the workers.

You think they got the money?

He shrugged. So, he'd bring them over at the beginning of a shift, and he'd be here to get them at the end. All these people saw was the inside of that van and the inside of my restaurant. You'd look in their eyes, and I swear to God, they all looked dead. Their eyes were fucking dead. Like they'd all given up. Like they'd lost hope.

He swallowed, looked down again, took a breath. Like he was gathering strength. One time, there was a girl working here, Chinese I think she was. Really pretty, or at least she would have been, if she ever smiled. She worked in the kitchen, and I sent somebody to get her, bring her in here. Someone else had called in sick, and this girl, she worked her ass off all day, you know, and I just wanted to tell her, if she could even fucking understand me, that she did a hell of a job and I really appreciated it. So she comes in, and she closes the door, and I start to tell her she's done good, right? And I can tell she doesn't get what I'm saying. But she comes around the table here, she gets down on her knees, like she's getting ready to, you know'

I get it.

And I tell her, no, get up, I don't want that. But she just assumed this was part of the job.

I said nothing.

One night, he's picking up one of the girls from the kitchen, it's like two in the morning, and she was so wrung out, totally fucking exhausted. And she heads out, and I see she's forgot her jacket. So I run out to the van, and that guy's holding her head down in his lap, you know? He sighed. She had to do anything he asked. She had to put up with that shit. And you know why?

Why?

Because he owned her, Roy Chilton said. He owned all these people. They were goddamn slaves to him. He was just renting them out like they were fishing boats.

Human trafficking, I said, thinking out loud.

Huh?

Human trafficking. You lure people to this country, get them to pay thousands of dollars up front with the promise of living the American dream, and once you get them here, you own them. You control them.

I didn't want any part of it, Roy said. Told that guy the next day, no thanks. I'd find people elsewhere.

I'm sure he just took them to another restaurant, I said. Or turned them into full-time sex-trade workers. I paused. But why are you telling me all this? I looked at Arnie. Why'd you want me to hear all this?

You mentioned a name when I was at your place, Arnie said. A weird name, that's why I remember.

It wasn't immediately coming back to me.

Tripe, he said. Randall Tripe. But you never said another thing about him.

I looked at Roy. He was smiling and nodding. That's the guy. I'd been telling Arnie all about this, happened to mention the name And I go, hey, where'd I hear that before? Arnie said.

I'd heard about him since then, Roy said. Read about him in the paper couple of weeks ago. Somebody shot him, left him in a Dumpster. You put a guy like that in the garbage, it makes the other trash look good.

Chapter THIRTY-THREE.

DRIVING AWAY FROM DALRYMPLE'S, I felt like I was nibbling around the edges. I knew Randall Tripe was involved in this somehow. His blood was on my daughter's car. That was definitely a connection.

Had Syd somehow gotten mixed up in his little slave labor business? Had she found out about his involvement in human trafficking? And if so, how? In what circles had Syd been moving to find out about a scumbag like Tripe?

Was it possible he'd tried to make Sydney one of his workers? I could recall a TV documentary on human trafficking, how its victims weren't just illegal immigrants, that criminals who made their living this way often preyed on people particularly young ones who were born right here in the United States. As long as they could find a way to control you, they didn't care where you'd come from.

I wasn't quite sure what to do with the information Roy Chilton had given me. I wanted to pass it along to Kip Jennings, but I felt so betrayed by her I wasn't confident she could help me anymore.

Driving back into Milford, I decided to continue on with what I'd been about to do when Arnie Chilton had phoned. I drove to the Just Inn Time, parked close to the front doors, and went into the lobby.

Today, Veronica Harp was on the front desk with Owen. She smiled warily as I came in. Our last encounter, when she'd offered to make me forget my troubles at least temporarily by slipping between the sheets with her, made this meeting feel slightly awkward.

Mr. Blake, she said professionally, what with Owen only a couple of feet away fiddling with a fax machine, how can I help you today?

I explained that when I'd rented my room, I'd had Syd's stuffed moose Milt in my bag, and now I couldn't find it.

When she comes home, I want it to be there for her, I said.

Veronica nodded, understanding. Let me just check our lost and found, she said, and disappeared into an adjacent office.

I paced the lobby, five steps this way, five steps back. I did that three or four times before Veronica came back, empty-handed.

Nothing's been turned in, she said.

Is the room in use? Could I go up and have a look?

Veronica consulted the computer. Let's have a look-see' . The room's empty at the moment, but our damn system for programming new keys is down for a minute. I'll come up with you and let you in with my passkey.

Sure, I said. Thanks.

She came around the counter. She had her cell phone in one hand, like she was expecting a call, the key card in the other.

We went to the elevator together. It's possible, if one of the maids found it, she said, they might not have turned it in. She gave me a sad smile. It happens.

Sure, I said again.

You think it's possible you might have lost it someplace else? she asked.

Maybe, I said. But I think it was here.

The elevator doors parted. As we started down the hall, Veronica's phone went off. She glanced at the ID, hit the button, put the phone to her ear. Hang on a second, she said. She extended the passkey to me and said, You mind? I really have to take this.

I nodded and took the key as Veronica hit the elevator button to go back down, phone stuck to her ear.

I reached my former room, inserted the key, waited for the little light to turn green, and went inside.

The room was all made up, waiting for the next guest. Stepping into the center of the room, I didn't see Milt anywhere. It was possible, of course, that one of the housekeeping staff found Milt and, rather than turn him in to the office, decided to keep him. Milt was pretty threadbare from years of hugging, but then again, the staff here probably didn't make a fortune, and coming home with any stuffed toy for your daughter, even one whose antlers were nearly falling off, was better than coming home without one at all.