That was not the case with the pair he encountered next.

On the opposite corner, Ramrez came up on two Hispanic teenagers-they looked maybe sixteen and were probably Puerto Rican-with a battered gray Yamaha FZ1 motorcycle on its stand between them. They wore bulky dark coats, their hands stuffed in the deep pockets, and had black stocking caps pulled down low on their heads. They talked to each other as their eyes darted between the three brown-skinned men sharing the joint and the approaching Ramrez.

The teenagers didn't recognize Ramrez, nor he them. But he knew what they were.

Some of Hector's halcnes.

And he knew that the "hawks" had more than their hands in their coat pockets. Lookouts always carried a disposable cell phone, of course, and often a pistol.

Ramrez turned the corner, and midway down the street he crossed over. He went up to the door of the last of the five rough-looking row houses on the block. The first two houses, tagged with graffiti, had realtor signs nailed to their doors that read FOR SALE-BANK FORECLOSURE. There was chain-link fencing, eight feet high, vine-covered and topped with coils of razor wire, blocking off the side and rear yards.

Just as Ramrez knocked twice on the door, wondering if there was an eyeball on the other side of the dirty peephole, he heard dead bolt locks turning.

The door swung inward. The row house interior was dark, but just beyond the door-and behind a wall of thick, clear plastic sheeting that hung from ceiling to floor-Ramrez could make out two human forms standing midway in the room. They were aiming the Kalashnikovs he'd brought at him.

"Get inside, Ricky!" the one on the left gently urged in Spanish, lowering the AK-47 he'd converted to fully automatic.

Ricky, recognizing Hector Ramrez's voice, went through the door. It was immediately closed behind him and the dead bolts thrown. An overhead lightbulb came on, and Ricky saw the short Hispanic male who had locked the door and hit the switch. He now was pulling the sheeting from the wall. He gestured for Ricky to go through.

There was another motorcycle, a big Kawasaki, by the door. Duct tape held more of the clear plastic sheeting over the windows, sealing them. Ricky crossed the big front room of the house. It was mostly empty except for a ratty sofa, a wooden box that served as a coffee table, and a big flat-screen TV mounted on a wall.

"Hola, mi amigo," Hector said, his tone friendly.

Just hearing that caused Ricky to start feeling a little better. They had developed a strong relationship-maybe 'cause of our Latin thing, and being from the islands-one far better than what Ricky and Dmitri had. Hector's calm demeanor helped ground him, balancing out Ricky's quick temper and his tendency to be reckless.

Hector was a swarthy forty-year-old whose hardscrabble life had included spending his early thirties in a Cuban jail. After growing up on a tobacco farm in central Cuba, he had made his way to Havana. He worked various jobs in the restaurants and bars, then wound up running hookers to the tourists out of a Havana apartment building. And got busted. He discovered that his primary crime against the socialist motherland wasn't pimping-which, unlike the prostitution, was illegal-it was his failure to pay off the correct polica with U.S. dollars or free putas or both.

In jail he had heard about the smugglers who, for a fee that he could work off, would get him to Florida. When released, he had wasted no time seeking them out. Once in the States, and owing ten grand for his passage aboard the fast boat, he had his horticulture skills put to the test. The smugglers were Cuban exiles and had grow houses near Miami. Hector found cultivating marijuana indoors much easier than hoeing rows of tobacco under the Cuban sun. He also found himself almost back behind bars-someone had tipped off the house to the DEA. His handlers sent him to Philadelphia, subtracting a little from his bill for transporting a kilogram each of black tar heroin and cocaine.

Ricky Ramrez, after getting a call from Dmitri Gurnov, had taken delivery. When he heard Hector's story-and Hector convinced him that running a grow house would be easy money-Ricky set him up in the rented row houses in Kensington. Ricky had lied to Dmitri that that money-which had included what he advanced Hector to satisfy his debt in Little Havana-was a loan. It really was Ricky using Dmitri's money. Hector now worked for him.

Ricky knew he'd luckily gotten away with all that. So far.

"I'm glad that you are here, Jefe," Hector said, patting Ricky on the back. "It's been months. I have something to show you."

Ricky motioned in the direction of the teenagers outside.

"Your halcnes look about ready to shoot someone," he said.

Hector laughed. "They all want to think they're sicarios. But those two, Tito and Juan, they are only couriers. One drives and the other rides to deliver the pot."

"Courier, assassin," Ricky said, "only difference is a shooting."

Hector laughed again.

"Yes, I guess that is true, Ricky. Now come with me... ."

[TWO].

Liberties Bar 502 N. Second Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 17, 4:45 P.M.

"Teenaged kids in foster care are ripe for the picking by pimps," Mickey O'Hara said, sliding the files on the two missing West Philadelphia Sanctuary case workers that Matt Payne had given him back in the envelope. He then put that in his laptop case at his feet. "It is tragically simple."

Payne and Jim Byrth, having arrived at Liberties first, were seated at the far end of the enormous dark oak Victorian bar that ran along most of the wall. They had a view of the entire room, including the front window-through which could be seen the back of the bar's five-foot-tall replica of the Statue of Liberty-and the front door. O'Hara, his back to it all, stood near them at the corner, leaning with his forearms against the bar as he nursed a Guinness Black Lager. Matt had before him a half-finished eighteen-year-old Macallan single malt whisky, slightly cut with water and two ice cubes. Jim sipped at a Jack Black on the rocks. They picked at two overflowing baskets of hand-cut onion rings and fries.

The narrow brick-faced three-story Liberties was at the end of a hundred-year-old building that went the entire block. A half circle of canvas awning with an inviting Lady Liberty painted on it overhung its front door.

The heavy wooden interior was rich in character, warm and intimate, what came from decades of crowds drinking, eating, laughing, living. The crowd was light now-only one other man at the bar, close to the window and talking with the bartender, and two couples, one at a table in the middle of the room and another in one of the wooden booths lining the opposite wall-but it would quickly build as people stopped in on their way home from work.

O'Hara went on: "Like all kids, the ones in foster care are hungry for love and attention. Arguably more so. Their fathers and mothers who should have provided that instead failed them miserably-often because their parents had failed them, too. It's a vicious cycle."

He paused and took a sip of beer. Then he chewed on an onion ring as he gathered his thoughts.

"Okay," he went on, "so here's the fairy-tale version. Let's give our foster child a name. Call her, oh, say, Joyce. She's fourteen. Her parents die in a car wreck, leaving her an orphan with no other family. The courts take custody, put her in the care of CPS. She's matched with a foster family, who raise Joyce as their own. She graduates high school, then at eighteen exits CPS and maybe goes to community college down Spring Garden Street here, or to a beautician's school, or just gets married. And Joyce lives happily ever after."

"And we all know that's not what happens..." Matt said.

Jim grunted, nodding as he sipped his bourbon.

Mickey looked between them.

"And we know that's not what happens," Mickey parroted. "The cruel reality of what happens is that Joyce is fourteen going on twenty-four. She has a father she's never known. Her mother, who might have two or three baby daddies, is bipolar, a crackhead, a hooker, dead. Pick one, or more. The courts send Joyce to CPS. But there are no available foster homes, so Joyce winds up, if lucky, at a place like Mary's House, run by someone like Maggie. Or at a larger facility that has, shall we say, less considerate caretakers. Now, one of two things can happen. One, Joyce remains there in the group home due to the lack of an available foster family. Or two, she gets placed in a foster home, where she learns that the foster parents may mean well but really are not a helluva lot better than the caretakers in the large group home. Many foster parents do not supervise the kids. Cannot, because they're working to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads."

"There's the subsidy check," Payne said.

O'Hara nodded. "There is that. But try covering your monthly nut with three hundred bucks from CPS, maybe another three hundred in food stamps."

Payne shook his head. "That's not even seven grand a year."

"If that much," Mickey said. "Further, a lot of foster families, sad to say, are not going to win Parent of the Year by, for example, slapping around Joyce for not cleaning house quietly enough while they're on their fat asses watching the Eagles lose. And if there are other kids in the house, and there usually are, either other foster kids or biological ones, they take advantage of the new kid on the block, including abusing Joyce physically and/or sexually." He paused, then raised an eyebrow. "Maggie phrased it, 'Think Cinderella but a triple-X-rated version.'"

"Kids can be incredibly cruel," Jim said matter-of-factly.

"And so much for any chance of Joyce's fairy-tale ending," Payne said bitterly, then shook his head. He took a healthy swallow of scotch.

"So," Mickey went on, "Joyce, enduring a living hell, has limited options. She can go back to step one, the group home, and hope for a better foster family to come along and take a chance on her. Or she can run away. Let's say Joyce is sixteen now. What is she going to do to survive? How does she provide basic food and shelter? And safety?"

He looked between Jim and Matt.

"So, she goes back to square one," Matt said.

"And reserves the runaway option," Jim added.

"Joyce is still essentially a child and operating in survival mode, doing the best she can with what little she has learned the hard way. Keep in mind that she has never had any good adult role models." Mickey sipped his beer for a moment, then went on: "Okay, so she's back in the group home. She's frustrated to the point that she's contemplating the runaway option when one of the staff-say, someone in the kitchen who's been watching her-approaches Joyce and says, 'You're a beautiful girl. I know how you can make a lot of money. I can hook you up with this guy... .' And Joyce hears all about the other girls who at her age went to work waiting tables or as a hostess and earned enough money to get out on their own."

"Bingo," Matt said. "Just what Joyce wants to hear. She's sold."

Jim grunted again. "Literally. Sold out."

"For a lousy hundred-buck kickback," O'Hara said, nodding. "You've got kitchen staff making maybe eight bucks an hour. At forty hours, that's three-twenty a week-sixteen grand a year-before taxes, et cetera."

"And the social workers don't make a helluva lot more," Payne put in, grabbing an onion ring.

O'Hara, still nodding, said, "At this level they average about forty grand, give or take. To get that, they have to have a good degree, which means they're strapped with college student loans to repay. A couple hundred bucks coming in tax-free is golden. Better than manna from the heavens! They justify it by saying what they're doing is a matching service. They're just getting the girls a job, an opportunity. If the girl decides to go and dabble in something on the side, that's the girl's decision. So, one girl goes out the door, and new ones come in."

Payne was shaking his head. "I was about to say it's disgusting that people in a position of power over kids would take advantage of them. But then I had the mental flash of those high school teachers banging their students."

"Obviously not everyone's dirty," O'Hara said. "But that certainly doesn't ease the pain caused by those who are."

He waved for the bartender to bring them another round.

"Meanwhile," O'Hara went on, "Joyce meets the guy, who then says he has no openings for waitresses. He tells her he's got something higher paying but he's not sure she can do the job-which of course only makes her want it more. Then he quote unquote reluctantly agrees to give Joyce a chance, saying he'll personally show her the ropes. He says it's a massage business. Really just body rubs. He tells her that he will bring in the customers, she massages them for a half hour, then they split the hundred bucks.

"Suddenly she sees that the guy is giving her the attention she's been craving. He lays on the affection and the material things to make Joyce feel special. Then he feeds her drugs, her inhibitions go down, and next thing she knows it's no longer massages. She's being paid for sex. And he's keeping all the money. And she's trapped."

"Did Maggie say she'd seen this happen?" Payne said.

"Last time we spoke, I guess maybe six months or so ago, she said she'd heard about it from the girls and other case workers. Nothing concrete that she could take to the cops. And she said absolutely nothing at Mary's House."

"Well," Payne said, "that would be an expected answer. But clearly Maggie would never do it. Money is not an issue. Not to mention sex trafficking a minor carries a sentence of ten years minimum. But what about the other women, Emily Quan and Jocelyn Spencer?"

O'Hara shrugged. "Who can say? I don't think so. But it cannot be automatically dismissed."

Payne, looking at O'Hara, then looked beyond him to the front door. "Here comes Jason. And he doesn't look happy."

[THREE].

Little Bight Bay Saint John, United States Virgin Islands Monday, November 17, 4:50 P.M.

Maggie McCain, holding the fifty-foot-long white-hulled catamaran on a fast course, looked up from under her navy cap and smiled. The sails were finely tuned to the point that the big cat hummed with the steady stiff wind. It felt alive, knifing with a smooth rhythm through the waves. And that had made Maggie feel more alive. And given her time to think.

It had taken Maggie a half hour to reach the north shore of Saint John, the next island over from Saint Thomas. Farther east, she could make out Sage Mountain rising on the horizon at Tortola-where not even a mile of water separated the British Virgin Islands from the USVI.

Maggie, the wind whipping her ponytail, scanned the Saint John shoreline looking for her landmark. The lush green hills rose steeply above the enormous volcanic boulders and the strips of white sand beach.

She loved the seclusion of Little Bight and the fact that few could find it. The mouth of the small bay was barely twice as wide as the catamaran's beam of twenty-five feet. It was tucked in behind a mass of boulders that formed a crescent at the foot of a tall hill, making the entrance all but invisible.

After a moment, among a line of brown boulders, she found the landmark-an enormous rock softly etched by wind and water that to her eye resembled one of Picasso's contorted human faces.

She spun the big stainless steel wheel, putting Pablo's big-eyed boulder dead ahead. Then, coming up on the gap to the bay, she uncleated the mainsheet, letting the air spill out. She dropped the mainsail. Minutes later, sailing on just the jib, the big boat smoothly slipped behind the crescent of boulders and into the protected bay.

What a difference being on the water makes.

I am back in control.

- An hour earlier, Maggie had felt completely overwhelmed. Shaking out of control, she had taken the heavy shot of Cruzan rum to calm her-and then immediately knew that she could not keep drinking. She needed to clear her mind, and to think.

She had looked out at the sea and seen the small white triangles that were the sails of boats moving between the islands. She then immediately hopped up and grabbed her gear.

She went through the gap in the thick wall of sea grape trees Beatrix had told her about and found the stone path that cut back and forth down the hill to the beach and marina.

The dockmaster turned out to be in his thirties, a very tanned bald-headed man named Captain Jesse, who was the epitome of efficiency. Just as Beatrix had said, he had had the boat ready to go and insisted on a thorough walk-through, even after Maggie's announcement that she had sailed the very small model catamaran a few times.

"As you know," Captain Jesse said, "no two boats are the same."

The layout of the boat was basically similar to all other catamarans-the main cabin, with the galley and large living area, was between the two big hulls. Steps on either side of the main cabin led down to the four staterooms in the hulls, two queen-sized beds forward and two aft, which were separated by their lavatories.

Back up on the deck, the dockmaster had shown her that the electronics-from the VHF radio to the GPS to the wind-speed and water-depth gauges-all were in working order. He then pointed out the location of everything else she might need-the three anchors to the life jackets, emergency flares, first-aid kit-as well as the array of black panels affixed to the topside of the main cabin.

"Not all our boats have those," Captain Jesse said. "They're the solar cells that charge the batteries. Don't want to step on them."

He had shown her that the fuel and freshwater tanks were topped off, and that the galley was freshly provisioned. There was food enough to last a week, if Maggie stretched it, as well as nice wines-including two bottles of champagne-and beers.

"And," he'd said, "enough of our ubiquitous rum to throw a wicked party."

She smiled. "My friends I'm about to pick up will be excited to hear that."

He leaned forward and quietly added, "And if there's anything else they might need, I can handle that, too."

Else? What else?

Oh... that.

"It's quality. Only the best. There is a lot of bad stuff sold here."

Careful. Don't come off as a prude... .

"That's always good to know."

He handed her a card. "My cell is on here."

"Thank you," she said, then shook the dockmaster's hand, discreetly slipping him a folded hundred-dollar bill.