Chapter 35
Of course, we don’t stay idle during the two days we have until Becker’s reception.
On Friday morning, I get us the same laptop as Becker’s hidden one, and we practice opening it up as fast as we can to access the hard drive below and pull it out.
It quickly becomes clear that Andrea is better than I am at it, so we decide she’ll be the one opening the laptop while I prepare the cloning station and everything we’ll need.
Late in the afternoon, I accompany her to meet with Paola, who replaced the office key she’s supposed to leave at Becker’s penthouse after every shift with a similar-looking one.
We have it copied in ten minutes, and despite offering Paola one last payment, she refuses, arguing she got more than enough of our money.
She wishes us luck with the rest of our endeavor and says we can always contact her again if we need more help.
“If you find out what happened to Amalia, can you let me know?” she asks before we part.
“Amalia?”
“The Colombian girl who disappeared. Amalia. Amalia Camacho. I’ve been worried about her.”
We agree with her request, of course, and after thanking her one last time for all her help, we return to the apartment.
In the evening, since we know something will go on at Becker’s place, we drive there with my laptop and park right at the corner of the building, ready to observe the walk-in entrance and the access to the underground parking lot.
Five minutes before seven, we see a black van with tinted windows turn in there.
The ambient light allows us both to recognize Horvat at the wheel and, next to him, a man we’ve never seen.
As soon as they’re out of view, I pull up the security feed from the parking lot’s cameras.
Becker’s cameras are turned off, and I can’t turn them back on without attracting attention.
The building’s cameras still run, though.
That allows us to see them park by the elevators, then the two men exit the vehicle.
When they open the sliding door on the side, two more men come out, each dragging a woman with them by the arm.
They’re wearing short and tight party dresses, and blindfolds cover their eyes.
They aren’t tied up, though, and don’t seem to resist their handlers.
Are they here of their own volition? Are the blindfolds a way to prevent them from knowing where they’re being taken?
We watch, concerned and perplexed, as one of the men tugs a third woman out. Then, they bring the women to the elevator, the one reserved for the penthouse, and they disappear from our sight. This is all we can get, as the camera in there is linked to Becker’s security system.
About an hour later, more cars arrive. Ten in total, all personal cars with their drivers, which will make it easy to find out who’s attending.
From those cars, we see ten men come out, all wearing fully black suits and black domino masks.
I take as many screenshots as I can, but I doubt I’ll find their identities, given the low resolution and the masks covering half of their faces. The plates will have to do.
We wait some more, just in case, but when we’ve seen no further activity for a while, Andrea asks, “Do we stay to see them all leave?”
“We can monitor their exit from the apartment. I got the cars’ plates, we saw the process, I think we have everything we need.”
“Okay, let’s go, then. I don’t know what will happen to those women up there, but it’s creeping me out.”
I don’t need to be told twice, also feeling uncomfortable given what we witnessed.
We spend a quiet evening at the apartment, while the surveillance camera from the building’s parking lot runs on my computer.
Andrea works on her laptop dismantling skills as I triple-check everything we’ll need for tomorrow evening.
“Okay, Iris is ready,” I say, proudly looking back at the lines of code I was working on.
“Yay! So, how does it work?”
“She’ll watch out for Becker coming toward his office, and if she sees that happen, she’ll completely cut the building’s electricity for about thirty seconds.
That should give us enough time to strategize and get rid of whatever evidence we have on us.
If Becker catches us in his office, he will have grounds to get us searched. ”
“Making it the whole building was really smart. It’ll look like a random electrical issue, not a targeted one.”
“Exactly. We’ll keep our phones’ flashlights on, so we don’t waste a second in case it happens. I’ve also programmed her to loop the camera feeds on my signal, so we can sneak into Becker’s office without being discovered.”
“Damn, baby … You did all that in four hours?”
“Six. I started working on it earlier today.”
“That’s still impressive. We now have someone watching out for us.”
“Iris isn’t someone.”
Andrea frowns. “She is. Stop being so mean to our eldest daughter.”
I roll my eyes, failing at holding back a grin. When my gaze returns to Andrea, her mood has changed. She’s staring at the laptop screen, face closed off. When I look, I understand why. The first of Becker’s guests is leaving.
His suit isn’t as crisp as what we saw earlier, his tie hanging on each side of his neck. In the span of half an hour, they all leave one by one, their drivers picking them up near the elevators.
Six hours. They stayed up there for six hours, doing God knows what to those three women. Disgust churns in my stomach as I watch them, noticing the contented expressions on their faces. We were just there. Maybe we could have gone in, done something to stop this, and protected those women.
But we’re playing the long game, and stopping one of those depraved evenings from happening won’t prevent the next one, or the ones after.
Andrea and I are both tired, eager to go to bed, but we wait to see the women come down and appear again. We have to know what state they’re in and gauge the extent of the issue.
When they appear, the four men from earlier are with them.
One of the women limps while another one can barely walk on her own, being supported by a handler.
Their dresses are gone, and they’re all wearing the same unbranded tracksuit instead.
They seem to have gone through hell, and anger rises in me.
At least fifteen men took part in this, between Becker, his guests, and the handlers, and not one of them intervened? What kind of men are these? How can they watch harm being done to a woman and not only let it go, but participate in it?
Even if we weren’t fully ready for it, we knew this wouldn’t be a simple evening of poker, alcohol, and prostitutes.
Given what Andrea overheard when Becker was talking to Horvat in his office, we guessed it would involve something similar to what Lorelei Madsen endured.
We didn’t realize the women would leave this harmed, and that so many men would be involved.
This isn’t just about Becker anymore. It’s about all the men around him who indulge in the same vices as he does. It’s about dismantling whatever trafficking ring this is, about exposing their abuses to the world, and about getting them arrested.
“I can’t wait for us to nail all these motherfuckers,” Andrea practically growls next to me, having the same thoughts as me.
“We’ll get them. Every last one of them,” I promise.
Tomorrow, we’re risking it all to get that evidence. Not only for ourselves, but for those three women and all the ones who have gone through this before. Consequences are coming for those men. And they have no idea.
Andrea’s gloved hands fidget, betraying her anxiety as we wait for our turn with the hostess at her high console table. Hoping I can help soothe her nerves, I take Andrea’s hand and entwine my fingers with hers.
She looks up at me with an apologetic smile and thankful eyes, tightening her fingers around mine.
She’s sumptuous in a shimmery dress that’s a faded shade of pink, draped around her beautiful curves before flaring down to the ground.
A slit reveals her left leg when she walks, and I’m impressed she found such a perfect dress in so little time.
Her black satin gloves go all the way to the middle of her upper arms, a clever accessory that not only looks good but will also ensure she leaves no prints behind.
I myself have a pair of black rubber gloves waiting in my chest pocket.
As she said, she looks nothing like she did when she infiltrated Becker’s staff.
I doubt he would recognize her. Even I see little of the dork I love, hiding somewhere behind those smoky eyes and red lips.
Her hair is gathered at her neck in a stylish and complex bun.
It doesn’t look complex as it is now, but the stylist spent an hour working every curly strand into position, so I gather there’s more to it than meets the eye.
We’re still holding hands by the time it’s our turn to be checked by the hostess.
“Welcome,” she greets with a practiced smile. “May I have your names, please?”
“Alexander Coleman. I’m here on behalf of my father, Richard Coleman, who couldn’t be here tonight and sends his apologies.”
She nods, gazes down at the list on her iPad, and clicks on the name, which pulls up a photograph. When she looks up again, she says, “You look a lot like your father, Mr. Coleman. Please, you may wait for the next elevator up.”
Andrea’s hand squeezes, as if she knows what it does to me to be compared to my father.
We’re silent as we wait for the private elevator to come down again, along with a few other guests.
It looks like we aren’t the only ones arriving fashionably late, though I doubt they also did it to blend in better and attract less attention.