Chapter 11
I GOT INTO the office very early on Monday.
I had a specific plan of action. The very first one was using the number Joe had given me for Interpol.
He told me not to bother calling the US Interpol office.
I was calling the headquarters in Lyon, France.
That put them nine hours ahead of us, making it already about four o’clock in the afternoon.
I didn’t know how agencies in Europe operated.
Here in the US, calling later than four o’clock usually resulted in a short conversation or just a voicemail.
Especially if you were dealing with one of the federal agencies.
So I was surprised when someone answered the phone on the first ring. “Centre de commandement et de coordination, bonjour. Alain Creasy à l’appareil.”
“Bonjour, je me—” I tried to use more of my high school French, but the man on the other end of the line interrupted me.
“I understand English.”
“I’m sorry. I thought I could utilize the French I knew,” I said. “My name is Lindsay Boxer. I’m a homicide investigator with the San Francisco Police Department. The FBI gave me this number.”
He chuckled. It was a warm, friendly sound.
“I knew anyone calling this number directly was probably in law enforcement. It is nice to meet you, Lindsay Boxer. My name is Alain Creasy. I have worked in missing persons and related areas here in France for a long time. I retired from the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire—in Paris. I’ve been here in Lyon with Interpol for the last four years.
How may I help the San Francisco Police Department on this lovely day? ”
I wasn’t used to this sort of pleasant chatter with other law-enforcement-related agencies. It was rare someone was nasty, but I would say “efficient” was the best way to describe most of my interactions with other agencies.
I had to comment, “Your English is excellent.”
“I lived in Michigan as an exchange student for a little over a year. I also grew up on old US TV shows. Especially police shows. This is why my American slang is so good.” He laughed out loud.
I took a few minutes to explain my concerns. I didn’t ask any specific questions. I left it up to Alain to give me any information he wanted.
“Unfortunately, there are a number of rings that traffic in young women. We have pretty good information on many of them here in Europe and the Middle East. I know that it happens in the US as well, but I don’t have as much information about it.”
“When you say ‘traffic,’ what’s the purpose?”
“It’s a nasty business. Much worse than narcotics.
They will essentially sell these girls as concubines to wealthy Russian oligarchs or Middle East oil barons.
The kind of people who are essentially above the law in their own countries.
It helps if they can have the girls go willingly.
They’ll offer a better life and plenty of luxury.
That’s why these traffickers tend to prey on troubled girls, often from poor families. It is most distressing.”
We talked for quite a while. Then Alain Creasy surprised me by saying, “I’m coming to a conference in Seattle soon. Then I planned to spend a week in Paris with my daughter, but I could adjust my schedule and fly into San Francisco afterward if you think I could be of use.”
I loved his courtly way of speaking English. I also liked his eagerness and willingness to jump into a case. I agreed enthusiastically. Then I said, “I have to ask one more important question.”
“Of course. I am an open book.”
“What shows did you watch growing up in France?”
He chuckled again. “I am quite the Americanophile of classic police television. My favorites were The Rifleman, Baretta, and The Streets of San Francisco. Are you familiar with any of them?”
I said, “I’ve never heard of The Rifleman. I’ve heard of Baretta but haven’t seen it. But The Streets of San Francisco is practically required viewing for officers in the SFPD.”
“Lindsay Boxer, I am quite excited to meet you. I will keep in close contact about when I can visit. It may be just a few days. Unfortunately, like all government employees, I first must get permission for any variation in my travel plans.”
I thanked him, then hung up the phone and leaned back in my chair. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.