Suitcase Girl (Abby Kane FBI Thriller - SG Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Suitcase Girl

  Ty Hutchinson

  Contents

  Get Ty Hutchinson’s Starter Library For Free

  Suitcase Girl Trilogy - Book One

  About Suitcase Girl

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  An Excerpt from The Curator

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  A Note from Ty Hutchinson

  Also by Ty Hutchinson

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  Suitcase Girl Trilogy - Book One

  Abby Kane FBI Thriller

  About Suitcase Girl

  In the first book of the Suitcase Girl Trilogy, Agent Abby Kane discovers an unlikely connection with a little girl found outside the offices of the FBI.

  In an effort to learn where the child came from, Abby brings the girl home with her, thinking a family environment might jog the girl’s memory. Abby’s efforts pay off as the investigation points toward human trafficking. Only it doesn’t end there.

  As Abby continues to dig, indicators suggest there’s something more, something unthinkable… and quite frankly, unexplainable.

  Chapter One

  A misty drizzle fell throughout the day and continued into the night, leaving the dockworkers at the Port of Oakland longing to punch out of their shift. Further compounding working conditions, a fog had begun to roll in, cutting down on visibility.

  The stevedore in charge rallied his men, urging them to remain steadfast in their duties, as they unloaded the last cargo ship on the work order.

  Up above, about fifty feet, a container crane held a shipping container in its iron grip and was in the process of lowering it to a waiting forklift. The container touched down with a thunk, and a couple of longshoremen quickly unhooked the four cables securing the container to the spreader. One gave the operator of the crane a thumbs-up.

  “Last one and we’re out,” the stevedore shouted to the forklift operator.

  “Ain’t that the truth. I got it from here.”

  “You sure?” the stevedore asked as he removed his gloves.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Go home.”

  The forklift operator pushed the lever controlling the mast and lifted the container exactly five feet from the pavement. He backed up, spun the vehicle around, and drove in the opposite direction of where the other workers were heading.

  Reflective yellow dock lines led the way to a remote area where there were no personnel—just containers stacked four high.

  He eased the forty-foot long container into an area shielded from the dock lights and lowered the mast. The container again thunked as it connected with the pavement. He backed the lift truck away and then shut the engine off before sending a text message on his cell phone.

  Carlos Medina had worked at the shipyard for fifteen years. While he had gotten used to the daily grind, he hated being there longer than needed. The men he worked with were the last scheduled crew on the docks that night, but Medina had some unfinished business he needed to take care of before heading home.

  Medina sat quietly, listening to a distant siren cry out—it wouldn’t be Oakland if there weren’t any. He clasped his hands together and rubbed vigorously until he felt the burn. He was anxious to put something warm in his stomach; the leftover chili he had at home in the fridge would do fine.

  He checked his watch again. What’s taking so long?

  Just then his phone chimed.

  “Finally,” he muttered as he read the text message.

  Ten minutes later, Medina heard the engines of vehicles approaching. Two black vans came into view with their headlights off. They came to a stop a few feet away from the forklift, and two individuals exited each one. They always dressed the same when they showed up: black jeans, black hoodies, and Wayfarer sunglasses.

  He didn’t know their names or what they looked like under their disguises, although he did figure out one of them was a girl.

  There was never a discussion. The arrangement stood the same as always. Medina would move the container to a set location, send a text, and wait for their arrival.

  He watched as one of them dealt with the lockbox on the container before pulling open the double doors.

  Medina never allowed his gaze to linger; he felt it was better to give the impression that he had no interest in what they were removing from the container. Occasionally he took a peek.

  He lit a cigarette and ignored the two individuals entering the steel box with flashlights. He could hear them talking, in Chinese—at least that was what it sounded like to him. A little later they would begin unloading their goods from the container.

  The shipment was always the same.

  One by one the girls exited the container, walking hunched over with their arms crossed over their chests. They were clothed and wore shoes. Some shivered, but that was the extent of any dramatics.

  Medina never made it a point to count, but it seemed each shipment contained between eight or twelve girls. This was the third he had been involved with. He took a long pull on his cigarette, and the tip flared a bright red.

  The girls were directed toward one of the vehicles where two other individuals waited. One, a man, held a clipboard. His female cohort would shine a small penlight into each girl’s face as they looked over paperwork. Satisfied that the girl in front of them matched their list, the female would then help the girl into the rear of the van.

  That night the process deviated when the fifth girl approached. After the flashlight check, they had her wait next to them instead of loading her into the van. She, by far, was the smallest of the group. She didn’t shiver or cry or fidget. She just stood motionless with her head down.

  Not much later the men in the container appeared with the last two girls and escorted them to the van, where they were also checked against the list.

  The group then had a brief discussion about the girl who’d been pulled aside. Medina detected English, but he was too f
ar away to make sense of their conversation. A few moments later, the last two girls and the one who had been separated were then loaded into the other van.

  One of the men, the tallest, approached Medina and handed him an envelope. Medina always waited until the vehicles drove off before looking inside. The count was never off. Always five thousand dollars in crisp one-hundred notes.

  The two vans drove in tandem across the Golden Gate Bridge toward San Francisco and then followed Lombard Street through the Marina District. They made a right onto Van Ness Avenue and continued south to a neighborhood just north of the Tenderloin.

  The vehicles parked outside a six-story residential building. For four hours they sat in the vans, waiting for pedestrian and vehicle traffic to die down. By one o’clock it had, and the girls were led quickly into the building.

  Two hours later, one of the men exited the building with the girl they had taken extra time with at check-in. They got into the van and drove off. The man made a series of lefts and rights, venturing into the heart of the Tenderloin.

  At that time of the morning, the place was barren. It was late enough that even the residents who made their livings on the streets at night had retired, and those who roamed during the day weren’t up yet.

  The van turned onto a street where a tall building with a concrete plaza in front occupied the entire block. He brought the vehicle to a stop next to the curb and cut the engine. Not a soul, not even a rat marred the silence.

  The side door of the van slid open, and the man exited with a suitcase. He looked left and right continuously as he hurried straight toward the entrance of the building, the wheels of the bag bumping along behind him.

  When he arrived at the front of the building, he looked around briefly before releasing the suitcase handle and walking away. He never once looked back.

  There was nothing special about the suitcase, the dimensions were thirty-one inches by twenty-two by thirteen. Fairly typical. If there were something conspicuous, it would have to be the fact that something inside of the bag shook it.

  Chapter Two

  The navy blue Crown Victoria came to a stop next to the curb. Detective Pete Sokolov exited the driver side dressed in a charcoal gray suit. He was a veteran of the San Francisco Police Department, having spent most of his career working at the Central precinct. He stood tall, over six feet, with shoulders broad enough to require that his suits be tailored. He wore his blond hair high and tight.

  His partner, Detective Adrian Bennie, exited the vehicle from the front passenger side. He was dressed in a silver-gray suit and didn’t have the height or the width associated with Sokolov, but Bennie always wore a smile that pointed to his dimples.

  Sokolov adjusted his jacket. “Why are you always smiling?” he asked, his Russian accent still noticeable.

  The two had been partners for eight months. Bennie had worked for the Miami Police before moving out west. He was half white, half Cuban and grew up in the city’s Little Havana neighborhood. He never did give Sokolov a reason for the move.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Bennie chimed. “The sun is shining bright. The air is clean smelling.” He took a sip from a small paper cup. “Coffee here is good, almost as good as the café con leche I’m used to back home. All I need to complete the picture is a piece of—”

  “Tostada to dip inside,” Sokolov said.

  “We’re finishing each other’s sentences. That means we’re growing closer.”

  “Or maybe you talk too much,” Sokolov said gruffly as he rounded the front of the vehicle.

  “You know what your problem is?”

  “No, but you’re about to tell me, right?”

  The two walked up the steep granite grade that encircled most of the large plaza, the first deterrent to vehicles attempting to enter the area.

  “You got a bleak outlook. Maybe it’s because you’re Russian. I know it’s cold as shit back where you’re from, so you’ve developed this hard outer shell. But man, you’ve been living in the States since you were a kid. Lighten up a little. Enjoy the music of life.” Bennie delivered a quick Salsa dance move.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Bennie drained the last of his coffee and tossed the paper cup into a trash receptacle as they passed through a line of security bollards, the second deterrent for vehicles.

  The two detectives stopped just outside the large, rectangular glass enclosure that made up the entrance of the Phillip Burton Federal Building. Both had their jackets unbuttoned and their hands resting on their hips.

  “Where’s the body?” Bennie asked as he spun in a circle.

  Sokolov started walking toward the entrance. “Good question,” he said.

  They passed through one of the double glass doors and came face to face with an electronic security system that was manned by the Homeland Security’s Federal Protective Service. The general public was required to walk through a metal detector and have their belongings pass through an x-ray scanner; employees were put through the same security regimen, but they used a separate entrance that required an identification check.

  “Officer Chapman,” Sokolov called out.

  A man wearing a black suit and talking to one of the uniformed officers monitoring the security system spun around. “Detective Sokolov. It’s been awhile. To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

  The two shook hands.

  “We’re here for the body?”

  “What body?”

  “We got a call that there was a body here.”

  Chapman crunched his eyebrows and shook his head. “No body. An abandoned girl was discovered outside this morning. Maybe it’s a mix-up on your end? You work Homicide, right?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Chapman stuck his hand out toward Bennie. “FPS Officer Max Chapman. I’m in charge of building security.”

  “Detective Adrian Bennie. My date here is usually better about introducing me to his friends.”

  The two chuckled as Sokolov continued to ponder the predicament they were in.

  “So you’re telling me you found a girl out here this morning?”

  “Well, one of my guys found her early this morning, before office hours. She was left in a suitcase right over there.” He pointed.

  Sokolov frowned. “Suitcase?”

  “Yeah. He was on one of his rounds when he spotted the suitcase… thought it was a bomb at first and was seconds from calling it in when the damn thing moved. He unzipped it and found a shivering girl inside.”

  “Any guess how long she was out there?”

  “He says he discovered the bag at 3:15 a.m. Not long. I took a look at the footage from the video surveillance outside. It revealed one man leaving the suitcase. The timing coincided with my guy’s last round. When he called me, I instructed him to bring her inside and to call SFPD. Nothing screamed out to me that a federal law had been broken, so it falls in your jurisdiction. Anyway, he tried questioning her, but she remained tight-lipped.”

  “Man, some parents are messed up,” Bennie said. “So the girl’s okay?”

  “As far as I know. I didn’t actually see her. SFPD had already arrived on scene and taken her before I got here. I believe they were heading over to Saint Francis Memorial for a routine check-up.” Chapman removed his cell phone. “I have the name of the officer in charge. Probably best you follow up with him if you want more answers.” He tapped at the screen. “Officer Frank Burke. Know him?”

  Sokolov nodded.

  “If there’s anything else I can help with, you know how to reach me.”

  Chapman turned and took two steps when Sokolov stopped him. “You mind if I take a look at that footage, the one with the guy leaving the suitcase?”

  “Sure. Follow me.”

  Chapman led them to an office where FPS personnel were staring at a bank of monitors.

  “You keep a guy in here 24/7?”

  “We used to, but… budget cuts. It’s o
nly manned during office hours.” Chapman had an officer queue the footage.

  All four men watched as a man dressed in dark clothing approached with a suitcase. He walked right up to the entrance, dropped the bag, and walked away. It was too dark to make out his facial features.

  “That’s all you got?” Sokolov asked.

  “Yeah. You’ll need to subpoena the city for cameras on the street.”

  “I appreciate your help. Do you know if the officer who took the girl questioned your guy?”

  “He took a statement. Everything I told you pretty much encapsulates what he told the officer, but if you want to hear it firsthand, I can arrange for him to be available here. He works the nightshift, so he’s off duty now.”

  “How about his name and address?”

  “No problem. Give me a few minutes to pull his records. Oh, and uh, just do me one thing; keep me posted if anything comes of this that involves my guy.”

  Sokolov and Bennie exited the federal building ten minutes later.

  “What are you thinking?” Bennie asked. “We just spent time on something that has nothing to do with us. We investigate dead bodies.”

  “I know, but the suitcase… it bothers me.”

  “I would ask if you think there’s foul play, but again I’ll remind you, there’s no body.”

  Sokolov stopped. He scratched his chin. “Something about this doesn’t feel right. If it wasn’t for the suitcase, we would have left the second Chapman told us there wasn’t a body.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

  “I don’t buy the child-abandonment theory. Seems off. Unlikely.”

  “Child abandonment happens all the time, and it’s doesn’t always happen outside of a designated drop-off point like a fire house. Take the McDonald’s incident, for instance.”

  “Huh?”

  “A mother in San Diego took her little boy, a four-year-old, to McDonald’s. She ordered him a Happy Meal and then sat him down at a birthday party that was taking place. The boy ate his meal, played the games, had cake and ice cream all before the birthday boy’s parents realized they didn’t know this kid. The mother was nowhere to be found.”