Read Online Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) by Tanya Thompson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tanya Thompson
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expenses incurred getting her out of the asylum camp. Chantou would either be isolated or imprisoned with other girls in the same situation, but she’d have no opportunity to make contact with outside help or reveal her circumstances to anyone.
If she were a European, Sergiu explained, she would probably have to be smacked around or beaten into compliance, but he doubted after all that had occurred under the Khmer Rouge the woman would have much fight left.
To pay off her debt, Chantou would be required to work for the mob. She would never know how much her body was being sold for, and the debt she owed to the mob would increase as they fed, clothed, and housed her. In the decade it took her to clear the balance, she would likely become a willing participant, even manipulating other young women who arrived to find themselves in the same position. And then, when she was too old to sell, if she hadn’t first killed herself, been murdered, or overdosed, she’d likely become a house matron, or madame.
And no amount of language charades would allow me to convey this to her.
The man at her side spoke Khmer, and he was telling her something truly terrifying about me, shoving her forward with the box, prodding her toward the exit.
I was following, imploring, “Please, Chantou, please just wait.”
But she was backing away, pointing at me with wild accusations that fell into loud heaving sobs.
Then security arrived.
I learned the Cambodian spoke English. He said, “This woman is assaulting my niece.”
And Chantou wailed agreement.
The guard stopped me while they scurried fast steps for the sliding doors. I tried to explain, “I’m with the Dallas Fort Worth Refugee Agency, and I’ve been sent to collect that woman. She’s an asylum seeker.”
“She seems to be happy with everything except you,” the guard said. “Do you have a badge or ID?”
“Not on me, but if you’ll give me a moment, I will get it.” I watched Chantou merge into the crowd outside the airport and said, “It’s with my associate in the car. I’ll just go get it.” But there was no one in the car and I was driving without a license.
The guard held my arm and suggested, “How about you wait with me for a second?”
“How about not?”
I’d taken us both forward but he hauled us back, proposing, “How about you come with me then?” and walked us through the curious observers. But it was nothing more than a stroll through the turnstiles, wasting time until Chantou and her uncle could leave the area. Off at the empty edge of baggage claim, he released my arm with another suggestion, “Now, how about you go home?”
~~~~~~
It was agreed, I was not the best person to collect women from the airport. Tricia needed to go with someone who spoke Khmer, but no one capable in the language was willing to step into mob territory.
She spoke with an officer who acted as one of the liaisons between the police force and the Cambodian community. He wasn’t surprised to hear anything Tricia said, but he thought there were a few things she should know. Chief among them, the Cambodians were tight and they didn’t talk, especially not to the police who they didn’t trust. And in case she hadn’t heard, the mob was ruthless. The officer had seen a hatchet job of theirs that had required all the carpets to be replaced, both in the apartment on the third floor where the incident had taken place and also in the apartment under it on the second floor.
What Tricia was saying about the missing women was sad, he granted, but an investigation would go nowhere as no one would talk. About all he suspected would come of probing it would be her death. If that’s how she wanted to open the investigation, “Well, that will be the open and close of it, because the Cambodians still won’t talk.”
While Tricia was mulling over that brush off, Mike made a visit to the refugee agency to see how I was getting along. Being as he was ex-FBI, Tricia
If she were a European, Sergiu explained, she would probably have to be smacked around or beaten into compliance, but he doubted after all that had occurred under the Khmer Rouge the woman would have much fight left.
To pay off her debt, Chantou would be required to work for the mob. She would never know how much her body was being sold for, and the debt she owed to the mob would increase as they fed, clothed, and housed her. In the decade it took her to clear the balance, she would likely become a willing participant, even manipulating other young women who arrived to find themselves in the same position. And then, when she was too old to sell, if she hadn’t first killed herself, been murdered, or overdosed, she’d likely become a house matron, or madame.
And no amount of language charades would allow me to convey this to her.
The man at her side spoke Khmer, and he was telling her something truly terrifying about me, shoving her forward with the box, prodding her toward the exit.
I was following, imploring, “Please, Chantou, please just wait.”
But she was backing away, pointing at me with wild accusations that fell into loud heaving sobs.
Then security arrived.
I learned the Cambodian spoke English. He said, “This woman is assaulting my niece.”
And Chantou wailed agreement.
The guard stopped me while they scurried fast steps for the sliding doors. I tried to explain, “I’m with the Dallas Fort Worth Refugee Agency, and I’ve been sent to collect that woman. She’s an asylum seeker.”
“She seems to be happy with everything except you,” the guard said. “Do you have a badge or ID?”
“Not on me, but if you’ll give me a moment, I will get it.” I watched Chantou merge into the crowd outside the airport and said, “It’s with my associate in the car. I’ll just go get it.” But there was no one in the car and I was driving without a license.
The guard held my arm and suggested, “How about you wait with me for a second?”
“How about not?”
I’d taken us both forward but he hauled us back, proposing, “How about you come with me then?” and walked us through the curious observers. But it was nothing more than a stroll through the turnstiles, wasting time until Chantou and her uncle could leave the area. Off at the empty edge of baggage claim, he released my arm with another suggestion, “Now, how about you go home?”
~~~~~~
It was agreed, I was not the best person to collect women from the airport. Tricia needed to go with someone who spoke Khmer, but no one capable in the language was willing to step into mob territory.
She spoke with an officer who acted as one of the liaisons between the police force and the Cambodian community. He wasn’t surprised to hear anything Tricia said, but he thought there were a few things she should know. Chief among them, the Cambodians were tight and they didn’t talk, especially not to the police who they didn’t trust. And in case she hadn’t heard, the mob was ruthless. The officer had seen a hatchet job of theirs that had required all the carpets to be replaced, both in the apartment on the third floor where the incident had taken place and also in the apartment under it on the second floor.
What Tricia was saying about the missing women was sad, he granted, but an investigation would go nowhere as no one would talk. About all he suspected would come of probing it would be her death. If that’s how she wanted to open the investigation, “Well, that will be the open and close of it, because the Cambodians still won’t talk.”
While Tricia was mulling over that brush off, Mike made a visit to the refugee agency to see how I was getting along. Being as he was ex-FBI, Tricia
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