"They're all alive?"
"They are," I agreed.
"Okay," he said, turning toward a woman making her way up. Young. Couldn't have been older than twenty-one, likely fresh out of the academy, a petite dark-skinned woman with bright honey-brown eyes. "Can you stay here and direct the paramedics as they show up?" he asked, getting a nod as he followed Lucky back toward the shipping container.
"I don't believe we've met, Officer..." my father started, getting a raised brow from the woman.
"Greys. Officer Greys, Mr. Grassi. And, I know what you're thinking, and no. You will find I can't be bought," she told him, though there wasn't much malice in her words.
"Five years on that salary, you won't believe what some people are willing to be and do," my father said. "Is there going to be some sort of... therapy for these women?" he asked. "I'd hate to see them thrown in a cell somewhere when they didn't come here by choice."
"That's a matter for the detectives and social service and such to figure out. But I hope they get help as well. I can't imagine what they are going through. Right this way," she called to the paramedics as they grabbed their bags, waiting for instructions.
"I'll walk you back," my father said, giving me a nod.
"I wonder if we can track down Romy," Matteo said, something suggestive in his tone. "So I can apologize to her," he added.
"She would deserve that apology," I agreed, not taking the bait.
It was one thing to keep something from my family. It was a complete other to admit to lying to them about something that could have jeopardized all of us.
"I wonder what I could get her to make it up to her..."
"I believe she might be partial to Fleur du Mal and Cinq à Sept."
"Luxury taste on an interpreter's salary, wouldn't you say?"
"Some people deserve to be spoiled," I shot back.
"I can't argue with that," he agreed.
"What are the cops learning right now that I didn't know yet?" I asked, wanting to drop that line of conversation, needing to know what we were working with.
"This is one of our oldest clients from that area of the world. They are supposed to ship in fertilizer. "
I knew that company. More so, I knew that client. And I was finding it hard to believe he would ever willingly get wrapped up in this sort of operation.
Of course, money could make people do terrible things. The lack of it. Or the promise of huge sums of it.
"Have you searched the other containers yet?"
"This is the only one this week."
That also didn't make any sense.
There should have been at least three.
The flag should have gone up, but then again, companies had demand ebb and flow. It was possible that we overlooked the change simply because fertilizer was one of those things that went in and out of favor, people wanting to find more organic and natural options.
"When did the last one come in before this?" I asked, wondering how long Celenia could have possibly been in the hands of traffickers stateside.
"Twelve days."
Twelve days.
That meant it was more likely that Romy's sister simply hadn't made it into a container yet. Or that she was in one, and on her way.
That was news I could give Romy. Something with a little hope. It would kill me to go back there and tell her she was right, but we likely missed her sister, and that we weren't equipped to track down human traffickers.