out of the ordinary and first jumped to the conclusion of malfeasance.
We removed the guns we were carrying from their holsters and opened the door to the house. Without manipulation, the knob turned.
Unlocked.
Slowly pushing the door within, we scanned the coat room. Built-in shelving, a bench, and pegs covered in jackets lined one wall. More cabinetry lined the other. Our shoes made no noise upon the tile as we quietly approached the entry of the kitchen.
The sounds from a television wafted through the air, coming from the living area. I scanned the kitchen for any sign of trouble. Nothing was out of place. According to the blueprint, the homes in this neighborhood were all given the open feel, allowing for an ocean view from many angles. At the back stairs, Sparrow gave me a nod and step by step ascended the stairs to the second floor while I canvassed the first.
The woman Madeline had named, Wendy Millstone, had her back toward the kitchen. Sitting upon a long white sofa, her mind was upon a television drama playing on a large screen before her. Her head shook as she mumbled to herself about the unrealistic storyline. Another step and I saw that her phone lay upon a large glass coffee table beside a fresh floral arrangement.
To her side was a wall of glass with doors that led onto a balcony, infinity pool, and beyond to the Pacific Ocean. The woman who had orchestrated the buying, selling, and using of humans wasn’t wearing a long black dress, a pointed hat, or anything to indicate her evilness. No, she was dressed in a yellow shirt and long white shorts. Another step and I could see her completely. Her feet wore sandals with large rhinestones, her fingers glistened with various diamond rings, and upon her wrist, she twisted gold bracelets.
As I approached, I imagined what could be done to her if we had more time. The images in my mind weren’t pretty, and I wasn’t proud that the thoughts occurred. I also wasn’t ashamed. After the role this woman had played in Madeline’s nightmare, my visions included various ways to return the favor.
The barrel of my gun came to her neck.
“Don’t scream,” I demanded.
Her spine stiffened as the unmistakable putrid stench of alarm emanated from her pores, overpowering her expensive perfume. “What do you want?” She hadn’t yet turned around. Not that it would matter if she saw me. She wouldn’t be alive long enough to recount my description.
“Wendy,” a male voice called with a shaky tenor from a large staircase to our left.
We both turned to see Sparrow a step behind with his gun drawn upon an older man with graying hair, wearing khaki shorts, a bright orange golf shirt, and white canvas loafers. The man’s hands were lifted in the universal sign of surrender as step by step, they descended the stairs.
“Stand up,” I said to Wendy Millstone. “Walk to the dining room.”
Ever compliant, a few moments later, both Jerry and Wendy Millstone sat in padded large chairs at a long glass table with bowed white legs, set with colorful place mats and cloth napkins in rings. Upon the center was another fresh floral arrangement.
Their hands were placed on the surface as they’d been instructed, staying visible to me and Sparrow. Beyond the tall windows, whitecaps topped the waves in the distance as only the television show still playing in the other room could be heard.
As Sparrow and I moved around the couple, the Millstones’ eyes widened as they continually looked nervously from one to the other and back to us.
“What is the meaning of this?” Jerry finally asked.
“Dr. Miller?” I asked.
Wendy’s eyes grew rounder as she stared at her husband. “You have the wrong people. That’s not our name. My husband, h-he’s not a doctor.”
I stepped closer to Jerry Millstone as my volume rose. “Dr. Miller?”
Small beads of perspiration dotted his furrowed brow as his hands twitched. “I-I used that name, but you see,” he said, “I’m not a doctor.”
“Mrs. Miller, Wendy,” Sparrow said, “tell us about the office in Chicago, the one with the examination room, the one where you completed the intake of women and children.”
Her head shook from side to side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tell me about Kristine and Roberto Ortiz from Charitable Heart Mission,” I said.
“We have money,” Jerry said, grasping his own hands and sitting taller. “There’s a safe here in our home. Please, we have children and grandchildren. This is a misunderstanding.