Ashes (Web of Desire #3) - Aleatha Romig Page 0,63
We’ll give you whatever you want.”
“We want answers,” Sparrow said.
“What about the children you sold?” I asked. “What about the babies you sold away from their mothers’?”
“I don’t know where you got your information, but you’re wrong,” Jerry protested.
Sparrow leaned back, casually resting his shoulders against the white trim of the archway as his gun remained in his grasp. His gaze narrowed in contemplation as he stared toward Jerry. “I remember you. You always seemed intimidated by the others, a bit like you are now.”
Jerry’s face snapped up as he returned Sparrow’s gaze. “You’re…you’re Sparrow.” It was true that Sterling Sparrow held more physical resemblance to his father when Allister was younger than he cared to admit. Recognizing the familial traits wasn’t uncommon.
Wendy gasped.
“Now that we have introductions out of the way,” Sparrow said.
Jerry lifted his hands. “Wait, I was fair with your father. If he said I wasn’t—”
“My father never mentioned you,” Sparrow replied. “You see, you were an insignificant cog in the wheel as far as he was concerned. However, to me and my man here, we have a special interest in you. Think about it. For the first time, you’re special.”
Wendy’s head shook. “What do you want?”
“Do you think you can be honest with us?” Sparrow asked Mr. Millstone.
“Yes, yes, sir.” He nodded faster with each word. “Yes, I can.”
My lips twitched. “You’re addressing the king of Chicago’s underground. Show some respect. His name is Mr. Sparrow.”
“Yes…I’m sorry. Mr. Sparrow,” Jerry repeated.
“Tell us about the office,” I said, “Tell us who your buyers and sellers were. Who besides the people at Charitable Heart Mission brought you product—human product?”
“What?” Mrs. Millstone said, aghast.
“Come now, Wendy,” I said, placing my gloved hands, including the one with my gun, on top of the table and leaning forward. “From what we’ve been told, you were responsible for the intake and information. How much would a…say, eighteen-year-old girl go for? Who would then buy said child from you?”
“Eighteen is an adult,” she said defensively.
“Are you insinuating that as an adult the individuals volunteered to be sold into sexual slavery?”
She didn’t answer, her gaze flitting between mine and her husband’s.
“How many persons do you think you processed through your little office in the sky?” I asked.
Sparrow stepped away from the wall. His head tilted. “Did you enjoy presenting the girls to your husband to fuck?”
“Please,” she said.
“Or did you present the boys too?” Sparrow turned to Jerry. “Did you check out all the merchandise, no matter the age or gender, before moving them along to the buyer?”
Jerry Millstone’s lips came together as his jaw grew rigid. “You have—”
The butt of Sparrow’s gun came into contact with Jerry’s temple. Bright red flowed from the wound as Wendy gasped.
“You have ten seconds to give us the information we came for,” Sparrow said, lifting the barrel of his gun to Jerry’s other temple.
Patrick
“You won’t get away with this,” Jerry Millstone, a.k.a. Dr. Miller said as he reached up to his wound, turning the tips of his fingers crimson. “We have home security. Our maid will be back—”
“Not until four,” I interrupted, looking down at my watch. “What would you do to those girls, those children, in the course of the time remaining?”
Jerry reached for one of the napkins, holding it to his forehead.
Sparrow’s brows lifted as he turned to me. “Do you want him or her?”
“Wait. What do you want to know?” Wendy asked.
“Roberto and Kristine Ortiz,” I said. “I want all the information you have on their whereabouts.” We’d followed the land deed on the mission to get their complete legal names; unfortunately, Ortiz was too common and our search was too wide. We could find what we wanted, we always did. This was quicker.
Wendy began to stand. “I have—”
The raising of my gun stilled her movement.
She lifted her hands. “I-I have their contact information if you’ll allow me to get it.”
My head shook. “Are you trying to tell us that you exchange Christmas cards?”
“We don’t send them cards,” Jerry said. “We send them money. Twenty-five thousand a year. It was an agreement we made when they closed the doors of the mission.”
Sparrow flattened his lips as his jaw clenched. “Sounds like the gift that keeps on giving. I would assume this arrangement involves not disclosing certain incriminating information.” He looked at me. “What do you think will be made public when the Millers miss their next payment?”
“The information they retained won’t only incriminate us,” Jerry said.