The Client

VIII - Hawthorne Heights

I was too late. When I screeched around the corner, the street Ronald turned on was empty. I continued down it anyway, peering down each side street as I passed, but Ronald was long gone.

I pulled over to the side of the street and slammed my hands against the steering wheel. My palms were sweaty and my heart was beating out of my chest—partially because three blocks was the farthest I'd run in several years—and my hands left wet spots on the vinyl. I was immediately glad I ended up a lawyer and not a private investigator. I thought for a minute before pulling my phone out of the center console. There were two unread text messages and a missed call, but they'd have to wait. Dem Hawthorne fiends don't play, the man had said. I pulled up the Maps application and typed in Hawthorne, New Orleans, LA, watching the little wheel spin for the longest three or four seconds of my entire life. Finally, the red pin dropped. Hallelujah. It was a street name, just as I'd hoped, and only a fourteen-minute drive from Carl's house. With any luck, that's where Ronald would be.

Ronald's choice of words had partially confirmed my worst fear: Sarah had been sold into prostitution. I knew it went on—I'd seen kidnapping cases that involved middle and high-school-aged girls being spirited away to New Orleans for sex trafficking—but I'd never seen it happen to someone so young. I guess I was still a bit naïve, even after all I'd seen. What kind of sick pervert gets their jollies from an eleven-year-old? Every part of me hoped I was wrong, that there was some other explanation. While I tried to bury the nausea, a new feeling blossomed in its place: rage.

About fifteen minutes later, I turned onto Hawthorne Street in New Orleans' lower 9th ward. This section of the city had been hit the hardest when hurricane Katrina landed in 2005, and it showed. A full ten years later, the two hundred square blocks was still mostly a disaster area. Many of the homes I passed had been gutted and left abandoned, standing like silent sentinels amongst the brown and overgrown lots. Every other lot was empty and covered with weeds and brambles that grew so high you'd need a machete to step foot in one. The few houses and businesses that had been rebuilt were the exception rather than the rule.

I scanned the street, looking for any building I thought could house multiple women being held against their will. The houses were all too small and all the businesses appeared to be running for legitimate purposes, at least from the outside. Sarah could have been behind any door on the street.

At the end of the street I found what I was looking for.

Hawthorne Heights sat on the corner of Hawthorne and Lizardi Street facing a large, wooded lot. It was the type of apartment complex that looks a lot like a cheap motel, with two stories of units that are all accessible from an outside walkway. Rachel always said no inside access meant you probably didn't want to stay there. Hawthorne Heights seemed no exception. The roof was missing many of its curved, clay shingles and the concrete walls were covered with mildew on the top floor and graffiti on the bottom. Gang tags, no doubt. When I looked closer, I made out the telltale YM, drawn in yellow spray paint, which served as the Young Mafia's calling card. I'd found that on Google too. The complex definitely wasn't abandoned, though; there were several cars in the parking lot. When I drove around to the front, the "Rentals available" sign was lit in flashing red letters.

The complex was relatively small; a quick count of the visible units revealed only twenty-four, but there were most likely some on the backside as well. That's probably where Ronald's Impala was parked. I thought about driving in and parking, but scratched that idea, instead driving back down Hawthorne a block and parking the Jeep in front of an abandoned house.

Sarah is here. I know it. Lester had made a huge mistake when he mentioned Ronald's name—one that was going to cost him his freedom. The nervous feelings from before had become the fiery determination of an angry father and I was determined to show him I wasn't the weak-willed alcoholic he thought I was. My limbs were electrical wires coursing with adrenaline; once I exited the vehicle there would be no stopping me. No plan? No problem. I reached under my seat and pulled out the Springfield, tucking it into my pants as I exited the vehicle. For protection, I told myself.