Telling Fortunes in Phoenix

Blake

After booking the fortune teller, Detective Blake set about tracking down the man Ms. Sturgis accused of selling drugs. Leaving Sara Parks downtown had left a bad taste in his mouth. She wouldn’t answer his legitimate questions but insisted on pointing him toward this trafficking hoo ha. Where had she come up with that idea? Who were her sources? And what was that about a cop being involved? He knew she had more information and he was going to get it.

But he could have gone about it in a different way. Maybe. Hell, he didn’t know, she made him feel confused. So you threw her in jail, he thought. Very mature, Blake.

Well, if there is a cop involved, he thought, there’s no place safer than the minimum security jail; with hundreds of inmates coming and going she’d be hidden behind a wall of red tape. When he got her out she’d be more willing to assist law enforcement, though he hoped by then to have things settled enough that he could move in a straight line.

Back to the drugs. Maureen Sturgis had been very clear. Her son was exhibiting strange behavior and she thought drugs were involved. She had no information except her suspicions and a telephone number. Carson Blake felt his age when he remembered how easy it used to be to discover a phone’s owner before the mobile was invented. He’d have to try the direct approach.

Maureen’s son Cody was a social worker at Child Protective Services in downtown Phoenix. He called the son at work.

“CPS, this is Cody Sturgis.”

“Mr. Sturgis, this is Detective Blake. I need to talk to you about a possible human trafficking incident that you might have information on.”

“Absolutely,” Cody said. “I’ll be glad to do anything I can for you.”

Since the young man was so willing he asked to meet him away from his place of work. Cody suggested a nearby breakfast restaurant and Blake was waiting when young Sturgis arrived Blake could see that he’d gotten all the red hair genes from his mother. Short on the sides and a little wild on top, the sun slanting through the venetian blinds lit orange in Cody’s hair.

“So what can I do for you?” All eagerness, the social worker leaned forward in his seat.

“I was given a lead on a possible drug dealer,” Blake said.

Sturgis sat back. “I thought you wanted to talk about trafficking.”

The waitress arrived with cups and a carafe of coffee.

“It started with a call about drugs,” Blake replied, “but then on an interview I was told about the other.” Blake showed him a phone number. “Do you know who this number belongs to?”

After reading it Cody replied. “That’s Nik’s number.” He did not look so helpful now.

“Can you give me the full name?” Blake had his pen and notebook poised.

“What’s this about, again?”

“I was told that a person owning this phone number might be selling drugs.”

“Nik’s a friend of mine,” Sturgis said. “He doesn’t take drugs.”

“Has he ever asked you about missing children?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Can you tell me if he seems to live beyond his means?”

“No, he lives modestly,” Sturgis said. “Neither of us make much money.”

Us? “Are you and Nik very close?” Blake asked.

“Yes, we are.” Sturgis hadn’t touched the coffee. “You know, I haven’t seen any identification.”

Blake pulled his badge and Sturgis took a picture with his phone before returning it.

“When did you meet him?” Blake asked.

“About six months ago.”

“Are you romantically involved with him?” Blake didn’t like to ask. This was Phoenix, not San Francisco, and the question was as likely to set off an explosive reaction as a rational reply, but he thought the answer might lead to a better understanding of the situation.

Sturgis didn’t seem to think so. “What does that have to do with your investigation?”

Blake opened his mouth to answer but the red-head interrupted him.

“Ah.” The younger man’s face went flat and his grey eyes looked into a corner where a waitress prepared toast. “Let me guess. My mother is your source. I should have spoken to her about this.”

Blake said nothing.

“Yes, I’m romantically involved with Nik and I still state that he abhors drugs.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “And we both care very much about the safety of children. He is not a trafficker nor is he dealing drugs, believe me.”

“Then you won’t mind giving me his full name and address,” Blake said.

Sturgis was writing a text. “He can tell you if he wants…”

The two men didn’t wait long before the phone pinged. Cody read the return text, then looked up. “His full name is Nikolai Andreyovitch Stepan. Here’s his address.”

Despite the young man’s protestations Blake considered the benefits of a man that had control of abandoned children to a man who knew where they could be sold. He didn’t think he’d get any more information here.

“Well,” Blake said, standing, “Thanks for coming. I’ll get the tab.”

He reached across the table to shake hands, though he wondered if he was touching someone whose tastes included more than same-sex relationships.

“Call me if you think of anything,” said Blake, handing him his card.

“And you let me know if Niki needs help.” Sturgis pulled his own card and scribbled his cell number on the back. “Any time, day or night.”

Blake got a little thrill when he saw Stepan’s address. The man lived in Scottsdale, the most exclusive and expensive city in Maricopa County where the rich lived and shopped. This could indicate real money and a big supplier. But the apartment house the GPS directed him to was not in the uber-rich neighborhoods but in the so-called Scottsdale Slums, the southern border of the city near the freeway, an area that combined light industry and strip clubs. Behind the large lots of John Deere Tractors and Pussy-Cat clubs was a tired old-fashioned district with seventy year old buildings, most of them in good repair.

Though Stepan must have security clearance to work for the state, Blake ran a background check of his own. Before leaving the coffee shop he called his favorite research geek to help track down the man in question and by the time he’d arrived at the aging apartment building his magic man had given him background.

Thirty-six year old Nikolai Andreyovitch Stepan had worked in Information Technologies for the last twelve years. His company provided IT support to Maricopa Child Protective Services.

Mr. Stepan had emigrated from the USSR in 1992 at fifteen years of age. At that time the USA was allowing immigration to specialized workers so that Stepan’s parents, software engineers sponsored by the Microsoft Corporation, could become citizens along with their three children. Nikolai was the eldest and the only one of the family who’d left San Jose, California. He had no prior arrests.

Blake had requested a search warrant of the man’s apartment but didn’t expect to receive one. He had no evidence, simply a vague concern from an overly watchful parent on a grown son living at home to save money.

As he looked over the two-story building where the IT man made his home Blake’s dreams of finding and arresting a major player faded into dust. No self-respecting drug lord would live in this crappy little apartment. Blake also didn’t see this guy as a petty dealer or user since Child Protective Services conducted frequent substance screening and insisted on the same from their contractors. Nevertheless, Blake thought this Stepan a person of interest and for some reason this made him even more anxious to get Ms. Parks to tell him what she knew.