50
Shea and I pulled into my neighborhood, where I found the SIG still lying in the street. Maybe my luck was changing. Last thing I needed was one of my weapons ending up in the hands of one of the neighborhood kids.
At ten o’clock, we arrived at a small brick building on Thomas Road that served as the office for the Human Trafficking Resource Center. We parked in a small lot behind the building and left our weapons in the top case on Shea’s bike.
A sign by the back door read Entrance, but when I turned the knob, it was locked. I rang the doorbell.
A large black man with the physique of a bodybuilder opened the door. A semiautomatic pistol hung from his left hip. “Can I help you?” His voice was deep and gravelly but polite.
“Jinx Ballou and Shea Stevens. We’re here to meet with Ms. A
