by Jenifer Ruff
“I’ve got people monitoring it.” Connelly wiped his feet on the doormat. “The thing about tip lines is that we get hundreds of callers. Some well-meaning, some that get off on intentionally wasting our time with false information, plus a whole assortment of whack jobs who actually believe the bizarre theories they want us to pursue. It’s a lot of work to comb through all of them, but I’ll be notified the second they have a promising lead.”
“Come in.” Magda stepped aside. “The Mannings are meeting with a private investigator in the dining room.”
The dining room was decorated in shades of silver, white, and gray. A contemporary painting with a sparse outline of a horse hung in the center of one wall. Tripp and Patricia didn’t strike Victoria as animal lovers. They were seated on opposite sides of a large table, an abstract sculpture centerpiece between them. The other man stood up as she and Connelly entered. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, with hair styled to fall in soft layers over one side of his forehead, and the carved jaw of a model. He wore an expensive-looking navy suit cut perfectly to his proportions, and a crisp white pin-striped shirt. If he was indeed the private investigator, his appearance said he was able to charge top-notch fees. Or maybe he was like Victoria, lucky enough to do what he loved without ever having to worry about income.
The Mannings made no attempt at introductions, so the stranger smiled, not a big teeth-flashing smile, but professional and courteous, and introduced himself. “Hi. I’m Jay Adams. Private investigator.”
“Special agent Victoria Heslin with the FBI.”
“Detective Martin Connelly, CMPD.”
“Nice to meet you both.” Adams resumed his seat as Victoria and Connelly pulled back chairs.
“Glad you’re both here,” Patricia said, her tone managing to convey the opposite. She gave Victoria the same scrutinizing once-over from the day before. “You can tell our investigator what you have and haven’t done.”
“I don’t want to get in your way, but I’ll do whatever I can to supplement your investigation,” Adams said.
“Okay, then. Let’s get started.” Connelly took out a small notepad and rattled off a list of people he had already interviewed, and the information gained.
Adams’s Rolex rubbed against his legal pad as he quickly scribbled short-hand notes, nodding occasionally. He asked a few questions and Connelly answered them. Outside the dining room window, one of the men from the yard crew pulled weeds without looking up or inside.
“This cannot be happening.” Patricia tugged on her ring. “Someone has to know something.” She twisted her hands together. “Someone should talk to Emma’s coach. And her English teacher. I think she’s very close with her English teacher.”
Patricia suddenly whipped her head around. Victoria followed her gaze to the foyer. There was nothing there except a marble-topped console with a giant display of white flowers in an urn. Just as quickly as it arrived, Patricia’s startled expression disappeared, replaced with her default frown. “What does our expert suggest we do next?” She directed the question at Victoria, emphasizing the word expert in a way that made it sound more sarcastic than sincere.
“We should start researching your contact lists.”
“My enemy list.” Tripp grunted. “That’s what you called it yesterday.” He rested his cheek against his hand, middle finger fully extended toward his temple. She imagined it wasn’t intentional but couldn’t be sure.
“It’s best for us to start with anyone you’ve had personal or professional conflicts with.” Victoria was certain that part of the list would be long.
“I agree.” Adams set down his pen. “Those would be the people we’d want to talk to first if there was an abduction.”
Victoria noted the “if” and expected Patricia to tell the PI off in her exasperated tone, but the woman only bowed her head. Apparently, it was okay for Adams to suggest the possibility her daughter may have run off on her own.
“Do you have the list for us?” Victoria asked.
“I’ve put your list together,” Tripp said. “But I’d like to wait another day before you start interrogating people.”
Patricia sat up straight. Her eyes darkened. “Another day?”
“Yes, Patricia.” Just then, he looked more tired and worn out than angry. “One more day might give us a better idea of what’s happened to our daughter.”
Patricia slapped her hands on the table. She shoved back her chair, loudly scraping the wood floor. A random thought crossed Victoria’s mind—odd that there wasn’t some sort of felt pads on the bottom of the chairs.
“Do you realize what could happen to our daughter if we wait another day?” Patricia crossed her arms, still glaring at her husband. “I honestly cannot believe I married you!” With that, for the second time in two days, she stormed from the room, leaving Connelly and Victoria looking at each other and Adams staring down at his hands.
The awkward mood was interrupted by Victoria’s phone vibrating inside her coat pocket. Grateful for the interruption, she took it out and glanced at the screen. “Excuse me. I need to take this.” She lifted her chair up as she pushed it back and moved away from the table.
Crossing to the back of the house for privacy, she answered. “Hey, Sam.”
“Hey, Victoria. I’ve got a hit on your girl.”
“You did?” Victoria had an immense amount of faith in Sam’s abilities, but she could hardly believe he had already found a hit on Emma’s image amongst millions of photos.
“The software did. A useful hit, I should say. The girl and her friends posted a few lifetimes worth of photos on the internet. But . . . we used websites and key words known for links to prostitution and human trafficking, some of it on the dark web. It still meant scanning millions of images looking for a match in that database, but that’s how we got one so quickly. Just posted to a website this morning.”
“What’s the site?”
“The site is CarolinaFestivalsexygirls.com.”
Victoria groaned like the wind had been knocked out of her. It was terrible news. “These facial recognition packages are pretty infallible, right?”
“Rarely do they make a mistake. They’re matching hundreds of data points. But it’s not impossible.”
“At least we know something now.” A new to-do list began forming in her head. “Is there a phone number on the ad?”
“Yes. I’m tracing it as we speak. Looks like a voice over IP routed out of Romania.”
“So . . . we can’t track it?”
“Not right away. No identifying metadata, and a reverse image didn’t return any results, as expected. But I’ll trace the website address. If it’s a U.S. hosted server, no problem tracking it.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’m with the parents now. Call me as soon as you have something else.”
“I always do. I’m sending you the website link.”
Thinking through what she would say, Victoria walked back to the dining room. In her absence, Patricia had returned. Everyone looked her way. For a split second, Victoria caught Connelly’s gaze with her solemn expression, communicating that the case had turned a dark corner. She weighed her words carefully, aware of how her news would impact Emma’s family and the investigation. “One of my colleagues just found something relevant regarding Emma’s disappearance. This will help us move forward. He’s about to send it to me.”
“Found something? What does that mean?” barked Patricia. “Is she okay? Did something happen to her?”
“What did they find?” Tripp leaned forward; his hands balled into fists on the table, ready for battle.
Victoria stared at her email, waiting for Sam’s message. “One of our intelligence analysts found a picture of your daughter. It was loaded to a website this morning.”
“What website?” Tripp asked.
“I should have it any second now.” Sam’s message popped up and Victoria opened the link. She scanned over a few images until she spotted Emma. She was dressed in a young gi
rl’s school uniform. Her eyes were wide with what Victoria could only guess was terror. Her mouth was partly open. Victoria set her phone down near the center of the table, unsure of who should see the image first.
Tripp scooped up the phone. He brought the screen closer, stared, then closed his eyes and dropped his head back.
“Give it to me.” Patricia snatched the device from his hand. “Oh, God! Oh, God!” She glared at her husband.
Why was that one of her first reactions to the news?
Patricia shifted her anger toward Connelly. “The ad says all the girls are over eighteen. Emma is certainly not! We told you she was taken!”
“And that’s why we’re all here.” Connelly said.
Patricia pushed the phone toward him. He shifted in his seat and his expression gave nothing away, but his face might have turned a shade paler.
“Are you familiar with this site?” Patricia asked, her voice shrill.
“I’m sure the site was created for this weekend and will be taken down in a few days,” Adams said. “That’s how these things work.”
Victoria wondered how the private eye knew.
“Maybe it’s an old picture that someone stole,” Tripp suggested. “You know . . . where they’ve really only got girls past their prime but they entice Johns with photos they swipe off the internet.”
“How can you ask that?” Patricia shouted. “What’s wrong with you? Those aren’t her clothes! She doesn’t have any clothes like that! Whoever has her took that picture.”
“There are prostitution sites that copy photos of attractive young girls and women they find on the internet, most of them do—” Victoria said in her kindest voice. “—but the timing—this photo was posted this morning—combined with you not recognizing the clothes she’s wearing . . . all of that indicates this photo was not borrowed for this ad.”
Patricia’s hands hovered over the table and trembled. “She’s only had her braces off less than a month. She just had her front teeth bonded last week. Those are the new teeth. Someone—some demented kidnapping prostitution ring has her.”
“Now, listen—” Connelly lifted his hands in a gesture intended to calm. “—we still don’t know for sure she’s in danger. This could be some sort of stunt with a new boyfriend.”
The detective’s suggestion was possible, and they had to consider every angle, but Victoria never would have said it aloud. There was enough anger, tension, and confusion in the Manning house without adding to it. She narrowed her eyes at Connelly, willing him to shut up before he made things worse.
“She would never,” spat out Patricia, her fingers stretching, curling into fists, and stretching again. “There is absolutely—you don’t even know her.”
“She doesn’t need to be involved in any stunts to make money,” Tripp added. “I take care of her.”
Victoria concentrated on keeping her voice level amidst the escalating stress. “It doesn’t matter if she was abducted or not, she’s a minor, so being a part of this in any way—even if it’s just her image being used—is forced coercion. We’ll do everything we can to find her and get her home as soon as possible.”
Tripp stood up and paced, pressing his fists against his forehead. “Can we stop the television coverage now. Now that we know someone has her . . . and . . .” He looked away, unable to finish his sentence.
“I wouldn’t advise that. Someone might have seen her, someone might still see her,” Adams said. “Whoever has her, if they see the ads on TV, they might decide she’s worth more ransomed back to her family than . . .” He let his sentence trail off, unwilling to remind the parents that it appeared their daughter was being prostituted.
Victoria silently disagreed. What Adams said made sense, but it wasn’t in the best interest of getting Emma back safely. She would wait to tell him why in private. They didn’t need to be hashing everything out together in front of the family.
“Can we drop your pointless investigation into my contacts now?” Tripp asked.
His wife stared at him with her mouth hanging open. “Some of your contacts probably know exactly where she is.” She sputtered and turned to Connelly. “Find her!”
“I’m going to call our intelligence agent back.” Victoria got up from her chair. “I’ll see if he’s been able to track the website.”
Connelly pushed away from the table at the same time. “I’m going to call headquarters.”
“Just call the damn number for the site and get her back!” Patricia screamed. “Just do it. Why aren’t you doing it? Good God. I can’t believe this is actually happening.”
“Even though her picture is in the ad, it doesn’t mean that if someone calls that number, Emma shows up,” Connelly explained. “Emma might not even be in the country anymore. The girl who shows up might not look anything like Emma. It’s not like a John can call the Better Business Bureau and complain that they didn’t get the prostitute they specifically asked for.”
“Emma is not a prostitute!” Mrs. Manning shouted.
Connelly frowned. “I know—but . . . our best chance of finding her is to trace the website."
“Do you have anything you can take to help you calm down, Mrs. Manning?” Adams asked.
Victoria braced herself for Patricia to jump down his throat at the suggestion, but instead she pressed her lips together and left the room with her chin held high.
Seems to be a pattern.
“May I speak with you two privately a moment?” Victoria spoke quietly to Adams and Connelly.
The detective and the PI followed her into an office and Victoria shut the door behind them. They stood at the far end of the room in front of a marble fireplace.
“We have to be careful or we could lose her for good,” Victoria said. “First, it would be best if we could kill the media ads.”
“Why?” Adams asked. “Why not add a reward?”
Victoria bit into her bottom lip as her gaze traveled over neat stacks of papers on the desk and back to the men. “If we keep the pressure on and spook them, they could decide she’s not worth the trouble and kill her. I don’t want to chance that.”
“She’s right.” Connelly leaned against the fireplace. “We’ve got to stop the ads. If they find out she’s got parents who can throw their weight around, they might get rid of her to protect their operation.”
“How are we going to get the media to drop the story?” Adams looked from Victoria to Connelly as he spoke, then returned to Victoria. “It’s not just on the news, it’s going viral everywhere, and that’s without this latest information. All they’ve had to report so far is that she didn’t come home yesterday.”
Victoria crossed her arms. “I didn’t have much luck on my last case with trusting reporters to hold back. Not with a sensational story.”
“I’ll see what our department can do,” Connelly said.
“Do you have undercover informants that can help you track this group?” Victoria asked. “Because I can get some help from my office, but I want to know who is doing what. No sense in duplicating efforts.”
“Yes.” Connelly eyed the office door. “Although the bomb threats are going to change resource availability. Whoever has Emma, they’d be stupid not to get her as far from here as possible. And once she goes international—”
“She’s gone and we’re not going to find her,” Adams said, finishing the detective’s sentence.
The three stared at each other. “I’ve got to make some calls,” Connelly finally said. “Excuse me.”
“So do I.” Victoria followed the detective out of the office, leaving Adams behind. She went out the back door and into a corner of the yard where she could be alone to call Sam.
“I didn’t want to call you with only bad news,” Sam said. “I’m not sure where the website is hosted yet, but it’s not in the States. I’ve got someone working on it.”
Victoria sighed. Getting information on the account would be a lot more difficult. Once the hosting country was iden
tified, they’d need to serve a warrant. It could take days—maybe weeks—for the approvals, depending on the bureaucracies. And if it was an unfriendly country, it might never happen. “Okay. Thank you, Sam. Any information you can find about the website will be useful. It’s all we’ve got at this point.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Chapter Ten
Gray walls. Stagnant air. Little comfort.
Sofia was used to it by now.
Emma rocked forward and back on Sasha’s cot, still crying. Sofia did her best to ignore her.
“I don’t feel well,” Emma muttered, looking up at Anastasia. The new girl had figured out where sympathy would and would not be found in the room.
“You need to stop crying,” Sofia said, giving Emma a quick sideways glare. “It’s not going to help.”
Anastasia’s hands were hidden under the frayed cuffs of her too large sweatshirt. She absentmindedly chewed on the edges. If she got really nervous, she would start pinching her earlobe. It happened often and as far as Sofia knew, Anastasia wasn’t even aware she was doing it.
“Neither of you have a phone?” Emma asked.
Sofia laughed. “Are you kidding me?”
She heard heavy footsteps coming closer. The lock turned.
Emma scooted sideways to face the door and wrapped her arms around her legs.
Metal clanked against metal and Svet barged in. “Leaving in thirty minutes,” he barked. He held a dry cleaner’s bag with two black dresses inside. “Anastasia—shower first.”
Anastasia gathered clothes and toiletries into her arms.
“Where are we going?” Emma asked.
“Not you.” Svet responded without looking at Emma. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Emma whimpered.
Her cry got his attention. He sneered and loomed closer. “Remember, girl. I have pictures on my phone. You don’t want nobody to see them, yes? I will put them on internet if you piss me off. No one can trace them, but everyone will see them.” He emphasized ‘everyone,’ making the word sound sinister and complicit.