Pretty Little Girls

by Jenifer Ruff

  Now he deals with doctors, lawyers, business leaders and entrepreneurs in upscale homes—because I knew people in the Carolinas who were willing and able to pay.

  He’d be nothing without me. And he repays me by taking them to my house!

  She inched from one block to the next, her engine purring quietly. Fans in town for the football games and events had added to traffic and each stoplight took ages, almost doubling her driving time. But she wasn’t complaining. With the games came a flood of demand for commercial sex. A demand that often exceeded their supply. Too bad Emma couldn’t earn her keep.

  Allison returned to fuming about Stephen’s attitude until she arrived at the potential new site for housing their girls.

  The building was a nondescript two-story rectangle with vinyl siding and a smattering of litter in place of landscaping. Situated on the outskirts of uptown and walking distance from the stadium, the location was ideal.

  A few cars were parked around the building, game attendees willing to walk over a mile and risk a car break-in rather than pay for parking. She drove around to the back, trying to keep her Mercedes somewhat hidden.

  Using a code, she unlocked the front entrance and looked over her shoulder before going in. Her gaze was drawn first to the grimy windows. Dark walls, dust, neglect. The space needed cleaning and airing out, but . . . location was everything. With some inexpensive tweaks, the interior could be good enough for their needs. For next to nothing, they could erect dividers to create small rooms. They could order beds, linens, and a few massage tables to put in the front.

  She climbed the narrow stairs without touching the railing. The second floor was even darker, with almost no natural light, perfect for keeping the motel girls hidden. She opened the doors to two windowless storage areas—perfect—and a small bathroom with a shower.

  As she approached the last room, she had decided they needed to buy the place and was already thinking about finagling the deal of the century. The door opened on rusty hinges. She stared inside. Positioned high in the wall like a prison cell, a small window let in a shaft of light, showcasing the fine cloud of dust motes floating above a chipped nightstand. Allison took in the room, her chest tightened and her shoulders slumped as her professional shell slowly dissolved. The bedding was gone, but a lumpy, stained mattress sat on top of a metal frame. The paint was a sunny yellow color, out of place with the rest of the rooms. Opposite the window, thumbtacks pinned a torn poster to the wall.

  Allison gripped her purse and sneered.

  Someone’s futile attempt to make it look homey and nice.

  It’s sad.

  Pathetic.

  It looked just like the room she grew up in.

  A horrible memory assaulted her.

  She was back in her childhood bedroom. Years ago. She was about to start her homework, pulling her English book from her bag, when a low whistle made her spin around. She hadn’t heard the man come down the hallway and into her room. Her mother wasn’t home.

  He leered at her. “How much you charging?”

  Every muscle in her body tensed with rage. “Nothing you could afford,” she had said, trying to be tough. She knew what he wanted. She knew how her mother made ends meet.

  “Maybe not, but let’s find out what you’re worth.” He rushed forward and grabbed her, spinning her around and pushing her roughly against the wall.

  She struggled as he hiked up her dress and thrust his pelvis against her. Every muscle in her body tensed with fear and anger. She could hardly believe what was happening.

  He was so much bigger than her. So much stronger.

  The more she struggled and screamed, the more he grunted and moaned.

  “I’m not a whore!” she screamed over and over again.

  There was nothing else she could do but endure.

  When he was finished, the man stumbled back, grinning.

  “Go away! Get out of here! Don’t you ever touch me again,” she had shrieked through her tears.

  He tossed some cash on the floor and walked away, laughing, leaving her feeling more alone than she’d ever felt before.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ms. Bois’s basement was nothing like the one they’d left. There were two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen with a bar, and a television room. If the homeowner stayed away, they could live there happily for a long time.

  Sofia dragged a heavy chair until it was a few feet away from the television.

  Seated on a chair identical to the one Sofia moved, Anastasia wrapped her arms around her waist as she spoke. “Put back in same place before Ms. Bois gets here.”

  “I will. Can’t see unless I’m close.” Sofia wrapped a soft blanket around her shoulders, settling into the plush armchair to watch a program called Pretty Little Liars.

  “Your eyesight is very worse.” Anastasia’s voice softened. “Sorry.”

  Sofia shrugged. “Is what it is.”

  Anastasia selected a chocolate candy and took a bite. “Her house, her pool, this is the life I thought we will have in America, you know . . . before.”

  “Why am I not surprised that Ms. Bois is actually living it?” Sofia huffed. “I wish my family could see this place. The giant beds with all the pillows. A shower the size of an entire room. All because of us. Because men want to be with us.” She took a drink from the fancy bottled water she’d taken from the fridge. She’d seen an advertisement for the bottle in the magazines Damian brought them. Water for people who demanded the absolute best.

  “I hope we come back here.” Anastasia nibbled on another chocolate. “But I don’t think so. Something happened.”

  “Definitely.” Sofia lifted her butt a few inches and dragged the chair forward again. “Something strange is going on. Too bad the American can’t tell us what happened while we were working.”

  Other than being dragged out of bed by Svet for a quick photo shoot in beach clothing, Emma had stayed in the bedroom by herself. Last they checked, she was sweating all over the impossibly-soft, clean linens. She was drugged. Her forehead was hot with fever, her skin flushed and damp. Sofia thought about checking on her, bringing her one of the special electrolyte-infused waters and making her take the birth control pill. She’d do it after the show ended.

  “These girls do whatever wants and have lots of money for spending,” Anastasia scoffed at the television. “They think they have problems. What do they know?”

  “This show is old,” Sofia said. “No one uses phones like that anymore.”

  Anastasia set down the box of chocolates. “I wonder if my family has cell phone now.”

  They were silent for a while, watching the show. Content. Anastasia hadn’t tugged on her ear all day.

  “How much of the show is real?” Anastasia asked as the program ended and switched to a commercial for moisturizing lotion.

  “None of it is real. It’s all pretend acting.” Sofia finished her water and looked around for a trash can. She appreciated how clean the house was, wanted to keep it that way, and didn’t want to anger Ms. Bois. She was always irritated, even without being provoked.

  “I mean, is it how people live here? They come and go, no one tells them what to do.”

  Sofia shrugged. “If you really care to know, ask Emma.”

  Anastasia started chewing on the cuffs of her sweatshirt.

  Sofia punched the arrow button on the remote to search for a new show. She wouldn’t mind another episode of Pretty Little Liars if she could find one.

  “—search continues for Charlotte teen, Emma Manning.”

  Sofia jumped to the edge of the chair, sending her water bottle tumbling to the floor. “Anastasia! Look. He’s talking about Emma.”

  Anastasia was already leaning forward, staring wide-eyed at the television newscaster.

  “Emma is a freshman at Charlotte Day School, an honor student who volunteers at the Charlotte Assistance Center and a member of the field hockey team.” A picture of Emma in a sport uniform appeared on the s
creen.

  As far as Sofia knew, no one had ever looked for her and Anastasia. Sure, her family had to be wondering what happened to her, why she hadn’t written or sent them the money she had promised to send, but they had no idea what her life had become. No idea that the modeling agency was total BS. How could they? But people were looking for Emma. She was important enough to be on the television news.

  The photo disappeared and the newscaster returned. “Authorities believe her disappearance might be related to a sex trafficking ring. If you have any information, Call CMPD at the number on your screen.”

  Anastasia reached for Sofia’s hand and squeezed it. In a hushed voice, Sofia said the number aloud and repeated it, nodding encouragement to Anastasia until her friend began reciting it with her. Clasping hands, they stared into each other’s eyes, whispering the number over and over. The tip line was the most important piece of information they’d come across in years.

  Chapter Twenty

  Seated at the desk in her hotel suite, Victoria dropped her head into her hands to think. She didn’t like how slowly the investigation was moving. Emma was still missing. The meeting with the realtor had been a bust. She wished she had stayed on Adams’ trail.

  Meanwhile, her personal life was on hold. She could leave Charlotte and go home today if she wanted. Murphy would be okay if she told him that’s what she was doing.

  The truth was, she didn’t need this job, she didn’t need any job. But she had good reasons for wanting to be part of the FBI. Bringing home missing loved ones was one way of delivering on her desire to protect others and herself. She didn’t want to walk away from the investigation until they found Emma. Was it already too late? What if the media coverage had scared her abductors into getting rid of her? What if she’d been whisked out of the country the same day she disappeared? What if? What if? There was no way to know with the little information they had. Thoughts of Victoria’s own mother strengthened her resolve. Since they didn’t know Emma’s fate, they had to continue on and keep faith that Emma could still be brought home.

  Meanwhile, it felt like everyone involved might be hiding something. And maybe they were.

  She grabbed her laptop and hit the start button. She’d already done some research on Tripp Manning. He owned a commercial real estate development company. On the surface, he did quite well. But the complicated structure of his multifaceted business sent up a warning signal. Was the structure necessary and simply beyond her business understanding? Or was it to disguise cash and money flow from prying eyes?

  Normally she would ask one of the FBI’s financial analysts, one with expertise in money laundering, to have a look. But the Mannings were Murphy’s friends. Or, at the least, the wives were friends. Out of professional courtesy, she needed to tell Murphy first. He might already know what it was all about.

  Murphy didn’t answer his phone. She left a message.

  What else was bothering her? Tripp’s marital indiscretions. According to one of the few updates Connelly sent her, an officer had already interviewed both the women to whom Tripp paid child support. The women were cooperative. Both of them said they felt bad for the Mannings and what they must be going through. No red flags up, according to the officer.

  Her phone rang. Connelly. She pressed the button and lifted the phone to her cheek. Maybe working on his level for a while would help. “No, I haven’t tried the fried chicken yet, Connelly.”

  “Ha! Well, there’s still time.”

  “Any news on the DNA tests?”

  “Not yet. But they can take days, even prioritized.”

  “Let’s take the tooth to Emma’s dentist. I can do it. That would be a lot quicker. They can match it against dental records and we’ll know if it’s hers or not.”

  “Sure. Wish we’d thought to do that first. I’ll have to try and get it back from the lab.”

  “What about the task force you mentioned? Are they on this now?”

  “Yes. We just met.”

  A rush of embarrassment quickly changed to anger because he hadn’t included her. What does he think I’m here for? She reined in her resentment and said, “Why wasn’t I called?”

  “It was a last-minute thing. We’re getting pulled in multiple directions right now, case-wise. Most of us were already together uptown.”

  She pushed aside her frustration. “What’s the update on accessing Emma’s emails from the server?”

  “It’s been done. Nothing suspicious. If someone was communicating with her prior to her disappearance, they weren’t using any traditional methods. Listen, Victoria, there’s something new. The reason we met.”

  She could tell from his tone that the news wasn’t good. “What is it?”

  “We found another picture of Emma. We have good reason to believe she’s no longer in the States.”

  Victoria’s heart sank. “What did you find?”

  “Another ad. Just posted. She was wearing a shirt from the Dominican Republic. And a Larimar necklace. That piece of jewelry is only sold there. As disappointing as it is, can’t say I’m surprised. It’s what I’d expect them to do.”

  “Send me the picture,” Victoria said. She was surprised Connelly and his team, whoever they were, had found it first, rather than Sam. Maybe Sam had stopped running his search.

  “Sending it now,” Connelly responded. “I’m getting roped into other stuff and I’m trying to press back, but I’ve got to finish something here. Are you at your hotel?”

  “I am.”

  “Can you help me out?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Would you go to the Manning’s house and let them know what we’ve found? Show them the picture I sent you. Explain what we’re facing now and help them understand the probability of getting their daughter back is low.”

  The type of visit agents and detectives wish they didn’t have to make.

  “Sure.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  A compact car in the Mannings’ driveway had a magnet advertising The Pest Control Company. Victoria parked beside it and studied the new ad Connelly sent her. The caption read, New and Fresh in Town. Code for virgins.

  Based on Emma’s attire, Victoria’s analysis would have also led her to conclude Emma was now in the Dominican Republic, a safe-haven for sex-traffickers. From Victoria’s experience, the police there were paid next to nothing and had to be bribed to do their jobs.

  Troubled, but not sure why, she walked to the house. Magda opened the door for her. Inside, Patricia sat alone in the kitchen, staring intently at a small television. Her face was made up, her hair done, her outfit meticulous—a true Southern woman even in the worst of times—but her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and the wine bottle in front of her was almost drained.

  A news anchor announced, “The demand for commercial sex is highest during large sports events that attract out of town visitors.” A general announcement asking the public to be on the lookout for signs of human trafficking. No mother of a missing girl should have to hear it. Emma’s mother had to be heartbroken and sick with fear and worry.

  Victoria cleared her throat. Patricia turned and their eyes locked. “If some man visiting from out of town can find a girl and have sex with her—book an appointment just like getting a manicure and pedicure—why can’t the police do the same thing?” Patricia demanded. “Save every girl? Arrest every pimp and customer? Why can’t they do it?”

  “I—we—they do. But the resources for sting operations, they’re hard to come by. There’s just so many girls, and when one is saved, another takes her place. As long as the demand continues there will always be girls to meet it. And so many of the girls, they won’t press charges, they’re afraid—”

  “You only try to save them if someone is looking for them? Is that it?”

  “No, that’s—"

  “Where is my daughter?” Patricia’s mouth hung open.

  Victoria hunched her shoulders, preparing for the verbal assault she knew was coming. Instead
, Patricia collapsed into sobs.

  And then, once the woman had recovered some composure, Victoria had to deliver her news.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Drained after her time with the Mannings, Victoria drove to the nearby Charlotte mall. She needed to eat, and it wouldn’t hurt to return to the place where Emma was last seen. Maybe whoever lured her from the mall was still lurking around, preparing to target their next victim.

  She ordered at the food court and went outside, selecting a secluded table where she could talk on her phone without being overheard. She set her number in the metal holder so the server would know where to find her.

  Live music was set up on the other side of the outdoor seating area. The band was taking a break, so instead of music, she listened to water cascading from the large, center fountain and the hum of conversations. Four teenage girls at the closest table were leaning forward, engrossed in discussion with the occasional shriek of laughter. They looked to be around Emma’s age.

  Victoria zipped up her coat. The evening was cool, but not cold, ideal weather for a brisk walk or run. She considered going into the mall after she ate and buying a gift for Ned. Maybe something for running or hiking.

  Slipping her phone from her bag, she found a voicemail from Murphy. She listened. He didn’t sound angry, but as always, his tone was firm.

  “I need you to help get Emma Manning back, not investigate her parents. Lay off that angle for now.”

  She would follow her boss’s orders. At least for the time being. There were other places she could focus. Several things about the investigation didn’t feel right.

  She took out her phone and studied the new ad again, the one that had convinced Connelly that Emma was in the Dominican Republic. Emma’s eyes were glassy and blank, the eyes of someone sick or drugged, maybe both. Her face was slightly bruised. There was nothing in the background of the photograph, except the ground. The photo had been taken from above, with Emma laying on the grass. Perfect grass, every blade uniform in color and size. Too perfect. It reminded her of the grass at her father’s club. Resorts had perfect grass. So did golf courses. They had both of those in the DR, but might there be anything unique about the grass that might prove Emma was still in the area?