by Jenifer Ruff
“You can call it whatever you like.” Victoria held up her hands. “We could be running out of time. Murphy asked me to see what I could do here. This is what I came up with. This is what I can do. With your help.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t in. I’m all in. But it’s good to be aware of who we might be pissing off. Was there a briefing today for everyone working on the case?”
“One that I know of. They forgot to include me.”
“Doesn’t seem right,” Rivera said, rubbing his eyes.
“I know. That’s why you’re here.” Finally, she smiled, though it was more of a knowing smirk. “So, let me tell you everything I know about the people involved with the case.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Your layers are almost entirely grown out. It’s been a few months, hasn’t it, ladies?” Armando the stylist had the usual flourish to his voice. “And, I must say, this is a beautiful place you’re staying in now.”
“Yes,” Sofia replied from the chair. A major step up from some of the basements and slums where you’ve met us in the past.
Anastasia sat nearby, legs tucked underneath her, chewing on the hem of her sweatshirt, waiting her turn.
Armando froze, one hand clasped a section of her hair, the other gripped his scissors in mid-air. “What’s that noise?”
Emma’s sickly moaning just barely traveled through the walls, sounding like there might be a trapped animal in the next room.
“It’s nothing.” Sofia kept her eyes on her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The stylist frowned but returned to combing and cutting Sofia’s long hair into flowing waves. Eventually he stepped back, scrutinizing his work like a true artist. “Finished. Now, you said you need an elegant updo for tonight?”
“Yes.” Sofia responded, her voice deadpan. “That’s what I was told we need.”
“Somewhere fancy to be, then.” The stylist was always good about not asking questions and pretending everything was normal. He wasn’t stupid or evil. He was simply a coward who chose to stay in denial. Might have something to do with the wad of cash he received after each visit.
Armando turned to Anastasia. “Two of my most beautiful customers,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “But where’s your third amiga?”
Anastasia squirmed in her chair. “We don’t—”
“Sasha’s just not here,” Sofia said to protect Anastasia, uncertain of what her friend had been about to say. They couldn’t trust Armando. They didn’t know what he might report to Stephen.
“Oh.” The hairdresser busied himself with creating an elegant updo and said nothing more. His forced jovial attitude had disappeared. Some things were harder to pretend through than others.
♦ ♦ ♦
Armando left and they checked on Emma. She was propped up on her elbows in the bed, her face flushed, surrounded by tangled sheets. She sat up and looked right past them. “In the closet, in the closet,” she cried, pawing at the air. Her eyes opened wide like a wild animal, she gasped, then sunk back onto her elbows.
“We have to make her take her pill,” Sofia said, holding one out for Anastasia.
Anastasia took the pill and crossed the room holding a bottle of water. “She has fever still.”
Sofia stayed in the doorway and crossed her arms. “She’s delirious but it might just be the drugs.”
Anastasia put one hand behind Emma’s head to gently lift her up, parting her lips with the rim of the plastic bottle. “Here, drink this and swallow pill.” Anastasia’s voice was soft, coaxing.
Emma shivered. A sheen of sweat coated her skin.
“Being really sick is one sure fire way to get out of working,” Sofia said. “If she can keep it up without dying, she might be on to something.”
Anastasia shot a frown at Sofia as she lowered the bottle. She sat down next to Emma and stroked her hair. “It’s going to be all right.”
Sofia rolled her eyes. “Why tell her more lies?” But just below the surface, she was grateful for Anastasia’s kindness. At least one of them could still feel compassion. Sofia only wanted to return to reading in the comfortable armchair. From one of the shelves in the hallway, she’d chosen a book about a nurse who time-traveled into 18th-century Scotland. Absorbed by the book, she could pretend none of this was really happening.
Anastasia stared at Sofia. “Why being so mean to her?”
Sofia shrugged, but the answers came to her nonetheless. “Well, for one, she took Sasha’s place.”
“You don’t know Sasha isn’t coming back. You don’t know it.”
“I’ll be shocked if she does. But that’s not all—people are looking for Emma, like… like she’s more important than the rest of us. And here she is, a weak, drugged, deliriously babbling baby and . . . and we could end up just like her if we’re not careful.”
“You’re scared and taking it out on her. That is all it is.”
“I’m not scared.” Sofia turned away, biting into her lower lip.
I need to stay tough for all of us.
She called to Anastasia as she walked away. “Don’t mess up your hair. This one’s not earning for Stephen, and that means she’s costing him. Don’t give him more reasons to be upset.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
A few miles after crossing the state line into South Carolina, Agent Rivera exited I-77. He drove down a nearly-deserted business road and past an adult-only store with a billboard-sized sign. A mile further, the red, white, and blue neon lights of a motel sign illuminated the words ‘No Vacancy’. He drove around to the back of the building, where the motel rooms weren’t visible from the street and the doors were shaded in darkness. Convenient construction. Whoever designed the place might have known what it would be used for.
The motel had twenty rooms. Five other vehicles were parked behind the building. One was Victoria’s rental. Two cars looked like they were on their last legs, one with rusted siding and one with a patchwork DIY paint job. Two were luxury sedans. All but the junk heaps had backed into their spots. In a state that didn’t require front license plates, parking so the plate wasn’t visible was often a sign of someone with something to hide.
His clock said nine fifteen, so he waited. An old man exited a room on the second floor with his head down. He zipped his coat and hurried to one of the nicer vehicles. Rivera took a picture of the license plate as the car pulled out. Unless the people behind Carolinafestivalsexygirls.com had lied, which would be the least of their legal and moral offenses, girls were being exploited for sex right now inside the hotel. Like Victoria, he wanted to take down anyone helping to keep the operation in business.
He popped two pieces of gum into his mouth, glaring at the motel and chomping aggressively.
What a coincidence that the last case Victoria and I worked on involved another hotel and a prostitute had been our most valuable witness. He allowed himself a slight smile, glad to be working with Agent Heslin again, glad she had asked for him. Unfortunately, he had an inkling that she and her dog walker-private-vet might be having more than just a professional relationship. A heavy feeling weighed on his chest with the thought. He wasn’t going to ask her. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear the answer.
A few minutes before his appointment, he tucked his weapon under the front seat, in case they checked him before letting him inside with Emma. He exited his vehicle wearing a cap pulled low over his eyes.
There was a dead calm to the night and no trace of a breeze as he headed up the stairs to the second floor. He knocked on the designated room. A large man in his late twenties answered. The muscles bulging under his shirt made Rivera think of a bouncer or bodyguard.
“Put your hands up.” The man’s accent was thick. “Keep them up.”
Romanian? Russian?
He patted Rivera down. All the while, his bulk blocked Rivera’s view of the room. The agent caught glimpses of a small, female figure laying on the bed, but the lights in the room were off and the curtains
were drawn, so he couldn’t tell much more.
The bodyguard held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
Rivera grunted. “That necessary?”
“Is if you want to go in there.”
Rivera grumbled and gave up his phone.
The bodyguard took a step back. “Five hundred.”
Rivera handed him a stack of folded twenties.
After counting, the gruff foreigner slid the money into the inside pocket of his coat. “Thirty minutes. More time costs more.”
“Don’t need more. I’m going to catch one of the game parties.”
The man stepped aside. Rivera went in, closing and locking the door behind him. He checked the window to make sure the shades prevented anyone from seeing inside. Then he walked to the bed, expecting to see Emma Manning.
The girl wore a silky negligee. She lay on her left side, one arm draped across her chest.
Under other circumstances, he might think she was napping peacefully. She reminded him of his fifteen-year old niece, who had fallen asleep watching a movie on his couch a few weeks ago. But a closer look revealed the relaxed, loose-limbed floppiness of someone on drugs.
Her skin had an unhealthy grayish pallor. Strands of yellowish-blonde hair covered most of her face, but her eyes were open. Emma’s hair could have been colored, but this girl was thin, emaciated almost, her collar bones jutting from her fragile frame above small budding breasts. In her recent pictures, Emma was a healthy, athletic girl. No way could her body have changed so quickly. It wasn’t her.
His head spun with anger. He wanted to wrap the girl in a blanket and take her to the hospital. He wanted to haul the bodyguard off to the worst jail he knew of, a place where the man would have plenty of time to feel the wrath of his crime.
Rivera lowered to one knee next to the bed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, glancing toward the door. “Can you tell me your name.”
She stirred but didn’t respond. Her lips moved, just barely, but no sound came out. In slow-motion, she lifted her head up above the pillow before settling it back down. She didn’t have the strength to hold her head up. Maybe she didn’t even speak English. There wasn’t much he could say anyway. The room might be wired to keep the girls from asking for help.
Anger and disgust churned in his gut. This wasn’t what he had expected. He hadn’t found Emma Manning, but he’d discovered a girl who looked like she’d needed rescuing for a long time.
He walked to the door and stopped, rubbing his chin, thinking for a minute. He opened the door and found the bodyguard leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey. This here isn’t the girl I asked for.” Rivera put his hands on his hips. “This isn’t the one in the plaid skirt.”
The man shrugged. “Looks like her.”
“Doesn’t look at all like her. Is this all you have?” He checked his watch, trying to reinforce his story about the after-game party.
The man grunted. He stared at Rivera, shoulders tensed and ready to beat the crap out of him, but then turned to unlock the door to the adjacent room. “Here.” He turned on the lights. Another girl lay on the bed, also too slight to be Emma, curled into a fetal position. Her hair was jet black.
Rivera hid his revulsion and channeled his anger into his cover. “Not even close. I paid my money, and I want what I paid for. The one in the school uniform. Where’s she?”
The man stared and shrugged.
“Are these two really all you have to offer? How old are they?”
“Just turned eighteen. Have proof.” The bodyguard stepped closer, getting right in Rivera’s face. “They’re all I’ve got for you. You pay for the time you booked either way. Take one or leave.” His accent was stronger when he was riled up. Rivera sensed his excitement—shoulders tensing, fists curling into balls. This guy lived for opportunities to pulverize someone. Apparently, there was a low threshold to customer satisfaction in the world of prostitution.
“No.” Rivera widened his stance and leaned his head back.
“You take her or I take you outside and crush you.” The big man stepped closer. “Yes?”
“Not for five hundred.” Rivera’s heart raced. “I thought you were advertising a virgin. They’re obviously not. I want what I paid for. She’s not five hundred.”
Flexing his jaw muscles, the guard leaned forward. “Four hundred or you end up in dumpster. Then you miss party after game.”
Rivera glanced at the frail girl on the mattress. “Okay. Have my refund waiting when I’m through.” He stepped into the new room and closed the door. He expected there was at least one other girl at the motel, because the old guy had left from the next room over, but he couldn’t push his luck. He studied the girl. Her pupils were glassy and dilated, unable to focus on him. Scabs covered one slender forearm. She looked younger than eighteen, but it might have been because she was waif-thin. The longer he stood, the more an overwhelming mixture of anger and sadness ate away at him.
He picked up a glass from the bedside table and filled it with water from the bathroom sink. How can I leave her? But if we arrest the pimp and rescue the girls here, we might lose our only chance at getting the Manning girl back. That’s what we’re here to do. That’s what we should do. Or should we? Why was saving her more important than saving these girls? Because Emma was definitely a minor? He pressed his fingers hard against his temple. Waiting might mean we save them all, or it might mean we save none.
He remembered what Victoria had told him. If these girls really were eighteen and he took them now, it was unlikely they would do what needed to be done to free themselves, but very likely he and Victoria would lose their chance to rescue Emma.
“Here, drink this,” he said in a gentle whisper, lifting the girl’s shoulders, and putting the glass to her lips.
She lifted her head from the mattress and Rivera caught a glimpse of something on the back of her neck. Markings darker than her skin. He leaned in closer and made out the scar, a brown medallion. Where had he seen it before? It only took a second for him to remember. It was a brand just like the one Dr. Boswell had sent him a few days ago. The girl Dr. Boswell autopsied in Virginia had the same brand. His hand tightened around the glass. He wished he’d checked the girl in the first room, but he hadn’t expected to find a brand and hadn’t thought to look. It was safe to assume she also had one.
Stooping, he removed the phone he’d hidden in his shoe, took a photo of the marking, then texted Victoria.
Two girls. Not Emma. Drugged and in bad shape. Guard says they’re 18. I can’t tell. They look younger.
It’s possible they were adults. Addiction could make a young person look old or an older person so emaciated they appeared childlike. There was no way to know for sure. Their whole situation seemed too sad and too sick to be real.
Waiting for Victoria to respond, he found Dr. Boswell’s contact number, typed her a quick note, and sent it with the photo of the brand.
A row of “message in process” dots appeared and disappeared on his screen. Victoria was typing her reply. The dots on his phone started and stopped again. Victoria wasn’t sure either. He studied the girl. Her eyes were closed now. Strands of her hair covered her cheek and nose.
Victoria’s reply arrived. Anywhere to put a tracking device on them?
The girl was barely dressed, with no shoes. He pressed a hand against his stomach as he typed. No.
He glanced around the dark, nasty room, waiting for Victoria’s response.
Make another appointment for tomorrow. Ask for Emma again. If she doesn’t come, we’ll take whoever does.
Exhaling through gritted teeth, he stared at the girl he would leave in hell for at least one more day.
He typed. If I distract the guy, can you put something on all the cars?
Her reply was quick. Don’t have trackers. I’ll take pics of the plates if you can distract the pimp.
He stared at the door. The big guy was on the other side. Rivera
had already provoked the bodyguard about wanting the American. Too much more might get him put in the dumpster. Besides, if they argued, he might not get to return. On the other hand, asking for Emma after he finished with this girl—possibly offering more money for the privilege—that could be just what the Hulk would want to hear.
He typed into his phone. Give me exactly ten minutes, then take the pics.
Rivera set an alarm on his phone and waited, killing time by listening to the girl’s soft but labored breathing and the hum of cars on the nearby road. Suddenly he wanted to be anywhere else than the dingy, warm room with its stale smell of cigarettes and body odor. He fought the urge to gag, wanting instead to burst out, carrying the girl with him.
The alarm vibrated. He opened the door and motioned for the bouncer. “Hey, I need a word.” He stepped back into the darkened room, drawing the man with him.
“What?” the bodyguard grunted.
“I’m in the area one more night. I want to come back. Same time?”
“I don’t make the appointments,” the guard said, turning.
“Wait.” Rivera extended his arm. Big mistake.
The man spun around. His nostrils flared. Rivera took a step back, held up his hand. “I’ll make the appointment through the website. But there’s another three hundred for you if you bring me the right girl. Here’s half of it now. I’ll trust you.”
This time, the pimp slid the cash into the front pocket of his pants. The bribe money wasn’t going to the same place as the other cash. Which meant the big foreigner wasn’t the one in charge. “No promises. The one you want is new. In demand. Young.”
Rivera fought the urge to try and kill the monster with his bare hands. Instead, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and grunted, forcing his snarl into a lecherous grin. It was all he could do not to throw up. “I have money and I want the girl in the school uniform. Tell your boss to think of a price.”
“You want a girl like that, you’re going to pay more. If I can get her, it’s going to cost you another five-hundred tomorrow night.”