by Stacy Green
3
Despite being below zero with dangerously cold winds, traffic was still thick and most drivers were exceptionally stupid. Driving like they walk, whipping in and out of lanes, cutting people off and cruising as though they are the only people on the road. It was no different than walking a busy sidewalk or department store aisle. By the time I made it to North Philly, it was nearing 9 p.m. I parked four blocks away from the motel and ran down the sidewalk, the cold air ripping through my lungs like a frozen knife.
The Rattner Hotel sat on a rusting corner of an older area of the city. Three stories of weather-beaten, cracking brick with a drooping marquee and faded lettering, it was a throwback to the storefront hotels of fifty years ago. Time had literally shrunken the place, the wood framing of the door splintering under the building’s weight. The “A” in the vacancy sign in the window blinked on and off like a creepy tick.
Inside, the smell of old, dusty carpet and the faint scent of mold greeted me. A balding, middle-aged man sat behind a yellowed counter. He perked up from his wrinkled copy of the New York Times when I blew through the door. “Help you?”
Breathless from the freeze, I gathered my thoughts and then sneezed, barely managing to shove my face into my elbow in time. “Excuse me. I’m looking for someone.”
“Can’t give out information.” His gaze flickered between me and the paper. His oily skin left him with a smattering of blackheads across his nose. A blush dotted his cheeks, and his eyes bore a look I recognized and could use to my advantage.
Toes burning as they began to warm up, I approached him, pulling my hat off and letting my hair fall around my shoulders. I leaned across the counter trying to ignore the years of stickiness. I licked my lips, pitched my voice low, into the sort of breathy whisper so many men loved. A college friend called it the “porn whisper.” She wasn’t far off. “Sure you can.”
He scratched his thinning forehead. “Against the rules.”
But farming out young kids to predators is okay. I swallowed the words. This guy might not have any idea what was going on, although the more likely scenario was that he probably just told himself he didn’t know because then he didn’t have to deal with the facts. We all lie to ourselves.
If I had all the information, I could probably wheedle a room number out of this guy. But all I had were initials and zero time.
“I’m looking for a man sharing a room with a teenage girl,” I said. “They might have arrived at different times. Her dad is from out of town and visiting.”
“All I can do is call the room, if you’ve got a name or room number.”
I thought back to the calendar. R for L. “First name starts with an L.”
“That’s not enough.” He went back to his paper. Moisture shone across his forehead. The index finger on his right hand tapped the paper making it rustle. He didn’t strike me as the sort who would still read a newspaper, much less the New York Times.
Irritated and short of time, I decided to take a chance. “Look. Either you tell me where this meeting goes down, or I call the police in here and let them know what’s really going on behind closed doors. They’ll never believe you weren’t aware of it.”
He messed with his bald spot yet again, his eyes shifting from me to the paper.
“So,” I rested my chin on my hands, smiling like we were old friends. “Either you tell me where to look, or I call the police. Your choice.”
He shook his head. “This is bullshit.”
I took out my cellphone. “Have it your way.”
He slammed the paper down on the counter. “You’re pretty late. Check the back alley.” He jerked his head to the left. “Guy you’re looking for will be leaving through the back door.”
I followed his direction and bolted down a dingy, musty hallway toward the door with the blaring red “exit” sign. I should have taken the time to make a plan, but all I could think about was the late hour and that I’d probably lost my best chance. I shoved at the door, fighting the force of the wind. At first there was nothing but more icy air and wind so strong my eyes stung, but then my vision cleared. Several feet to my right were a tall man with a thick overcoat and a teenage girl a few inches shorter. She wore a dark knitted cap, but the street lamps provided enough light for me to see the telltale signs of youth in her profile: vibrant skin with some errant acne, a smidgeon of baby-fat still left on her cheeks, and hands devoid of lines and wrinkles.
The man’s face was turned down and shadowed–all I saw was a beard and part of a smile. He put his hands on the girl’s shoulders, and the girl looked up at him not with adoration but resignation. The man leaned down, my stomach shifted, and my feet moved before my brain caught up.
“What the hell are you doing?”
4
Wind blasted down the alley. The force sent me back on my heels; I dug them in and strode forward, ignoring the wind-sicles pelting my face. If only the cyanide were nestled in my pocket. But my fingers were probably too numb not to kill myself.
The man recovered quickly, drawing himself up straight. He kept his face turned away, only allowing me to see his very generic profile. “My daughter and I were talking.”
“In the freezing cold in a back alley in a dangerous part of the city?” I asked. “Strange place for a chat.”
His head twitched like he wanted to turn, maybe get in my face. The girl stepped back, her body language both defiant and desperate. I got my first direct look at her face. My prostitute friend from Kensington Avenue. She glared at me, but I didn’t see the telltale flash of recognition. Hopefully my wig, glasses, and heavy makeup had done the job.
Cocking her head, she looked up at the man and reached out her right hand, rubbing her fingers together. She’d yet to get paid.
“So.” I stepped forward, trying to get a better look at the man. “Which one of you is R and which one is J?”
In true cowardly form, the man bolted down the alley, his long legs quickly carrying him out of sight. The girl turned to me, her cherub-like face twisted with rage. Short, dark hair peeked out from her hat. She was even prettier without the heavy eye makeup she’d worn on the street. Her delicate features reminded me of Kelly in the worst way, and the surprise left me vulnerable. Before I could react, she struck, slamming both slender hands against my shoulders.
“What did you do that for? He hadn’t paid me yet!”
I stumbled backwards, the heels of my boots sliding across the sheen of ice. Teetering, I regained my balance. “You don’t have to live this way. I’m here to help you.”
Her black eyebrows knitted together, the movement thinning the baby fat on her cheeks, making her face look strikingly beautiful. “I don’t need your help, bitch. This is my job.”
Her anger didn’t surprise me. Kids like her are usually abused most of their lives, and working for sex is a natural transition. Even more were convinced prostitution was their only direction, and their loyalty to their pimps was unquestionable. Shuddering against the cold wind, she looked thin in her insufficient coat. “Why don’t you let me buy you some supper, and we can talk about it?”
“No thanks. But you can pay me the seventy-five bucks you just cost me.”
I debated. Giving her the money made me a hypocrite, but that certainly wouldn’t be the first time. It might earn enough of her trust to glean some information. And I didn’t want to be responsible for her getting a beating from her pimp because she failed to deliver.
“Tell you what,” I said. “You walk down to the diner on the corner with me and have something to eat, and I’ll give you a hundred cash. Plus the meal. You can’t beat that.”
She snorted, looking me up and down. “You want something. Like everyone else.”
“Just information.”
She folded her arms, stuck out her jaw in the rebellious way teenagers excel at. She’d lost all of her self-assured attitude from the street. “Don’t have any.”
Cold settled into my jaw making speech a struggle. I wiggled my toes to m
ake sure they weren’t frozen. “What’s your name?”
She held out a bare, exposed hand. “Give me the money now, and maybe I’ll tell you.”
I fumbled in my coat pockets for the cash I’d withdrawn earlier. I held out a wrinkled bill. “Here’s fifty. Answer some questions, and you’ll get the rest.”
Her ruby lips pouting, she snatched the money. “Riley.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.” Her narrowed eyes challenged me to tell her she was too young. “Do I know you? Your voice sounds familiar.”
I bet on her memory being too full of the destitute women she likely saw every day. “Trust me, I’d remember if we’d met before. What was your friend’s name?”
“Can’t say.”
I nodded. “How’d you meet him?”
“Mutual friend.” She smirked, trying to be cocky, but the effort failed. Shame flashed through her eyes.
“Her name Sarah?”
Riley couldn’t hide her surprise. She rocked back, mouth falling open, and then snapped it shut. “Don’t remember.”
Another hard gust of wind whistled between the buildings. Both of us shook with cold. I cut to the chase.
“Just tell me if she’s the boss, or if she’s working for someone else. And their name–that’s all I need.”
“I can’t give you no more names, lady. And Sarah don’t have anything to do with tonight.” Her voice cracked. She wrapped her arms around her thin waist. “I’m just trying to make a living. I don’t need to get my ass kicked. And that’s what happens when the boss gets crossed. If you don’t get out of here soon, my friend’ll be making an example out of you.”
“You mean your pimp?” I gave her a quick once-over. My surprise attack had taken away the bravado she had on the street, and she was too young and inexperienced to know how to recover. My advantage.
She looked past me, glaring down the alley. “Whatever.”
“I can help you start over,” I said. “And I can help any other kids being used by your boss. Just give me his name.” I rested my shaking hand on her rigid arm, hoping the human contact would breach her walls. Before I even registered movement, her forearm shot out, slamming into my chest. I lost my footing this time, landing hard on my butt. My elbows hit the pavement hard, and tears sprouted in my eyes. Shock and pain and sheer cold paralyzed me. I gazed up at her trying to catch up. “Riley–”
“Shut up.” She planted her feet on either side of my hips and reached toward me. I remembered my pepper spray too late. She grabbed my arm, fingers digging through my coat and into the flesh, and fished into my pocket with her free hand. “You owe me money.”
“You owe yourself more than this.”
She faltered, but only for a second. Then she drew out the rest of my cash–over two hundred dollars–and took another fifty. She shoved the rest at me. “I’m not a thief.”
I took the money, locking eyes with her. “My name is Lucy Kendall. I’m a private investigator. When you’re ready, I can help you.”
Footsteps halted whatever she might have said next. A tall man rounded the corner, his expensive winter boots thudding against the concrete. His heavy, wool coat was at least twice as thick as Riley’s, and his head was covered with a designer knit hat.
“Get away from her.” Chris bore down on us like a bull. Riley sprinted down the alley, disappearing into the freezing, black night.
Chris knelt beside me, his warm hands on my cold arms. “How bad are you hurt?”
“I’m not.” That wasn’t entirely true. My tailbone throbbed. My pride singed. I took Chris’s hand and allowed him to haul me to my feet. He grabbed my shoulders, pulling me toward him. Even in the below zero weather, his cologne wafted over me, the familiar scent comforting. I fisted my hands against his chest in a half-assed attempt to push him away. He leaned down, his face too close to mine. “Lucy.” His soft voice sent a wholly different kind of chill down my spine.
“Go ahead and say it.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re such an unbelievable dumbass.”
I didn’t say another word as I stalked behind him to his waiting car. I let him rant, knowing it was better to get it over with. “I can’t believe you came down here, in the freaking Arctic weather, at night, by yourself, to Shitville, with only some creep’s initials to go on.” Chris yanked open the car door, and I fell into the leather seat. I wanted to soak up the blissful heat. He ran around to the driver’s side and planted himself next to me. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
He glared at me, and I tried to think of what I wanted to say. His damn eyes always did me in. Every time I decided to stay angry with him, or to tell him to get out of my life, he looked at me with those eyes. It wasn’t their bright blue or the way they always looked flirtatious. Good-looking men I can handle. But Chris’s penetrating stare, his keen ability to see through every layer of my bullshit, rattled me. I hated that about him, and yet I craved it like the worst kind of addict. “That’s me. Always looking for new ways to die.”
He rolled his eyes, slamming the car into drive, and then merged into traffic. “Right. Where are you parked?”
With every second of warmth came fresh irritation. I didn’t need him sticking his nose in my business trying to play hero. “Three down, off Pear Street. For your information, I had it under control, and you ran off my best lead. Jackass.”
He didn’t say anything, instead making a derisive noise from somewhere deep in his throat. The sound only torqued me off even more. “Seriously. If I wanted help, I would have asked.”
“There’s a difference between need and want.”
“Fine.” I gave him my most insincere smile. “I don’t need your help. Nor do I want it. Happy?”
He ground his teeth, making his full lips even plumper. “In your obnoxious presence? Not a chance.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
Chris skidded into the small parking garage, his Audi handling the slick surface like a race car. “Level?”
“Two.”
I tried to make my exit as soon as he found the Prius, but he hit the child locks–a favorite trick of his. “Come on. I want to go home.”
“Kelly told me about the phone.” He spoke as if I wanted to listen to him. “She’ll never get all the information you need out of it.”
“She already got something. You lost it for me.” I shivered, wondering if I’d ever be warm again.
“That kid wasn’t going to tell you anything.” He turned the heat on high. “What’s wrong with letting the police handle this? Give them the tip and move on.”
“That kid was the same girl who gave me the information about Exhale,” I said. “She’s got a pimp who’s in this up to his neck. And as far as handing information over to the police, it’s not that easy,” I said. “Riley is a teenager, and in Pennsylvania, minors fourteen and older can give limited consent to sexual activities. Kids over 16 can give full consent. If I call her in, Vice gets the tip. They won’t want to arrest her, but if she doesn’t give up her pimp, they will. And then she’ll never trust me, and I won’t get the information I need.”
“Yeah, well, she looked like she was fine with consenting.”
I turned a furious glare on him. “Really? Because a sixteen-year-old girl has the emotional capacity to consent to sex with an older man, in a seedy hotel, for money? Because she just up and decided one day to sell her body for sex? Yeah, that’s exactly what’s going on.”
“You don’t know–”
I cut him off. “You’re the one who doesn’t get it, Chris. In the vast majority of trafficking cases, these kids, even the older ones, have been abused from a very young age. They don’t know their own worth, and they don’t see themselves as human beings because they haven’t been treated as anything more than property or a toy that will eventually wear out.” I took a deep breath. “If I call the police, they’ll bring Riley in. She’ll tell them the same story she told me, and guess what will
happen? She’ll be charged in the hope she’ll give up her pimp.” These were truths as old as the profession of prostitution. And the men doling out the girls made my manipulative streak look tame. Some spark of instinct drew them to the vulnerable girls–the ones who needed acceptance and security, even if those things turned out to be smoke and mirrors–and they knew exactly how to entwine their prey so deeply into the net the girls became too afraid to leave.
“She won’t do it,” I said. “These guys keep their girls good and brainwashed. So she serves some time, goes out and does the same thing, right back with the pimp. Meanwhile, this big network keeps right on trafficking kids. And make no mistake, they stretch further than we realize.”
“Why do you think that? Right now you’re looking at prostitution, not trafficking.” He shrugged his broad shoulders like we were talking about the unending winter weather. I wanted to shake him for his lack of compassion.
I shook my head. “Any cop worth their badge will tell you that’s a gray area. A lot of times this starts off consensual, with a runaway thinking hanging out with an older man is heaven. Then they’re in over their heads and can’t get out. But I think there’s more to it than that. I think some of these kids are local, but there are also others being brought in, like Aron. And they all go back to the same person.”
“I don’t understand why you can’t let it go.” Chris slouched in the leather seat, not looking at me. Even in profile, he had a way of looking like a beautifully sad puppy that wasn’t getting its way.
And I couldn’t give him the concise answer he wanted. Chris lived his life by simple cause and effect. If certain bad things happened to a person, then he must be destined for a specific fate. That’s the same thinking that caused him to believe he was a sociopath for so many years, when it was actually just his inability to deal with trauma and repressed memories. I knew he wouldn’t like my response. “Riley’s afraid of someone other than Sarah. Most likely a man, and most likely a man who believes he’s all powerful.”