“Maybe I’m hopelessly naive, but I still don’t get it,” Pete said.
“Get what?”
His brow wrinkled, and he looked almost pained. “Why?”
Georgia pointed to the pile of articles. “What it says there. Money. Independence. A sense of power.”
“Still, for a girl to go to bed with someone at that age, just for what you can earn….”
“Actually, I think there’s something else at work.”
“What?”
“Peer pressure.”
“Huh?”
“Status—the acquisition of things—is so much more important for kids today. I saw that when I was on the force. It’s not about having a pair of jeans from Gap. It’s about having a four hundred dollar pair of jeans. It’s not about having a Walkman or a stereo; it’s about having an iPod. Or an iPhone. Or a Blackberry.” She paused. “You can’t get those things working at Starbucks or McDonald’s.”
“So they’re having sex for them?”
“Tell me something. If your parents can’t afford to buy them for you, and you can’t earn enough money to buy them yourself, what are your options? Besides shoplifting?”
The monitor cast a bluish light over his face. He looked upset.
“Think about it,” she went on. “For years girls have been getting the message that flaunting and using their bodies is okay. Some of them have just taken it to the next level. So what if you give a few blow jobs? Fuck a few men? If that’s what it takes to buy a Michael Stars shirt or a pair of Jimmy Choos…”
“I suppose I could understand if they were older. Over twenty-one and on their own. But these are teenagers. Living at home. From good families.”
Georgia didn’t answer.
He fidgeted on the couch. “Whatever happened to kids going steady? Dating? Proms?”
“There’s still some of that.” She leaned back. “But a lot of teenagers don’t date like we used to. Or do romance.”
“Come on.”
“I didn’t say they’re not having sex. They are. In fact, it’s all about hooking up. Friends with benefits. That’s what they call it.”
“Call what?”
“Sex without complications. Or consequences. Or even real connections. Like I said, maybe teenage hookers are just…” she paused “… the natural evolution of that.”
He frowned. “How do you know all this?”
“I told you. I used to be the youth officer on the force.”
He didn’t say anything. Then he flipped his hand sideways, knocking his crutch off the chair. It clattered to the floor. “What about their parents? Do they know what their kids are doing?”
She leaned over and picked up his crutch. An image of Sara Long’s parents came into her mind. “They’re working their asses off, trying to make ends meet and give their kids a better life.”
He went quiet. Then, “Both of my parents worked. I’ll bet yours did too. But you didn’t turn into a hooker, and I didn’t end up a pimp. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“It bothers me more when one of those girls gets killed.”
Pete laced his hands behind his head. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”
Georgia stood up. “Do you have a sister?”
Pete nodded. “She’s twenty-nine. Lives in California.”
“What would you do if you found out she was hooking?”
His brows knit. “She wouldn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why? What are you implying?”
“I’m just asking.”
“I guess the real answer is I don’t know. We’re not that close.”
Georgia glanced at the monitor, then back at Pete. “Maybe you should be.”
***
After Pete left Georgia went through the articles again. One mentioned how prostitution had gone online. How if you knew the right websites, you could register by email, enter your zip code, even request a specific girl. Twenty-four hours later you’d get a response—guaranteed. The article went on to say how pimps no longer had to troll the streets any more. With a computer and a high-speed modem, they could run girls from the comfort of home.
She took the empty glasses into the kitchen and rinsed them. When she interviewed Jerry Horner at the gas station, he’d told her how Derek claimed you could get anything you wanted online these days. “The future of the world was in that damn little mouse,” he’d said.
She hurried back to her computer. Starting with Google, she entered “Escort Services.” A flood of websites surfaced; so many she was overwhelmed. She re-entered the words, this time adding the word, “Chicago.” She was still inundated. She started clicking through them. Most had photos of nude women—all of them young and glamorous—in provocative poses. The text invited you to request either a blonde, a brunette, an Asian. Others touted European beauties or Polish princesses.
She ran an irritated hand through her hair. How were these websites allowed to operate so brazenly? Granted, the term “escort service” was a euphemism, but judging from these websites, there was no difference between “escort” and “prostitute.” There ought to be some way to come down on them, shut them down. Then again, vice was always the poor stepchild of every police operation. The oldest profession still didn’t merit the same attention as narcotics or rape or even identity theft. Moreover, a lot of these websites originated offshore, well beyond the reach of U.S. law. In the unlikely event they were shut down, they would simply resurface the next day on another back alley of the Internet.
She kept going, tunneling deeper into online sex. It disturbed her to see pictures of women touching themselves or each other with rapturous, come-hither expressions. Who were these girls? Did they come from families like Sara Long’s? Most looked over twenty-one, but how could you really tell? Were some of the girls’ smiles pasted on? Did some of those toothy grins mask an air of desperation?
She remembered a woman she’d met last year. Mika had left her home in Eastern Europe after the Soviet Union collapsed. She’d fallen into a white slavery operation run by the Russian mafia. Georgia remembered her own rage and helplessness when she’d heard about it. Rage at the exploitation, helplessness because she couldn’t do anything about it.
She stared at the screen, wanting to transfer some of that rage to Derek Janowitz. He was the pimp. The recruiter. But he was dead. Whether or not his death had anything to do with his pimping, he’d paid dearly. And to be fair, she couldn’t hold him solely accountable. She thought back to the expensive clothes she’d seen in Sara’s closet. If Sara was hooking, presumably she was profiting from the arrangement.
After slogging through more websites and come-ons, Georgia spotted a link to a site that offered “hot young babes.” When she clicked, another montage of naked women popped up. The text claimed they were under twenty-one, but some of the women, clearly older, had braided hair tied with gingham ribbons, and wore bobby sox on their feet. Others had no pubic hair and were positioned in gangly teenager poses.
She clicked on the photo of the youngest looking girl and was immediately taken to a website with no name, just an IP address. There were no photos or text on the site either, with the exception of a request for a zip code. She entered the zip for Newfield High School. A moment later, a registration form popped up that asked for her email, a user name, and password. Underneath that, she was to fill in what she was looking for and the dates she wanted her “escort.”
She started to fill out the form. She typed in her e-mail address, entered “Everready” as a user name, and chose a numeric password. She said she was looking for a sixteen year old blonde, and that she was available any weekday after four. She was about to enter the information when she paused, her finger on the enter key.
She had no idea what she was signing up for, no idea if it would get her closer to Derek Janowitz’s operation. She wasn’t even sure he used the Internet to get johns. The fact that it asked for a zip code made her think the site was part of a nat
ional consortium or partnership, but for all she knew she might have stumbled onto a mob-run operation. It could be dangerous to give them her email address. She deleted her entries, wrote down the IP address, and clicked off
She started to pace around the apartment. When you were puzzling out a case, O’Malley used to say, change your environment. Get up, take a walk, go work out. He claimed it restored the right-brain left-brain balance, made it easier to receive new input.
She went to the window and opened it. Spits of water clung to the glass, and the streets had that pleasant but sandy wet asphalt smell. It must have rained earlier. The wind was whipping the leaves. Her favorite part of autumn, the sweet part, was coming to a close; the harsh winds of November would soon strip the trees, leaving nothing but bare, gnarled branches.
Directly across the street from her was a two-story bungalow. Three little kids lived there. A tricycle and wagon lay on the front lawn. A modest embankment edged the back. The kids’ mother must have been too tired or too frazzled to bring the toys inside tonight. Georgia hoped no one would steal them. She liked the kids, thought they were cute. But the thought of having her own family filled her with dread. What would she do when they became teenagers? How would she keep them from turning into Sara Longs?
She closed the window. She just couldn’t see herself as a mother. When she tried, the picture went all snowy and gray, like a TV station that’s signed off for the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
GEORGIA REACHED Kelly Saturday morning. He sounded like he was still high from his adventures of the previous day.
“So, what did you think?”
“You said you weren’t going to play Ramsey. That it could be dangerous.”
“I rethought it. And hey, it worked.”
“Temporarily. They’re still moving ahead with the case.”
“They’re just trying to save face. Public opinion is swinging our way. They know it’s not a slam dunk anymore.”
“What about Cam Jordan?” Georgia asked.
“What about him?”
“Given Ramsey’s recusal, and the fact that people are taking note of it, wouldn’t this be a good time to try again to get him released on bond?”
“Already done.”
“Really?”
I filed another motion for a bail reduction hearing. It’s on Tuesday.”
***
This time the hearing was perfunctory and short. The news had been full of stories about Jeff Ramsey and his political future over the weekend; public opinion was running high. Both newspapers ran editorials disparaging Ramsey’s behavior, radio and TV commentary followed suit, and the political blogs kept the issue front and center. Reporters staked out in front of his house. There was a shot of Monica coming out the front door with her face averted—her father must have warned her about the cameras.
Despite earnest arguments by a senior assistant State’s Attorney, the judge entered a decision to release Cam Jordan on bond. Georgia drove his sister over to Cook County jail. Cam Jordan emerged a few hours later, looking pale and thin. Georgia, who gave them a ride back to Ruth Jordan’s house, felt optimistic. Although it wasn’t over—the legal process would go forward—for the first time since taking Cam’s case, something had gone right. She was serving the cause of justice.
Back in her apartment, she brewed a pot of coffee and sat in the kitchen. Afternoon sun glittered through the leaves, splashing shifting patterns of light and shadow across the table. She was staring at them, sipping her coffee, when an idea occurred to her.
She went to her computer and connected to Craig’s List. Accessing the Chicago page, she clicked on “Erotic” services. A warning about adult content popped up, along with a plea for safe sex and an admonition that users must be over 18.
When she clicked again, she was taken to a succession of messages, all offering sexual services of one kind or another. Page after page, in groups of 100, contained come-ons, ads, and photos of women, many in lewd poses. Georgia scanned them, paying close attention to pictures of blondes. She didn’t expect to see a picture of Sara, not really. Still, she had to check.
An hour later, she’d found nothing. No face even remotely familiar. She took that as a good sign. Then she pulled out a list of the prostitution websites she’d visited with Pete. She’d written down over thirty URLs. She went back to the computer and clicked over to WHOIS, a database of websites created by the largest domain registration service on the Net. WHOIS catalogued who owned each site, and provided both an administrative and technical contact.
One by one Georgia typed in the URLs from her list. Most were registered to corporations, which, when she cross-referenced them on Google, turned out to be hosting websites. The contacts led back to the web host’s customer service department. She wasn’t surprised—web hosts were as sensitive to privacy issues as everyone else and usually honored their customers’ request for anonymity. If she was still on the force, she might have been able to get a subpoena to break through. Unfortunately, she wasn’t.
After checking twenty websites, she became frustrated. Some of the sites, although they featured American girls, were registered in countries like Russia or Poland. Others were in Barbados, even the Sudan. She’d only found the names of two individuals: one was in Toronto, the other in Santa Monica. Derek might have been connected to them—geography has no meaning on the Internet—but she had no way to verify it.
Only ten websites were left on her list. She typed in nine more URL’s. Nothing. She sighed. It’d seemed like a good idea an hour ago. She plugged in the last URL and watched green bars march across the bottom of the screen, followed by the jump to a new page. Nothing.
She got up. Her back ached, and she had a headache from too much time hunched over the monitor. If Janowitz did run a prostitution website, he must have known enough to cloak himself in cyberspace. She’d wasted almost an entire afternoon.
She was back in the kitchen staring out the window when she heard the chirp of an incoming email. She went back to retrieve it. The message was from her Florida contact, and it contained an attachment. The cell phone records. She’d almost forgotten.
She clicked on the attachment. At the top of the page was 847-555-4586, Derek’s cell number, followed by the dates she’d requested, and a list of at least three hundred calls. She scrolled down. Derek received almost forty calls a day. Most of the calls were preceded by 847, the area code for the North Shore. That made sense. But there were a few 773’s, 312s, and two she didn’t recognize.
She went back to the top of the list. If Derek had a partner, she reasoned, the partner’s number would show up more than once or twice. She reviewed the log carefully. Six or seven numbers popped up frequently. Of those, two numbers recurred more than the others. Both had an 847 area code. She reached for the phone and punched in the first number. The phone rang once. A tingle ran up her spine. It rang again. Then it clicked. “The number you are trying to reach is not in service at this time.”
Was that Sara’s cell? Had it been disconnected now that she was dead? She ended the call. Then she dialed the other number. She closed her eyes, waiting for the call to connect. It rang once. Again. A third time. Then it went to voice mail. She held her breath.
“This is Lauren. Leave a number and I’ll call you back.”
***
Lauren leaned over, picked her Cole Haan purse off the floor, and put it in her lap. She was in History class, and you weren’t supposed to have your cell on in school. She kept hers on vibrate so the teachers wouldn’t notice.
In fact, she had two phones: one for business and one for her personal use. Her parents didn’t know about the business phone, and she intended to keep it that way. She looked inside the bag. The call had come in on her personal cell, but the number was blocked. That bothered her. No one she knew had any reason to block their number when they called her. Did someone have the numbers mixed up? Doubtful. Derek and Sara were the only ones who called both numbers, and th
ey were both dead.
Maybe it was Heather, playing another of her investigative reporter games.
She and Claire both—although how could you get mad at Claire?— still called or text messaged her six times a day with stupid questions like “what do you think of Alicia’s nose ring?”; “Will you pick me up on Saturday?” “Did you see what Cash was wearing?”
Lauren had been like that, but moved on when she started the business. So did Sara. They’d put immature games behind them.
Which made it awkward when the girls still peppered them with questions. They’d kept the business a secret, but it hadn’t been easy. That’s why Sara was always asking questions about who knew what about whom. Lauren had warned her to be careful, not to push it, but Sara was stubborn. Part of it was that she wanted to be liked—doesn’t everyone?—but that wasn’t what drove her. Some girls, Heather for example, equated power with beauty or information. Not Sara. For her it was simple. She craved the things money could buy. She’d been clear about that from the start. But she didn’t want the slightest whiff of attention focused on the business.
The funny thing was that when you stopped to think about it, Sara was probably better suited to the profession than Lauren. Money wasn’t important to Lauren; she’d grown up with it. Sara hadn’t. In fact, Lauren had been meaning to talk to Sara about the amount of time she spent turning tricks. She never said no, and there were times she should have. But they’d drifted apart recently, and their friendship had become strained. Lauren wasn’t sure why.
Now she stared at the blackboard, only dimly aware of the discussion about the Monroe Doctrine. The PI knew Sara came to the Forest Preserve to talk to Lauren. Sara’s mother told her. Lauren figured Sara was concerned that someone might have discovered the business. But what if she was wrong? What if something else was on Sara’s mind? Maybe Sara came to the Forest Preserve to tell Lauren she was sorry they’d grown apart. That she wanted to get close again. A pang of regret shot through Lauren. Maybe if she had, things would have turned out differently.
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