by Stacy Green
He strutted off the train and onto the platform. As the doors snapped shut, I caught site of a familiar face waiting to greet Preacher: Riley, the fifteen-year-old prostitute. Still looking cold, she gave Preacher a careful hug, as if she were afraid of dirtying up his suit. He patted her back, and she held out her hand. He grinned so arrogantly I nearly charged off the bus, and then he handed Riley a few bills. The young girl with the wispy black hair and cheekbones a model would envy gazed up at Preacher with adoration. He motioned for her to walk, and they headed down the street just as the train jerked into motion. He was the pimp she wanted information for.
Nauseated, I sank into his vacated seat. During my years with CPS, I saw the same thing over and over again. Teenage girls, and sometimes young women, brought in for prostitution. None of them trusted me or the police, and all of them wanted to get back to their pimp. In their muddled heads, he was the only ally they had. It didn’t matter if he beat them or didn’t pay them. He gave them a place to live, and he played their vulnerabilities until they were in his control. It wasn’t a whole lot different than a domestic violence situation. The battered wife just wants to stay with her husband, and the beat up prostitute wants her pimp.
Without talking to Riley, I had no idea if Preacher had coerced her or kidnapped her or she’d stepped willingly into the life. I knew she wouldn’t want to talk, but I had to find a way. If she was that close to Preacher, she’d know more about his life than Sarah.
My phone vibrated again, and I shook myself, pulling my phone out of my pocket. Three new voicemails and two nasty texts from Chris.
I asked him to pick me up at the next stop.
He didn’t look at me as I dropped into the warm Audi. I said nothing, instead watching the fresh snowflakes fall. Chris jumped onto the interstate, the scenery changing as we drove toward the higher-income areas of the city. My mind wandered, wondering what Preacher was doing right now. Did he treat the boys like he’d treated me? Did girls like Riley realize how degrading Preacher’s actions were, or did they see him as the good guy? Or was he like the street pimps, demanding obedience through physical threats?
What would he expect of me when I made the inevitable call?
The car slid to a stop, and I realized we were in front of my building. Chris hadn’t spoken a word. I unfastened my seatbelt. “Listen, I did what I had to do, okay?”
He closed his eyes, shook his head. “See you.”
That’s all I was going to get. I sighed. I’d call and try again later.
10
I’d rather be at home in pajamas, eating a can of Spam with the cat trying to sneak a bite, than sitting in my mother’s dining room. But she’d been nagging at me for a family dinner, and the exhaustion of playing Preacher’s game finally broke my will.
My mother’s identity was wrapped up in her public persona, which meant her house must be full of beautiful things and be perfect at all times. Dirty dishes weren’t allowed to sit in the sink, nor could there be any clothes waiting to be laundered. Much less children with sticky hands or muddy feet or soiled faces. What would the neighbors think if any thing or person in Joan’s life was less than pristine? Why, that would make her look bad.
Sitting in one of her ornate and expensive and miserably uncomfortable dining room chairs, I banished the diatribe I’d listened to my entire life. Dwelling on things did nothing but make me even more bitter. I had enough of that to go around.
And my stepfather had me worried. Once a solidly built, ruddy-faced general contractor, his retirement had brought nothing but health issues. Atrial fibrillation was the latest issue, combined with high blood pressure. And the man was shrinking, I was sure of it. Once over six feet, he’d lost at least an inch in height and more in girth. Even worse, his skin had the waxen, gray cast of someone sliding toward the grave.
“Mac.” I nudged his outstretched foot with mine. Somehow he’d never quite fit into my mother’s immaculate presentation. He slouched when he wanted, put his elbows on the table, and walked around in day old socks. His arms were dotted with the scars of skin cancer removal–a hazard of too many years of hard labor in the sun–and he was missing the ring finger on his left hand from a gruesome electrical accident. When I first met him, he insisted he’d lost it picking his nose. I was a miserable high schooler with little use for my mother’s latest boyfriend, but something about the earnestness of Mac’s face and the cocky lift of his chapped lips endeared him to me. That and his licking his fingers instead of using the dainty napkin my mother handed to him.
“You look tired.” I bobbed my head in the direction of the kitchen where my mother toiled over something that probably tasted like sand. “Joan of Me-land wearing you down?”
He chuckled at the dig at my mother. She’s a tad self-absorbed at times, Mac always said. Because I loved him and felt immense pity for anyone living with my mother, I didn’t argue that she was a Class-A narcissist who couldn’t see past her own issues. “Your mother’s been real good to me these past few months. I get tired so easy lately, and she don’t complain nearly as much as you’d expect.”
My forced smile made my cheeks hurt. Inside, I sank into a familiar drowning pool. My mother’s skill at making a person grateful for her faults was second to none. I should know because I spent years searching for the problem within myself before finally realizing the truth.
Arguing the point with Mac wouldn’t change things, so instead I focused on him. “What’s the doctor doing about your lack of energy?”
“Says there’s not much we can do if I want to keep my heart regular. He’s got it slowed way down so it stays steady. But that means I don’t have no get up and go.” He shrugged. “But only sometimes. Good days and bad days, and that’s part of life, isn’t it? Just have to find the positive and keep going.”
I rested my hand on my chin. Mac couldn’t be more different from my mother. With his cheery outlook in the middle of a shitstorm, he reminded me of Kenny. My mother was all downers and criticism. Despite her self-obsession, she excelled at identifying a person’s flaws and weaknesses.
A shudder slithered down my tensed back. I’d done that very thing to Sarah. A skill learned from Mom.
I couldn’t be like her. I refused.
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” My mother breezed into the dining room looking like a modern version of June Cleaver. Not because it came naturally, but because June was the perfect hostess, mother, and wife. Traits my mother was deluded enough to believe she shared with the fictional character. The navy scoop neck dress she wore boasted a large, white bow in the center of the chest, and its knee length skirt was hemmed in matching white. Very cute and far too sweet for my mother.
“It smells delicious,” Mac said.
It did smell edible, which made my stomach growl. Mother sat down at the end of the table. Her dark red hair, once as brilliantly auburn as my own, was cut in a stylish pixie that softened the angular planes of her face. In the last few years, her once round, full cheeks had thinned, the bones more pronounced. An effect of aging, she lamented.
“Lucy, I still can’t believe you’re finally joining us.” Mother crossed her legs and gazed at me. She still wore blue contacts, giving her eyes an unnatural glowing effect. “I’d say it’s a small miracle.”
I grinned and matched her dry tone. “Well, I thought it was time I graced you with my presence.”
Her smile thinned. “I don’t know that grace is the word I’d use.” She let her stony gaze slide over my jeans and cable knit sweater. The gray cashmere fitted my curves nicely, as did the jeans. “You could have dressed for dinner.”
I looked down at the sweater. “This is name brand, Mom. And it’s comfortable.”
She lifted her right shoulder in a half-shrug. “I suppose. But the color isn’t right for you. Are you putting on weight?”
My face throbbed once more. Joan had always been consumed with her body, trying every new diet and exercise fad. Her obsession paid off, an
d her figure remained svelte even as she got older. I didn’t take it that seriously. Happy as a size ten and nursing a love affair with pasta, I wasn’t going to starve myself to make her happy. My phone suddenly vibrated; I slipped it out of my pocket and read Kelly’s text. She had new information on Preacher. I wanted to excuse myself, but disappearing now would give Joan even more to complain about.
“Lucy.” She’d taken her affronted tone, the one she used when she didn’t have my full attention. “Answer me.”
“Nope.” I spoke through gritted teeth.
“Well, you need to choose more flattering clothes then.” She fingered the ends of the bow on her dress. “I wish you could get down to your college weight. You looked so perfect then. I got so many compliments on how pretty you were.”
Now, she watched me with bright eyes, wanting an argument. Wanting me to agree and to tell her I’d watch myself.
I didn’t engage.
Instead, I grabbed a dinner roll and slathered it with butter. “When’s dinner going to be ready? I’m starving.”
Joan’s nose curled, and Mac’s mouth hitched in a satisfied grin. Before she could answer, my phone vibrated. Grateful for the break, I snatched it out of my purse without bothering to look at the screen.
“Hello?”
The caller cleared his throat. “Lucy, it’s Detective Todd Beckett.”
Whatever energy my nonverbal sparring with Joan had dredged up evaporated. I hadn’t spoken to Todd in weeks, and greeting me with his official title had an ominous edge.
“Well, long time no speak.” I kept my tone light. “How are things?”
“This isn’t a social call.” His businesslike voice set my teeth on edge. “I need you to come to the station.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Do you know Sarah Jones?”
In retrospect, I wished I’d said no. Bought myself some time. “Yes. I worked for her.”
“Right,” Todd said. “She was found murdered in her salon.”
11
Sarah was dead. Fury sent my left eye into a maddening twitch. She’d been my best shot at getting to the source of the trafficking ring. With enough time, I could have wheedled more information out of her, perhaps even isolating her until she felt I was her only ally. She’d known more about the operation than she’d told me, and now that knowledge was gone.
I felt very little for her as a person. The choices she’d made stripped her of her humanity, and so I saw nothing to mourn. A needling voice in the back of my mind–the one that very rarely stopped talking, even when I was supposed to be sleeping–reminded me that the same could be said of me. I chose to ignore the comparison.
Todd Beckett. No doubt he started salivating with glee as soon as he heard I’d been employed at the salon. He believed I’d killed at least two known pedophiles, and of course he was right. Thankfully, he lacked the evidence to prove it. Sarah’s murder meant a new chance for him to dig into my business. But it was hard to feel any animosity toward Todd. He’d treated me fairly in the end, and he was a good cop. An honest one. That probably spelled eventual trouble for me, but I still admired him.
At the police station, the desk sergeant was clearly waiting on me. I gave my name, and her eyes flashed wide for a brief second before she fixed her expression into one so stony it was obvious she knew my name and was trying way too hard to hide the fact.
I don’t spook easily. But the layers behind her reaction made me jittery. She’d acted as if a wanted criminal had accidentally walked into her precinct, and she was about to make the arrest of her life.
You are a wanted criminal.
But she doesn’t know that.
Right?
“Lucy.” My name rolled off Todd’s tongue much more warmly than it should have. He stood at the end of the gray carpeted hallway. His charcoal dress pants and black shirt made him blend in with the carpet and cubicle walls. He’d shaved his moustache. New girlfriend or shaving mishap? Either way, the effect was pleasant. His decidedly average face wasn’t suited for facial hair. “How’ve you been?”
I smiled at the show of manners. “Busy, but good. You?”
“The same. I can’t complain.”
A beat of awkward silence. Shuffling of feet–mine, as I waited for his direction, and his, as he let the moment pass in an effort to establish control. I’d come at his calling, and I would follow his lead like a good little helper. I didn’t much care for the idea, and if he were any other cop I probably would have tossed my hair over my shoulder, cocked my hip, and started asking why I’d been called down here so late. But I gave him the lead.
“Let’s find a quiet place to talk.” He motioned for me to go first, an acknowledgement of not only manners but a subtle jab that I’d been here before in a similar position. I stopped at the same interrogation room he’d used after Chris and I saved Kailey Richardson. Nothing about it had changed. Still a hot box with uncomfortable chairs. Avoiding it would make me look insecure.
“How’s this?” I asked.
“Just fine.”
I sat down first, in the very seat I’d occupied last fall. The leather now had a small tear that made it even more uncomfortable. Crossing my legs, I deposited my bag on the floor, carefully folding my coat over it. I clasped my hands over my knee and gave Todd my full attention.
“Justin’s doing well.” I stayed in touch with Todd’s younger brother, the boy whose life Mother Mary had nearly ruined. He worked full time and still volunteered at the homeless shelter. Even better, he’d met a girl his age, and their fledging relationship gave the kid a new lease on life. If anyone deserved it, Justin did.
“We’ve got another hearing next week about getting his full juvenile record expunged. Our attorney is hopeful.”
“It should be lifted.” Words I never thought I’d say, but I knew they were true. Justin was a victim, not an offender.
“So.” Todd rested his folded hands on the table. “Sarah Jones.”
I shook my head, made a clucking sound I hope sounded sympathetic. “What exactly happened to her?”
“We’ll get to that. First, tell me about your relationship with her.”
“I worked as a receptionist at Exhale. I didn’t know her much beyond that.”
“I thought you were a private investigator. Gig not paying the bills?”
We’d come to the first crossroads. Lying has its time and place, but this might not be the place for it. If Todd thought he had the whole story, I’d have a better chance at not being considered a suspect. And I could use his help.
“Actually, I was undercover.”
He cocked his head. “Really? At a spa?”
I nodded. “I had solid information children were being trafficked out of the salon.”
His eyebrows shot up. First surprise and then agitation across his plain, pleasant face. “You do know we have a special victims unit that handles that sort of thing.”
“I’m aware.”
“Why didn’t you alert them? Or me?”
I caught the brief wobble of disappointment. “Because I wanted to get as much information as possible before I reached out to the authorities.”
“Your client?”
“No client. This was a personal job.”
“You’re the only private investigator I’ve encountered who just goes out and does a job for free.” He jotted something down in his notepad.
“That’s why I got the job at Exhale,” I said. “It worked out perfectly.”
“How long did you work there?”
“Two months.”
“And did you find any evidence of this supposed sex trafficking?”
“Yes.” I told Todd about seeing the kids arrive in the late hours, Sarah’s depositing them at the motel, and my decision to go undercover. “Sarah had a cellphone hidden beneath the desk in her office,” I said. “It had more security than the salon itself, but I managed to get some information.”
Todd grabbed the file he’d
been ignoring and flipped through its contents. “Yet there is no record of you turning said phone into the police.”
“That’s because I gave it to Senator Coleman.”
He looked like he swallowed a lemon. “Excuse me?”
“Senator Coleman is dedicated to stopping sex trafficking. I gave him several leads I’d gathered, as well as the phone. He’s got better resources than I do.”
“So do we. And you gave the phone to a third party when there’s evidence of a crime. What the hell were you thinking?” His feelings were hurt, I realized. Hurt that I hadn’t trusted him enough to call him. He’d given me a pass on the way I’d barged into Kailey’s abduction. I guess he felt I owed him. I struggled to fuse that fact with his threat to investigate my involvement in the Harrison brothers’ deaths. After all, he could arrest me for stealing the phone, and that would definitely mess up my plans.
“Don’t take it personally,” I finally said. “You’re major crimes, first off. If I’d given the information to the police, mostly likely vice would have taken first shot. I don’t trust these kids to give up their pimps. I thought the Senator would have a better method for handling it. And he’s got the funds. Plus, I stole it. Not exactly the thing to admit to a cop.”
“You’ve got a real problem with assuming the police are incapable. And that you’re still in my good graces.”
“It’s not that at all.” Todd’s frustration with me right now wouldn’t earn me any brownie points. “The police are overloaded. And this is bigger than prostitution. Right up the Senator’s alley. I thought the task force was the better option for the kids. They’ve got to come first.”
Todd traced the skin above his thin upper lip–a habit no doubt perfected with his mustache. “Coming from anyone but you, I’d call that a crock of crap. But you’re twisted enough to think that’s the right way to handle things. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you believed you had the kids’ best interests in mind. You know I can arrest you.”