Anna thought back nostalgically to the war room she’d shared with Jack during the D’marco Davis case. It was during the hours spent together in that room that she’d fallen in love with him.
Jack thanked Vanetta, who beamed at him. Anna shared her own secretary with six other AUSAs; the poor woman was stretched thin. Junior prosecutors like Anna did their own copying, faxing, mailing, phones, and scheduling. As Homicide chief, Jack got a secretary to himself. But Vanetta’s thoughtful preparations weren’t just a result of Jack’s seniority, they were also a sign of how much she liked him.
On the table was a faxed report from the Medical Examiner. Anna skimmed it. It had the results of a sex kit. No vaginal injuries—typical in most sex assaults. Although juries, conditioned by shows like
CSI
, expected such injuries, they were rare in anatomy that could stretch to fit a baby. Negative for semen, too. That meant the sexual assault hadn’t been completed, or the man had worn a condom. Anna passed the report around to Jack and Samantha, who nodded with disappointment at the lack of DNA.
Jack turned off the TV and sat at the head of the conference table. Anna and Sam sat on either side of him.
“We have to find out everything there is to know about Caroline McBride, the Congressman, and his staff,” he said. “Anna, start by
drafting some subpoenas. Caroline’s phone records, student records, credit reports—those’ll lead us to her banks and credit cards. Find out what kind of money she had and where it was coming from.”
Anna nodded and jotted the to-do list on her legal pad. When she looked up, she noticed a piece of lint on Jack’s lapel. She reached to pluck it off, then felt self-conscious about making such a personal gesture. She turned the movement into what she hoped was a convincing stretch. But Jack had noticed her intention; he looked down and plucked the lint off himself. Samantha’s eyes flicked curiously between Anna and Jack. Anna cursed the agent’s sharp eyes and her own mistake. Their secret was going to be harder to hide than she’d anticipated.
“I’ll have my analysts examine whatever records you get,” Sam said to Jack. “And I can run everyone through ChoicePoint, NCIC, and our internal databases.”
“Great,” Jack said. “And we need boots on the ground. I want agents and MPD detectives out there talking to her friends, teachers, neighbors. If we’re lucky, somebody’s heard of this escort agency, Discretion. Anna, what’s it say about them on that porn site you’ve got the taxpayers paying for?”
“TrickAdviser?” Anna said. “Not much. There’s no contact information for Discretion, and they don’t advertise on Backpage or Eros. I’m guessing they get all their business through referrals. But I can tell you who their most prolific client is.”
Anna pivoted her chair so she was facing the unrestricted computer and logged on to TrickAdviser. With a few clicks, she got to the profile of “Sasha.” She scrolled through as she spoke. “It’s the world’s oldest profession, but they’ve adopted modern methods. The first man who reviews an escort creates her profile on TrickAdviser, not the woman or her agency. The guy fills out a macro and inputs all of her vital statistics, says what she’s willing to do, how much she charges. So the first reviewer is critical. Agencies can be very particular about who gets that first appointment. Look at Caroline’s first review.”
Jack and Sam stood behind her. The first review of Sasha was written by someone with the screen name BigBoy89. He had given her a 10 in both the “appearance” and “performance” categories. Anna clicked on his full review.
General Details: Every once in a while you meet a girl so amazing, it makes you wonder why you bother with any other providers. Tonight, I met that girl. Madeleine told me Sasha was something special, and as usual, she didn’t exaggerate. Sasha arrived at my place on time, and when I opened the door, I was knocked out. I expected beauty, given the price, but this girl should be a centerfold. Sports Illustrated Swimsuit, not Hustler. Nothing fake about her, no silicone or spray tan, just all-natural girl-next-door beauty. She’s exactly what every hobbyist hopes for—the chance to bask in a gorgeous creature you’d never be able to do in real life. She came into my house and greeted me with a passionate DFK. I was getting hard already. VIPs, read on . . .
“What’s a DFK?” Jack asked.
“Deep French kiss,” Anna said. “One of the more innocent acronyms on this site.”
“Who are the VIPs?” Sam asked.
“Anyone can look at a limited amount of information. But if you want the really down-and-dirty stuff, you have to be a VIP member. Guys get VIP status by paying or writing reviews. For every review a guy writes, he gets fifteen days of VIP access. Otherwise, it costs a hundred and fifty dollars a year.”
“So these guys write up their crimes just to avoid a small fee?” Jack asked.
“No. I think they do it because they get off on it.” Anna clicked on the link for the VIP information.
The Juicy Details: Personally, I could’ve done her right there at the front door, but I knew this was her first time out, and I can be intimidating. I took her into the living room and we talked for a couple minutes. She said she was nervous, but I was someone she’d want to get to know outside
the hobby. I know this is the schtick, guys, but she was so convincing, I almost believed her. After a few minutes, she’s the one who started undressing me. I’ve been with some rookies who you have to lead through every step, like training a new horse, but this girl was amazing—hot to trot, couldn’t wait to take my clothes off, I didn’t have to use the spurs at all. Pretty soon we were both naked, and she’s got a smoking-hot body. Now, here’s where I would normally give you all the juicy details. But I gotta tell you, we connected in a way that was so amazing, I don’t want to cheapen it by posting the details here. Can you believe I’m saying that? I know some of you will be disappointed. What can I say? Life isn’t fair. Long story short: It was amazing. Hands down, the best experience I’ve had with any provider, ever. And she said it was the best she’d ever had, too. I think she meant it. Sasha, if you’re reading this, you are phenomenal. Keep it up, and you’ll be a legend.
“This guy is disgusting,” Sam said. “And delusional.”
“So who’s BigBoy89?” Jack asked.
Anna clicked on a link to BigBoy89’s page. It contained no personal information but had hyperlinks to all 322 of his reviews. He’d been a member of TrickAdviser for five years. “He seems to be an influential reviewer. But he’s not a high roller. Mostly, he writes about two-hundred-dollar-a-night transactions. The only time he reviews thousand-dollar escorts is when he’s writing an initial review for a Discretion escort. He must be getting a discount for being their tester.”
“Testing what?”
“Women,” Anna said. “Most of the high-end escort agencies are run by white women, unlike your typical street pimp. The madams hire the escorts, but they can’t really sample their own product, right? So they’ll often have a man they trust ‘test’ a woman before she’s hired. The tester tells the madam about the escort’s performance and attitude—is she attractive, enthusiastic, sane? If not, the madam won’t hire her. If the tester likes her, he’ll write a good review, which
can launch a career. Testers have a closer relationship with the escort agency than other johns. BigBoy doesn’t get the expensive escorts unless he’s with a Discretion escort. I’ll bet he gets them at a steep discount, maybe even free, in exchange for providing his stamp of approval here on TrickAdviser. He might know a lot about Discretion.”
“How quickly can we get BigBoy’s real name?” Jack asked.
The last time Anna had tracked down an anonymous guy from a website like this, it had taken two weeks to get compliance from all of the companies involved. “If I push it,” she said, “I could probably have this guy’s name and address by next week.”
“I can have that before lunch,” said Samantha.
“Really?” Anna was skeptical.
Sam laughed. “You’ve never worked with the FBI, have you?”
Jack’s BlackBerry buzzed, and he answered it. Anna only heard his part of the conversation.
“Hello—yeah, I saw it—I wish he hadn’t mentioned me—there’s nothing
to
do about it—fine, I’ll be right there.” Jack reattached the BlackBerry to his belt. “I’m going to see Marty.”
Marty was the acting U.S. Attorney, the temporary boss who would serve until a permanent U.S. Attorney was appointed by the President and confirmed by the Senate. The last U.S. Attorney had left a few weeks earlier to take a lucrative job at a law firm.
“What’s it about?” Anna asked.
“Nothing important.”
Anna raised her eyebrows. It sounded important. She wondered if it had to do with Youngblood’s press conference and his announcement that Jack should be U.S. Attorney. It put the case in a strange position. Perhaps the front office was concerned.
“When I get back, I expect you’ll have magically found BigBoy,” Jack said.
“I’m on it,” Sam said.
“
We’re
on it,” Anna said.
Jack nodded and walked out.
Anna and Sam set up their laptops on opposite corners of the table in the war room. Anna relaxed a little when Jack left—she no longer had to keep strict tabs on her body language to make sure
she was hiding their relationship. She could just concentrate on the investigation.
She banged out a raft of subpoenas. The team of FBI and MPD agents working the case would serve the warrants. Sam tapped away on her computer. They didn’t speak to each other.
The silence was interrupted by the phone ringing in the middle of the table. Anna and Sam reached for the green speakerphone button at the same time.
“Hello?” they answered in unison.
“McGee here.” The detective’s deep voice boomed from the speaker. “The techs are going to finish up a few things in the hideaway, but I’m wrapping up.”
“What’d you find?” Anna asked.
“No blood, no semen, no signs of a struggle.”
“Anything?”
“You’ll like this. I found an engagement ring on the balcony.”
“A
real
engagement ring?”
“It ain’t a hologram.”
“What does it look like?”
“Like a ring. With a diamond on top.”
“How big’s the rock?”
“Normal size, I guess.”
“You’re no jewelry connoisseur, are you?”
“My two ex-wives could tell you that.”
Anna looked at Samantha, and they laughed.
“I think the ladies need to take a look at that ring,” Anna said.
“I’ll bring it by tonight, after I log in all the evidence.”
“One more thing,” Anna said. “We got Caroline’s address from her mother—see what you can find.” She gave him the information. “And try to find Caroline’s roommate, Nicole Palowski. We need to talk to her, probably put her right into the grand jury.”
“Sure.”
Anna expected that Nicole would have important information. But there was something more. The roommate was likely involved in this dangerous business. Anna had been too late to save Caroline. But maybe she could still help Nicole.
13
N
icole opened her eyes and blinked against the pitiless sunshine lasering through cracks in the curtains. She was sprawled on top of her covers, still in her little black dress, cheek resting on the long string of pearls. Last night’s events came crashing back. She moaned and wished she could slip back into unconsciousness.
The only part of her body that moved was her eyes, taking in the room. God, what a mess. Designer clothes and stilettos thrown everywhere. Her dresser was crammed with wadded-up tissues, makeup, a flatiron, and hairbrushes of varying sizes and purposes. The room smelled dank and musky.
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t face the day, not after last night. She couldn’t hang around this apartment, sitting on Caroline’s couch, eating Caroline’s food, knowing Caroline was lying in a morgue.
But she needed a hit.
Nicole sat up slowly, then wished she hadn’t. The room swayed back and forth, and for a moment she thought she’d vomit. She lifted a hand to her face. She could feel the indentations the necklace had pressed into her cheek. The nausea passed, but her whole body ached, and she felt as if a layer of needles was implanted below the surface of her skin, painful and itchy at once.
She looked to her nightstand. A crumpled cellophane wrapper sat on top, next to an empty Ambien bottle. In better days, she could’ve opened the drawer and found a buffet of coke, Special K, MDMA, the occasional baggie of mushrooms, and prescriptions like Ambien, Valium, and Oxycontin. But as her cash had dried up, so had her supply. After running home empty-handed last night, she’d freebased the last of her coke. The searing smoke had burned away her worries in a euphoric surge; it was like great sex, a good-hair day, and
Godiva chocolate all rolled into one lip-numbing rush. When the high had worn off, she’d taken her last three Ambiens and fell into a tortured sleep.
Now her nightstand was empty.
Panic began to set in. She picked up the cellophane wrapper, which had a faint white residue. She ran her finger over it, accumulated a sliver of white powder, and rubbed it onto her gums. It gave her a tiny shimmer of relief, but she needed more. Soon.
She picked up her cell phone. Maybe she’d call T-Rex.
On second thought, maybe not. She owed her dealer over ten thousand dollars, and he’d been seriously on her case lately. He wouldn’t even give her a little product in return for sex anymore. He could get laid, he said—what he needed from her was money. In his last voice message, he said he’d “peel her wig” if she didn’t pay him soon. She didn’t know what that meant, and she didn’t want to find out. She tossed the phone onto the nightstand.
She stood and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. She was a wreck. Hair a rat’s nest, mascara smudged on her cheeks, rumpled dress, a couple of chips in her red nails. It took a lot of grooming to keep yourself up to standard. She still had the essentials—slim body, nice face, perky little tits. But lately she’d been slipping. She was getting a bit too bony, and her long brown hair was overprocessed. She’d recently gotten her highlights done at a random bargain place, and the streaks looked more cheap brass than rich gold. Her eyebrows were also wrong, overplucked and a bit crooked. It was amazing the difference good eyebrows could make. She hadn’t realized that until she skipped her usual hundred-dollar-a-brow waxing specialist and tried doing it herself.