Peal sat behind a huge black desk with nothing on it but a sleek telephone and an iPad. His floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the trees of Franklin Park. Next to him, the requisite ego wall was practically wallpapered in photos of Peal with gray-haired men, differentiated only by their varying degrees of baldness and paunch. Anna recognized both Emmett Lionel and Dylan Youngblood in the photos.
A single photo sat on the credenza behind Peal. He and Madeleine, smiling, cheeks pressed together. Madeleine wore a sapphire-blue evening gown, Peal a tuxedo.
“We’re sorry to bother you, but we’re here about Madeleine,” Anna said. “I understand the two of you were close.”
“You could say that.” Peal gestured for them to sit in the black leather guest chairs. “We were together for eight years.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Samantha said to Peal. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“Last night.”
“Do you mind telling us what she said?”
He shook his head. “She had been torn—earlier—between going to jail or keeping her promise of discretion. But she made her decision when she spoke to the press. She didn’t need the business anymore. I could support her.” Peal waved his hand at the wall of photographs and gave an ironic grunt. “Frankly, I was more worried about her client list getting out than she was.”
“So you were familiar with her business?” Samantha asked.
“She killed herself thanks to you people! And you’re still investigating her escort service? Unbelievable.”
“No,” Samantha said. “We’re not investigating Madeleine’s business. We’re investigating her possible homicide.”
His eyebrows went up, and his hostility dialed down. “You think Madeleine might have been murdered?”
“We’re looking into all the possibilities,” Anna said. She wished Samantha hadn’t been that direct yet; when a woman was killed, the most likely killer was her husband or lover. If Peal realized that he was a potential suspect, he didn’t show it. His demeanor softened, and he leaned in toward the investigators.
“What can I do to help you?”
“Do you know if she had any enemies?” Anna asked.
“Sure. If you’re a successful businesswoman, you have enemies. There are bad clients, and bad employees, and rival businesses.” His eyes narrowed. “Belinda.”
“Who’s Belinda?”
“She was an escort who left Discretion to start her own service. She was poaching girls from Madeleine. She wanted to
be
Madeleine.”
“Have you met Belinda?” Anna asked.
“A handful of times, I—” Peal stopped, as if considering whether he should speak openly to law enforcement. “Back when she worked
for Madeleine, Belinda occasionally, uh, entertained some friends of mine. After she quit to start her own business a couple months ago, Madeleine and I drove past her house a few times to see what she was up to. Madeleine was furious. She wasn’t going to have it. But it’s not like she could make employees sign a non-compete agreement.”
“So what did Madeleine do?” Samantha asked.
“Madeleine wanted to destroy Belinda, and Belinda knew it. Dispute resolution can get messy when your whole business is illegal. I don’t know exactly what Madeleine did, but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.”
Anna doubted Peal was as naive about Madeleine’s actions as he claimed. If Anna were a small-business owner contemplating a competition problem, the first person she would turn to was Jack. Or rather, she would have turned to him. She had to get used to the past tense, she realized with a pang.
Now wasn’t the time to press Peal about Madeleine’s methods. But they’d follow the lead. A dispute between two rival madams was fertile ground to investigate. Anna asked Peal for Belinda’s address, and he gave her a location on O Street in Georgetown. Samantha jotted it in her notebook.
“Did you know Caroline McBride?” Anna asked. “Also known as Sasha.”
He shook his head. “I might have seen her around, but all I know is what was on the news.”
“Do you know the names or contact information for any of Madeleine’s other employees? Or anyone else involved in her business who might shed some light on this?”
“No, I just know some of the girls by their business names.” He shrugged. “Their real names might be in Madeleine’s record books. She kept them in a safe in her bathroom.”
“One more question, sir,” Samantha said. “Where were you around ten
P.M
. last night?”
His red-rimmed eyes lasered to the agent. “What, am I a suspect?”
“We’re just doing our job.”
“I was at home, alone. I don’t think there’s anything else I can add to your investigation.” Peal stood up. “Now please excuse me.”
He gestured to the door. As Samantha and Anna left his office, Anna decided against serving him with a subpoena. That would guarantee his hostility. If they needed to talk to him again, they knew where to find him.
Walking back down the hall with Sam, Anna whispered, “To Belinda’s house?”
“Absolutely,” Sam whispered back. “Let’s find out what madams consider alternative dispute resolution.”
37
B
elinda’s house was a posh brick rowhouse on one of Georgetown’s prettiest cobblestone streets. A beautiful redhead answered Samantha’s knock at the front door. Anna assumed that she was an escort. The woman was in her early twenties, beautiful, and meticulously groomed. Her long red hair had been blown out then curled into a cascade of waves, the kind of glossy, natural ’do that took ninety minutes to achieve. She wore a green camisole and tight jeans that were so distressed, they had to cost a fortune.
“Belinda?” Samantha asked.
“No, I’m Randi.” The redhead looked Samantha and Anna over, then stepped aside. “Come in, everyone’s inside already. You’re from Discretion, too?”
Samantha stepped into the foyer. “No, dearie,” she said, showing her credentials. “FBI. We’re here to see Belinda.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh my God . . .”
Sam pulled Anna into the house behind her, then walked confidently toward the sound of feminine voices. She whispered to Anna, “That was consent, right?”
They entered a living room decorated with lavender walls, a white couch, and zebra-skin chairs. The air was heavy with the scent of perfume and the sounds of feminine chatter. Every seat was occupied by a young woman, eleven in all, each as beautiful and highly produced as the one who’d greeted them at the door. Most of them wore similarly distressed jeans and silky blouses. Designer purses sat at their feet like expensive, well-trained puppies. It looked like a photo shoot for Urban Chic.
Anna guessed these women were all Discretion escorts, here to commiserate with one another over the madam’s death. Or perhaps
Belinda was taking the opportunity to recruit them to her own business.
The redhead trotted in behind Anna and Samantha. “Belinda! It’s the FBI!”
The chatter stopped abruptly. In the silence, an Asian woman stood up from the couch. She wore a belted silver tank top, black leather boots, and dark jeans that clung to her legs like tights. The other women looked up to her like students to a professor. She was clearly the alpha escort.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“We hope so. I’m Special Agent Samantha Randazzo from the FBI. Are you Belinda?”
“Yes.”
“May we speak to you privately? We’re investigating Madeleine Connor’s death.”
“I thought Madeleine committed suicide.”
“Can we ask you a few questions about her?” Samantha said.
“No, I’m sorry. Why don’t you leave me your card. You’ve interrupted me with my friends.”
“Was Madeleine a friend of yours as well?”
“As I said, this really isn’t a good time.”
The rest of the women watched in silence. Samantha turned and faced the crowd.
“Two women from Discretion have died,” Samantha said. “You all might be in danger, too. We’d appreciate if anyone would be willing to talk to us.”
“We can offer you protection,” Anna added.
“What danger?” asked Randi. “You want to put us in the Witness Protection Program?”
“No,” Anna answered. “There’s no reason to think any of you need to be permanently relocated with a new identity. But we can put you up in a hotel for a while under assumed names.”
“Hell, I do that every night anyhow,” a leggy brunette laughed. “At nicer hotels than the government can afford.”
“Stop!” Belinda’s voice was loud and authoritative. She looked
around the room slowly, making stern eye contact with each of the women. “No one says anything else.” The escorts quieted in their seats. Anna could see that none of them would talk as long as they were here in Belinda’s house. Belinda turned to Samantha. “I’m really going to have to insist that you leave my home. Now.”
Anna and Samantha sighed in unison. They had no authority to stay. Belinda walked them back into the foyer. Anna could hear the chatter start up as soon as they were out of the living room.
At the front door, Samantha handed Belinda her card and said, “You know, you and all of those women could be in danger.”
“We always are. That’s part of the business.” Belinda glanced at the card. “But we don’t run to the police.”
“When was the last time you saw Madeleine?”
“Madeleine herself or one of her thugs? I assume somebody told you about Madeleine and me or you wouldn’t be here, right?” Neither Sam nor Anna answered her. Belinda shrugged. “No matter. It’s no secret that we didn’t get along. She didn’t treat people very well. She acted like she was all concerned about her clients and ‘her girls.’ That was just for show. The only thing she really cared about was herself.”
“I see.” Sam nodded. “Can you tell me where you were last night around ten
P.M
.?”
“I was with a gentleman friend.”
“Would he be willing to corroborate your story?”
“Of course not. You know what I do.” Belinda opened her front door, letting in a wave of hot air. “Good night.”
She shut the door firmly as soon as they were outside. Sam and Anna walked to the Durango, which seemed enormous parked on the narrow historic street. The SUV had heated up like a greenhouse while they were gone. Sam turned on the ignition and blasted the air-conditioning but kept the truck parked.
“Those women have to come out of there at some point,” Anna said. “We can try to talk to them without Belinda running interference.”
“We’ll need more than the two of us. Let’s see if McGee can come or scare up a few detectives.”
Anna called and told him what was going on.
“Wait,” he said. “You’re telling me there are a dozen beautiful escorts sitting in a house in Georgetown and you need someone to talk to all of them?”
“Right.”
“This is a real sacrifice you’re asking of me.”
Fifteen minutes later, two maroon Crown Vics pulled up behind the Durango. Anna saw McGee and four more homicide detectives crammed into the first one; the second car held another four burly detectives.
She and Samantha met McGee on the sidewalk. Anna raised her eyebrows at the cars. “I take it there weren’t any other homicides to investigate today.”
“C’mon,” McGee chuckled, “you think anyone’s gonna turn down this assignment? I got a few more guys on their way!”
Anna had to laugh.
“You ladies can go,” McGee said. “We got this under control.”
Anna was anxious to get back to the office; she and Sam had a pile of subpoenas and document requests to get out the door—things like subscriber information for the phone numbers in Madeleine’s phone records, and the phone records and criminal history of Belinda and Peal.
She handed McGee a stack of Victim/Witness Assistance brochures. “Make sure you tell them we can put them up for the night. At a hotel, not at your house.”
He laughed. “I’ll work my charms, but not that well.”
Sam and Anna drove back to the office. They had gone only a few blocks when Anna’s BlackBerry buzzed with a new text message. She glanced at it, then rocked back with surprise. She wondered if it was some kind of sick prank.
38
N
icole huddled in a corner of the closet, aching, scared, and all cried out. She’d seen just enough before Pleazy locked her in the darkness to know that the closet was full of foul junk she didn’t want to be touching: dirty socks, a stained bra, something that might’ve been a used condom. The floor felt sticky under her left thigh. Her whole body throbbed.
She kept closing her eyes and reopening them, sure that one of these times she would find herself back in her own soft bed in her apartment overlooking the National Cathedral. This couldn’t be happening to her. She was supposed to be a senior at Georgetown. Not a drug addict. Not a crack whore. Nicole had friends—once. She had money and men and glamour. She had a future. This was not her life. She wasn’t here.
But each time she opened her eyes, she was in the closet in the dark.
She heard creaking—someone walking up the stairs. Was it Pleazy coming to let her free? The thought filled her not with hope but terror. He was too strong, mentally and physically, for her to fight. She couldn’t beat him. Once he opened the closet door, she would never stop being his bitch.
She still had one lifeline. She unzipped a pocket of her leather dress and pulled out her cell phone. She was too scared to make a phone call, in case Pleazy heard her talking. But she could text. Her thumb traced the edge of the smooth touch-screen, relishing the feel of something familiar. In vain, she tried to think of a friend she hadn’t alienated—a teacher who cared about her—someone to turn to for help. Even if there were anyone, she couldn’t let anyone from her old life see her like this. If she had any remaining glimmer of dignity, that would extinguish it.
From another zippered pocket, she pulled out the business cards Capri had handed her last night. Using the light of the phone screen, she looked at the cards. There was handwriting on the back of the one from Anna Curtis.
I can help you. Call me.
Bullshit. This Anna chick didn’t want to help Nicole. She wanted Nicole to help
her.
Prosecutors didn’t give out their business cards so they could provide charity to street prostitutes. They gave out their cards when they were building a case.