We were all laughing as we sat down to eat. It was pretty remarkable to think about my twenty-year-old in a private jet.
Ali said, “I’ve been looking at the girls you’ll be racing against, Jannie. There are some really fast—”
“I don’t care who they are or how fast they are,” Jannie said, scooping pasta from the bowl onto her plate.
“But—”
“But nothing,” my daughter said firmly. “Coach says I’m not racing them.”
Ali frowned. “Then who are you racing?”
“Me,” she said. “My best.”
“Oh,” my youngest child said, brightening. “I like that. You think you’re going to break your personal record?”
“I think I’m going to run like I know I can and I’ll see what happens,” Jannie said.
Ali was very goal-oriented for his age and I could tell her answer bothered him, but he sighed and said, “I hope you crush it.”
“I know she will,” I said and winked at Jannie, who smiled back.
The meal was delicious as usual, and hardly anyone spoke for several minutes. Then Nana Mama yawned and put her fork down. “Where did you say Bree went off to?”
“New York,” I said.
“What’s she doing there?” Ali asked.
I shrugged and told him the truth. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
CHAPTER 20
Manhattan
“YOU WANT ME TO guess who Katherine was with?” Bree said to Detective Salazar, her eyebrows knitting. “I don’t know. Frances Duchaine?”
“She’s too smart for that,” Salazar said, going to a park bench and taking a seat. “Sorry, my dogs are killing me.”
“No problem,” Bree said, also taking a seat. “So who was it?”
“Molly said she was sure it was Paula Watkins.”
“Who works for Duchaine.”
“Correct,” the detective said. “You don’t have to look at the story too long to figure out that it could all have been a setup, a bait and switch. They lure the young men and women in with promises of fame and fortune, get them in debt, then put them to work.”
Bree thought about that. “Any idea how much Molly made in those three years?”
“More like two and a half years,” Salazar said. “But I know she did roughly a hundred overnighters the first year. That’s a million right there. I’m thinking she might have pulled in two to two and a half million by the time she wanted out.”
Shocked, Bree said, “That’s real money.”
The detective agreed and said it was what had gotten her interested in the case. She’d gone to Paula Watkins, who denied knowing anyone named Katherine and said that Molly had just not worked out. How Molly had paid off her loan was anyone’s guess, she said.
Salazar visited Duchaine and asked the same questions. The fashion designer acted as if she had no idea who Molly was when the detective showed her a recent picture. When Salazar showed her one from Molly’s modeling portfolio, Duchaine recognized her and was dismissive, said she’d hoped a little nip and tuck and some pearly whites would have changed things for her.
“She told me, ‘Marketing tests don’t lie,’” the detective said. “Then she cut our meeting short. I tried to get Molly to set up a meeting with Katherine, but Katherine’s line was suddenly disconnected. And then Molly started ducking my calls.”
“Bought off?” Bree asked.
“That’s my suspicion,” Salazar said. “I never got to ask her.”
“Why not?”
The detective groaned and struggled to her feet. “She took off, went back to North Carolina. Her family said she was flush with cash and acting wild. It’s probably what got her killed.”
Bree had feared that possibility. “Murdered?”
“Three months after she got home,” Salazar said as she started to waddle again. “Shot at two in the morning outside her apartment building. Police down there have no witnesses and no leads. And here we are. Tell me about this lawsuit that was dismissed and sealed.”
Bree gave her the highlights. The two young women and the young man had been lured to New York the same way Molly had, with promises of modeling jobs. Once there, they were told they needed to get plastic surgery and see a cosmetic dentist. After the procedures, they still weren’t hired for modeling jobs, and so, saddled with debt and alone, they were leveraged into the sex ring.
“But the young man was lucky,” Bree said. “A Russian named Victor offered him work as a gay prostitute, and he was about to say yes when a relative died and left him a lot of money, enough to pay off his debt. But he was still angry and joined the suit.”
“You talk to the attorney?”
“I’ve got calls in to her,” Bree said.
“Let me know what she says,” Salazar said. “I suspect there may be a lot of others like him and Molly.”
“I agree, but I’m still confused about the why, you know?” Bree said. “Why would someone like Duchaine get involved in a racket like this? She’s a billionaire.”
“Unless she isn’t,” the detective said. “Lots of rich people claim they are, but who can really check unless they own a publicly traded company? Duchaine’s brand has always been privately held.”
Bree thought for several moments. “I went to her flagship store on Fifth today and there were not a lot of customers.”
“That right?” Salazar said. “Well, there you go, then. Cash flow may not be what it used to be. Think about it: If Duchaine needs cash and can make a million a year off Molly, why wouldn’t she want fifty or a hundred girls just like her?”
CHAPTER 21
Washington, DC
AFTER DINNER, NANA MAMA went up to her room to read and I told Jannie I’d do the dishes so she could chill and rest before her big race tomorrow. When I finished in the kitchen, I found Jannie and Ali in the front room engrossed in a show about doctors.
“What’s this?” I asked.
Jannie looked up in awe and said, “It’s a documentary series called Lenox Hill, about a hospital in New York where they deliver babies and operate on brain tumors.”
Ali said, “And they really show the brain operations, Dad!”
“Really?” I said, wondering if it was appropriate for him.
Ali nodded. “Not everyone makes it, which is sad.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got to get some work done tonight, so you’re on your own for bedtime. Jannie?”
“Ten sharp,” she said. “And don’t worry, Dad, I’ve got this.”
“I have no doubt. See you both in the morning. Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad,” they both said, their eyes back on their show.
I climbed up to the attic, which I’d long ago converted into a small office. I often went up there just to think, but that night, when I flipped on the light and weaved around stacks of old case files, I was on a mission.
I sat down at my desk and picked up Electric by Thomas Tull. My plan was to skim through the book, looking for the kinds of discrepancies or holes his editor said I might spot.