But who is paying me? And why?
She put those questions aside as she changed her clothes, ordered room service, and settled down at her laptop to write her report for Elena Martin’s eyes only. Bree forced herself to be cold while she wrote; she noted which statements were facts supported by documents and which were conjecture, and she was succinct in her conclusions.
“While I have no concrete proof yet of Duchaine’s ties to sex and human trafficking,” she wrote, “it is clear now that her personal and business lives are indeed threatened by crushing debt and looming payments due, which could easily have created the need for her secret life of crime.”
Bree marked the report Urgent and e-mailed it to her boss just as her dinner arrived: a medium rare New York strip steak, steamed broccoli and mushrooms, sweet potato fries, and a glass of red wine. She finished her meal and was carrying the rest of her wine back to the desk when her phone rang.
Phillip Henry Luster.
“Hello, Phillip,” she said.
“I hope you believe in the law of attraction because it has just been proven once again,” he said, the din of a bar in the background.
“Okay?”
“I just met one of Frances’s victims, though he doesn’t know he’s her victim, of course. His name is Brad Jenkins and he’s from Louisville, Tennessee. He’s twenty-three and very sweet and handsome but not handsome enough, you know?”
“You’re saying he fits the pattern.”
“Plus or minus,” Luster said. Jenkins had been spotted by a Duchaine representative in Nashville three years ago. Like the others, he had been lured to New York with vague promises of a modeling career with the fashion designer, only to be told that his looks weren’t quite up to snuff. They recommended a lower-jaw advancement, a nose job, and veneers, for which he now owed close to one hundred thousand dollars.
“Let me guess,” Bree said. “He was approached by someone named Victor after Frances left him hanging.”
“You’re clairvoyant,” Luster said. “Brad now works for Victor as a gigolo.”
“Can he give me Victor?”
“Better than that. Brad said Victor has been working on Brad’s behalf with none other than Paula Watkins, who has agreed to reconsider his portfolio at a special gathering Wednesday evening at Paula’s place on the Upper East Side.”
“Define special gathering.”
“Victor, who will be there, told Brad that the gathering will include other aspiring models whom Paula and Frances are considering for international work. And there will be talent agents from overseas.”
“International work. Talent agents from overseas.”
“Exactly my thinking,” Luster said. “This could be it, Bree. The sex-slave auction.”
CHAPTER 45
BREE FELT AS JITTERY and excited as she used to when a big case came together and the possibility of arrests was visible on the horizon.
Would Watkins be this bold? Have a sex-slave auction right in her own home? “How big is this place?” she asked Luster.
“Two adjoining brownstones Paula opened up and renovated—quite a space,” he said. The noise of the bar in the background diminished.
“How many people can it hold?”
“I was there once for a party of fifty and it felt roomy.”
“So the place could accommodate more,” Bree said.
“You can’t get in there,” Luster said. “They’d turn you away at the door.”
“But not you,” Bree said. “You could get in. Be my fly on the wall.”
“Not without an invitation, I couldn’t.”
“You’ll be Brad’s date. Someone in the biz looking out for his well-being, eager to meet Victor, perhaps as a customer.”
“I don’t—”
“You got Brad’s phone number, I assume?”
“Well, yes.”
“You’ll ask him, then?”
The fashion designer hesitated, then said, “Oh, why not?”
“Last question: Would you wear a wire?”
“A wire?” Luster said and chuckled. “Bree, you just gave me goose bumps.”
Luster said he’d text Bree if his young friend agreed to bring him along to Paula Watkins’s special gathering. Bree figured the odds were against Luster getting inside. But you never knew unless you tried.
After they hung up, Bree stood and paced the hotel room. She glanced at her watch. Eight thirty. Alex’s flight had left Boston at eight, which meant they couldn’t talk until at least eleven.
She was thumbing through her contacts, looking for Detective Salazar’s number, when the phone rang. Bluestone Group. A number she recognized. “Elena,” Bree said.
“That was quite the impressive report. Do you believe it?”
“Wasn’t I convincing?”
“Well, to be honest, from the thirty-thousand-foot perspective, I’m still skeptical because you don’t have witnesses willing to go on the record. And this banker, Sammy, he knows for certain Duchaine is carrying that kind of personal debt?”
“He has a financial position that will be negatively affected by that debt if she goes bankrupt,” Bree said. “So, yes, he sounded upset enough to know. And don’t forget Detective Salazar has heard the same kinds of stories about money pressures.”
“And she has been unable to get a search warrant because none of the stories came with hard evidence or a group willing to step forward and speak against Duchaine.”
Bree took a deep breath, actually glad for the challenge. “Elena, I agree there’s a long way to go to get it nailed down, but just in the half an hour since I submitted my report, I got the kind of break that could flip things. Paula Watkins is having a party the day after tomorrow, in the evening.”
“Okay …”
Bree explained and Martin was quiet for a long time. Finally, she said, “I wore Frances Duchaine clothes for more than a decade. They make my skin crawl now. Be careful, and I’ll send your report to our client to get approval for you staying on up there. Have you told the NYPD detective?”
“She’s my next call,” Bree said.
“Really impressive work, Bree,” Elena said.
“Thank you, and you still have no idea who we’re working for?”
“An attorney in Cleveland who represents other parties. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. But Tess Jackson is originally from Cleveland. Maybe she knows more than she’s letting on. Maybe that’s why Luster’s been helping you.”
“To end competition from Frances once and for all?”
“I’ve heard worse motives in my time.”
CHAPTER 46
Charleston, South Carolina
DUE TO A FLIGHT delay, I didn’t get into Charleston until one a.m. on Tuesday. The desk clerk at my hotel in the French Quarter could not find my reservation until nearly two. My luck finally changed around ten that morning.
After six hours of sleep and a breakfast heavy on the creole coffee, I’d gone to the Charleston police headquarters on Lockwood Drive, presented my credentials to the desk sergeant, and asked to speak with Detective Heidi Parks of the violent crimes unit.
Before he could answer, a woman behind me said, “I’m Detective Parks.”