RENO, NEVADA.
It was noon by the time Kirk Stevens and Carla Windermere finally said good-bye to Agent Fast and Billings, Montana, for good. They left the Blue Room’s hapless johns in the custody of the local PD, while the FBI’s Salt Lake City division took custody of the trafficked women. None of the women shared Irina Milosovici’s desire to escape. They were terrified, all of them, thankful to be in government protection—unaware, maybe, of the lengths the Dragon would go to keep them quiet.
“Please,” Sanja told Windermere as she boarded the FBI’s transport van for Utah. “Find Amira. If you can.”
“We’ll try.” Windermere watched the women climb, wide-eyed, into the van. Probably their first real view of America, she realized. They’ve spent the rest of their time here in shipping containers and shitty bedrooms.
Sanja took a window seat. She waved as the van pulled away, and Windermere watched until she’d disappeared. Then she turned away to find Stevens.
He was watching, too, a few feet away, lost in his own thoughts. She punched him on the shoulder. “This story ain’t over yet,” she said. “Wake up.”
Stevens forced a smile. “Just waiting on you, partner.”
They caught the afternoon flight to Denver, drank beer and watched baseball in the airport bar, and jumped on the connector to Reno. No FBI agent waited to greet them this time, so they caught a taxi down the highway to the Bureau’s local detachment, where Windermere wrangled them an unmarked Ford Taurus and a head start on some leads.
“Got us a list of brothels, strip clubs, and escort services from the local vice squad,” she told Stevens as she slid into the driver’s seat, “but most of it looks pretty clean.”
“I thought brothels were legal in Nevada,” Stevens said.
“They are,” Windermere said, “except for Las Vegas, Reno, and a couple other spots. So you have to leave city limits to find the legit stuff. Makes it kind of a pain for the casino guests, I guess.”
“Sure,” Stevens said. “Who wants to drive all the way out to the desert for some action?”
“Exactly. So there are some escort agencies and the like, but I’m not sure our guys want their girls doing out-calls.”
“Out-calls?”
“Like, the girl comes to you,” Windermere said. “As opposed to in-calls, where you go to the girl.”
“Like the Blue Room.”
“Pretty much. Mostly, an in-call is a private condo or a hotel room. Not so much a shitty warehouse blasting Nickelback over the loudspeakers.”
“Roger.” Stevens cocked his head. “How do you know this stuff, anyway?”
“Research.” Windermere winked at him. “Unlike someone I could mention, I didn’t sleep on the flight. Spent most of my time Googling Nevada hookers. God help me if Harris’s IT people get ahold of my browser history.”
Stevens laughed. “Okay,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Let’s see.” Windermere drummed on the steering wheel. “I checked in with Mathers, got the latest from him, which is to say, not much. And I got pictures of the Dragon’s two thugs out to Reno PD and all of the hotels and casinos in town. Figured maybe the delivery boys stopped in for a little gambling on their way out of town.”
“Good thinking,” Stevens said. “Lots of lines in the water. So what are we doing while we wait for a bite?”
Windermere turned the Ford onto a highway on-ramp. Gunned the engine. “What we do best, Stevens,” she said. “We’re going to talk to more strippers.”