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Outside Rochester, Minnesota~ The Past
Francesca Crenlo hated the Grodins Alberts Network. This, despite the fact that she was technically part of the Grodins Alberts Network and most of her clientele were members of the Grodins Alberts Network or GAN as it was less affectionately known.
It mattered little to Francesca. She found them disgusting-the whole slimy lot of them. Still, she was a businesswoman and that slimy lot kept her finances in the black. How long that remained so, depended on the findings reported by the in-house investigative team. They oversaw the cleaners brought on when...upsets occurred. Protocol dictated that a chat with them was required when a death...murder occurred.
Fyodor Bryusov was a highly valued client of the Frankie Loves Brothel and a ranking member of the GAN. His death had been-in a word-brutal.
“Who did this?” Jon Dawkins frowned down at the carnage. The corpse lay inside an open body bag atop a gurney that would be transported to a GAN disposal facility. “Who?” he insisted.
“Just a kid,” Francesca said between hasty drags from the skinny brown cigarette between her ringed fingers.
Dawkins turned to eye the shapely brunette madam in the same disdainful manor she regarded him. “A kid? Did that?” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to the body of the 6’4 heavily muscled and tattooed Russian. “Fyo Bryusov can kill most folks with a look,” he said.
Francesca Crenlo barely lifted a rounded shoulder to shrug. “He got rough-she defended herself.”
“Defended herself,” Dawkins’ tone was flat but his expression was incredulous. “Against that? Where is she? This kid?”
With an eye roll, Francesca looked toward the porch and waved.
Dawkins watched a figure emerge from the brothel-a stately, reimagined farmhouse. His expression went from impatient, to bland to intrigued.
“How old are you?” He asked when the girl stood before him. His eyes took stock of her, his expression stating he’d be hesitant to believe any number under 25.
“Fifteen,” the girl said.
Disbelief made way for more disdain bordering on disgust when Dawkins slid another look to the madam.
“Son of a bitch,” Crenlo blew out a half sigh, half snort. “You judging me Jonny? That’s rich!”
Jon Dawkins only rolled his eyes away from Crenlo to return them to the young woman. “You from around here, girl?” He considered her flawless caramel-toned skin.
African-Americans weren’t of a high number in that area of Minnesota. The girl’s hair was a mass of small ringlet curls that framed a captivating oval face with perfectly spaced eyes of the most uncommon shade he believed he’d ever seen. Her face held the youth of a child, but she had a woman’s body. The fact was made more evident thanks to the strappy peach gown that barely reached her mid-thigh. She wore nothing else, not even shoes. If she wasn’t already 6 feet tall, she was well on her way.
“I don’t know where I’m from,” she said.
“No family?” Dawkins pressed.
The girl looked to Francesca Crenlo.
“Her mother’s dead. I’m her guardian,” the madam said.
“And a fine job you’re doin, Frankie. Did you do that to Bryusov, girl?” Dawkins steamrolled the heated rebuttal Crenlo was ready to deliver.
“He wouldn’t stop,” the girl blurted, her expressive eyes widening as her voice tremored. “I-I told him I never-I’m a virgin.”
“Yeah,” Dawkins grimaced as he nodded. “He likes those-someone should’ve told you that,” he fixed Crenlo with a renewed glower.
“I only meant to push him, Sir,” the girl went on. “I only meant to push him b-but then my hands were around his neck and...and I-I...”
“You crushed it so hard, you nearly took his head off his shoulders.”
The girl offered a shaky nod.
Dawkins took renewed interest in her attire then. “Chilly out here, huh?”
“Not to me,” she said.
Dawkins’ manner was reserved, assessing. “Get your things. You’re coming with me.”
“The hell with that!” Crenlo lost her ability to keep silent. “You wait just a damn minute Jonny-”
Jon Dawkins sliced the madam with a look that subdued the woman in an instant. “Go get your stuff, girl,” he said. “Girl?” he called before she got too far. “What’s your name?”
“Nica,” she said. “My name is Nica.”