THE TANNED, RUGGEDLY HANDSOME MAN WITH THE MANE OF silver hair raised his champagne glass to the crowd gathered on the back patio of his mansion. “On behalf of myself and my friends with the Center for Missing and Exploited Persons, I thank you all for coming tonight and for your generous donations to this worthy cause.”
Keeping his expression somber, he waited for the polite applause to die down. “Every year, according to the FBI, there are nearly one million missing-persons reports filed with police agencies,” he continued. “And while we are all aware of the tragic fact that eighty percent of these involve children, not many people know that twenty percent are adults. They are truly the forgotten ones.”
The man bowed his head, and when he raised it again, it was with tears in his eyes. “Tonight we remember one of our own, Rene Hanson, a beautiful, loving, gifted young woman, whose parents, Tom and Rebecca, are living the ultimate nightmare and asking, ‘Where is Rene?’” He pointed to a tearful couple standing off to the side, who managed weak smiles and a slight lifting of their champagne glasses.
“I realize that most of you know the story, but to recap: Rene disappeared shortly before Christmas, just four months ago and, except for a few text messages, has not been heard from since,” the man went on. “I’m sure you are aware of the news reports that her car was discovered parked at LaGuardia and that security tapes at the airport show her in the parking lot and on a concourse with an unidentified man. According to FBI agents I have been in contact with, she boarded a plane bound for Guadalajara, Mexico, with the man, whose passport said he was Enrique Salazar. We have since been told that the FBI believes this was an alias for a man called the Bishop, a known trafficker in the human sex trade that is epidemic in Mexico.”
He paused in his speech, gazing sadly at the somber audience. Since Rene’s disappearance, there had been a media frenzy to discover what had happened to the young woman. The story had everything the press looked for when deciding what to sensationalize. The victim was pretty, wealthy, “clean,” and white. The parents were hopeful and proactive, even traveling to Guadalajara to pass out flyers offering a reward as the television cameras rolled. The tabloids had competed to see which one could print the most incredible unsubstantiated rumor. Meanwhile, the major television newsmagazines had investigated in Guadalajara and reported that it was a city rife with crime and drug gangs, with an extremely high murder rate, and infamous for trafficking in sex slaves.
But they couldn’t find Rene, nor could any of the others who tried as the cameras followed their attempts. Not the forensic teams with bloodhounds and ground-penetrating radar, not the psychics or private investigators or amateur sleuths. Not even legendary “reality television” bounty hunter Michael “Gator” Gleason, who was arrested and expelled from Mexico for assaulting, pepper-spraying, and handcuffing a man he claimed was the Bishop. “Give me ten minutes with him in a cell, and I’ll find Rene,” the muscular and well-coifed Gator had told the cameras when he was handed across the border to U.S. authorities. The man had turned out to be a day laborer who had never been out of the city.
And America ate it up, the speaker thought, pausing his speech as Rene’s mother barely stifled a sob at the mention of “sex trade.” Coming up with the story and then pulling it off was pure genius. The news wasn’t about Rene’s disappearance anymore, it was about the search for Rene, and all the tracks led away from him.
The man sighed. He felt bad for Rene’s parents. They’d never know what really happened to her, if she was dead or living in hell. But he didn’t feel bad enough to turn himself in. What would be the point of that except to punish me and waste my talents for what was basically an accident?
“We’re honored tonight to be joined by Westchester County District Attorney Harley Chin, who has kept the Rene Hanson case on the front burner,” the man said, pointing to a tall Asian-American in the back of the room, who bowed slightly to the smattering of applause. “As well as Senator Wade Tinsdale, all the way up from the great state of Arkansas, who some of you may know was recently appointed to the Senate Subcommittee on Missing and Exploited Americans. I also recognize and deeply, deeply appreciate that many of you took time from your busy schedules to come here tonight as a show of solidarity and to demand that this administration put the heat on the Mexican government to end this travesty and bring girls like our Rene home to the people who love them.”
The applause was louder, with a few “Hear, hears” thrown in. The man bowed his head and shook it slowly side to side. The emotion wasn’t entirely feigned. He missed Rene. The idea that he might divorce his cold and shrewish wife had been a fantasy; the real money in the family was hers, and there’d been a prenup. But he had loved Rene—at least, her body and the way she made him feel good about himself again. Like a new man. Younger. Bolder. Best sex I ever had . . . though I have to say that new girl, Maria, is a firecracker. Exciting.
At the thought of his new girlfriend, the man looked over at the blond woman standing at the edge of the crowd near the entrance to his house. She looked troubled, her blue eyes catching his and asking questions he didn’t want to answer.
He thought about the possible slip he’d made while talking to some of his guests earlier about a vacation to Portugal he’d taken shortly after Christmas with his wife and daughters. He hadn’t seen the woman come up to the group, and even when he noticed her, he hadn’t realized he might have made a mistake until he saw her frown. He hoped she hadn’t noticed.
However, after he finished his speech and was working his way through the crowd, shaking hands and hugging, she waited for him to be alone and then walked up to him. “Can I speak to you privately for a moment?” she’d asked.
The man glanced around with a half smile, as if listening to a mildly amusing joke. “Well, I’m supposed to be mingling, and the wife might not appreciate me leaving the party,” he said.
“There are many things your wife might not appreciate,” the woman replied evenly. “I think we should find a quiet place to talk.”
The man widened the smile on his face. “Fine,” he said under his breath. “I’ll see you in my library in five minutes.”
At the appointed time, he made his way to his library and entered. The room was stuffy, and he saw that despite it being an unseasonably warm April day, someone had the natural-gas flames lit and flickering over the ceramic logs. He looked at the bearskin rug and had a momentary flashback to the Fixer pointing to it and saying, “I assume the high heels are Miss Fox’s, yes?”
The man passed his hand over his face. What does she want? What has she guessed? He sat down at his desk and saw the photograph of his wife and daughters. He reached out and put it on its face just as the door of the library clicked open and the woman walked in.
He smiled and pointed to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat,” he said. “So, what do we need to talk about?”
“That was quite a moving speech,” the woman said. “Especially the part about the travesty of the sex trade. Ironic, don’t you think?”
The man’s smile disappeared. “You are certainly in no position to lecture me on morals,” he said with a growl. “You’re a high-class pimp. You made money by getting young women to sleep with men like me.”
A shadow passed across the woman’s face. “I’m well aware that what I’ve done will assure me of a seat in hell,” she said. “But as you know, I’m out of that business, and, if possible, I want to do what little I can to make amends.”
“What do you mean?” the man asked. He could feel the sweat beading up on his forehead.
The woman leaned toward the desk and looked deep into the man’s eyes, searching. “The Hansons deserve to know what happened to their daughter.”
“I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I’m involved with the CMEP. As you know, I had . . . strong feelings for Rene.”
“And she obviously had them for you,” the woman added. “But she was young and vulnerable and . . .”
“A call girl who charged a lot of money for sex,” the man said. “Let’s not gild the lily. I think she was a wonderful person, too, but—”
“It was, after all, a business arrangement,” the woman said.
The man’s eyes hardened, and his mouth set. He wasn’t used to being challenged, and now, while his mind urged caution, his ego took over. “Yes. In the end, that’s what it was, and she obviously took her business to Mexico.”
Mutual dislike hung in the air like a noxious gas. The man was the first to speak again. “What does all of this have to do with what you wanted to talk to me about?”
The woman’s eyes also narrowed. “As I was saying, that was a nice speech, but I was more interested in the conversation you were having when I first arrived.”
“I’ve had quite a number of conversations this evening,” he said. “Could you be more clear?”
“This was the one about your vacation in Portugal with your wife and daughters.”
She knows. “A lovely place, and we had a nice time,” he said. “What about it?”
The woman studied his face. “What about it is . . . I am absolutely sure that you were trying to schedule ‘Brandy Fox’—Rene—for times when you obviously knew that you’d be on the other side of the Atlantic.”
The man’s smile twitched. “Maybe you misunderstood the dates I was requesting.”
The woman shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, and I still have a good memory. I’ll check when I get home—I kept a record of all client requests, even if the girl already had an appointment, just in case someone canceled, and to monitor client tastes—but I’m sure I’m right.”
The man thought for a moment, then shrugged. “My wife and I were having marital problems, and I was thinking about not going on the trip and sending them ahead. I loved Rene, and she loved me. I wanted to spend more time with her.”
“Loved? Past tense. Not love,” the woman said.
“Let’s not play word games,” he retorted. “I think we’re all aware that the chances of Rene returning from Mexico are pretty slim to none.”
“If she ever went to Mexico.”
“What are you implying?”
This time, the woman hesitated before she answered. “I’m not sure, but something’s not right, and it’s not just you asking to see her when you knew you’d be gone.” She shook her head. “I should have put a stop to it when I found out that you knew her from before and that you were friends with her dad.”
“Quit with the moralizing.” The man scowled. “What’s the difference if she was screwing me or some other middle-aged man with a bitch for a wife?”
“Nicely put . . . true love. But unfortunately, I think you’re right. Rene did love you. She told me that you two had talked about buying out her contract so you’d have her exclusively.”
He bit his lip. “That was my plan. So that makes me the bad guy here?”
“I think you know more than you’re saying,” she responded.
“Why? Because I was hedging my bets on going to Portugal? Pretty flimsy case, if you ask me.”
“Maybe, but a lot of things aren’t adding up,” the woman replied. “After she disappeared, I went back and looked at her file, and there is no record of her seeing anybody else but you for two months leading up to Christmas. She’s excited about you buying out her contract and all this talk about marrying her. But suddenly, she meets some Mexican slave trader, and without saying a word to you or me, she goes off with him to Guadalajara?”
“I have to admit it hurt,” the man said sorrowfully.
She looked at him balefully. “You seem to have recovered. I saw you in Manhattan with a pretty little Latina last weekend. Starbucks at Washington Square in the Village. I was sitting at the window seat, and you were kissing her at the curb.”
“So what?” the man said impatiently. “She left. I’ve moved on.”
“My girls didn’t make their own arrangements, for their own safety . . .”
“And to make sure you got your cut,” he noted.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, my blood money . . . but let me finish. So she works for me for a year and follows the rules, then just skips out with some guy she meets?”
“I’m told the Bishop is quite manipulative,” the man said. “He comes to the United States and promises riches and even movie deals and wealthy husbands, and then, once he gets them to Guadalajara, he abducts and sells them to the highest bidder. Those Mexican drug lords like white girls.”
“Maybe,” the woman replied. “But in this case, add it all up, and it doesn’t make sense. And now you’re fudging around because I overheard you talking about your trip to Portugal.”
“What is this really about?” he said. “You think you can shake me down for money because you’ve thrown together some disparate pieces and believe you’ve solved this case? How much are you looking for? A hundred grand? Five hundred thousand? A million? Sorry, I’m not buying.”
“No,” she said sadly. “I’ve already done enough evil for money. I certainly don’t want any of yours. I’m going to think about all of this and decide what to do.”
“I would strongly suggest that you think long and hard,” the man replied. “A defamation suit can cost a lot of money. Now, if you’re done, I really should be getting back to the fundraiser. I’m at least trying to do something for Rene.”
“I’m sure you are,” the woman said. She started to rise from her seat, but a bright object hanging from the desk lamp caught her eye. It was a silver pendant of a Mandarin symbol.
The man’s eyes followed hers, and he realized in that moment that he’d made another mistake.
“Rene had a pendant like that,” she said. “She was superstitious and told me she never took it off.”
“Yes, she gave me a duplicate,” he replied. “She said that since we couldn’t exchange rings, it would be the symbol of our commitment to each other. It’s Mandarin for eternal love.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman said. “Yet another irony.”
She stood and walked over to the door. When she reached for the knob, he said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
She hesitated. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? For both of us.”
The man waited for the door to close and then yanked the pendant off the lamp. He opened the middle drawer of his desk and angrily tossed the jewelry inside before slamming it shut. Then he reached for his business-card file and found what he was looking for: “Discreet risk assessment and mitigation.” He dialed the number, then hung up and waited.
The return call came faster than he’d expected, and he jumped when his land-line phone chimed. He answered it, listened, grimaced, and responded. “Um, we might have a problem. I don’t know that we can count on the discretion of my acquaintance anymore.”