While Eve battled traffic, Dorian stirred out of a fitful, feverish sleep. She’d managed to pry a thin board off a broken window and crawl through into what looked like an abandoned storefront.
Nothing in it but dirt, spiders—probably rats—but she’d needed to lie down, just try to sleep. Even with the pills and ice packs she’d stolen, everything hurt.
And under the hurt, fear bubbled. She didn’t know of what, or who, but she’d crawled through that window, cutting her hand on some of the broken glass, because everything in her had said: Hide.
She’d curled on the floor, shivering and sweating herself in and out of sleep for the day. Once, during the endless, miserable night that followed, she’d started to crawl out, to steal some food, but she’d just given up until she’d slept again.
Now she saw sunlight eking through the cracks of the board she’d tried to put back in place. Another day, she realized, and every instinct told her she needed to get up, to move, to find food and a better place to hide.
But everything hurt.
“Wondered if you’d wake up.”
The voice had her jolting, so her head seemed to balloon, then pop.
“Take it easy, squeezy.”
Since it was a kid who crab-walked over to her, the worst of the fear ebbed.
He had big brown eyes, an unruly thatch of purple-streaked brown hair, and a round, pink scar in the middle of his left cheek.
She thought he was younger than she was, though her blurry brain couldn’t pinpoint her own age.
She tried to tell him to go away, but her voice just croaked.
“You look sick. Beat up some, too. Hungry?” He held out a piece of untoasted bagel with a hand not altogether clean. “I ate the rest.”
She took it, gnawed on it.
“I call myself Mouser, ’cause I’m fast and sneaky.”
When she just stared at him, he shrugged. “I guess you can come with me if you want, ’cause you don’t look so good. We’ve got a place, lots better’n this. And cops might check in here like I did, ’cause you left blood on the window.”
“Where?” she managed.
“Not that far. Cops after you?”
“Don’t know.”
“Come on with me if you want. We can fix you up. Got beds and all, and food, too.”
“No shelter.”
He snorted, swiped the back of his hand under his nose. “Not like you mean. We look out for each other. Rule is—’cause we got some—see a kid needs help, you help if you can. So you can come with me if you want.”
“’Kay.” The cough hurt when it racked her. “Leg hurts.”
“Don’t look broken or nothing. Anything,” he said with an eye roll, as if some internal teacher corrected him. “You can lean on me. I’m stronger than I look.”
He had to help her get to her feet, and twice, she had to just sit back down because her head swam.
When she did, he sat and waited.
But when she stood, she found she could put more weight on her bad leg than she’d feared.
Not a lot, but enough to limp, and to lean against Mouser.
They got out the way they’d come in, but Mouser laid rags over the window to protect their hands.
They came out in an alley.
“What you do, see, is you just walk along like you’re going somewhere, got some business, check? Nobody pays attention much around here.”
The sunlight hurt her eyes, made them water, but she tried to look like she had some business as they came out of the alley onto the street.
“Got a name? You can make one up.”
“My head feels wrong. Everything’s all messed up, and I can’t remember stuff.”
“Like your name? No shit? That’s kind of frosty.”
“Doesn’t feel frosty.”
“You know two plus two?”
She sent him a look well-known to teenage girls. “Like four? My head’s messed up, not stupid.”
He just grinned at her. “You sound like a frog.”
“Throat’s sore. Where are we?”
“Down to the downtown.”
“Downtown where?”
“Jeez peas. New York.”
“New York,” she whispered. “I was in New York. I think. I think. It hurts to think.”
“So stop.” Then he sighed, dug into a pocket of his dingy baggies, and pulled out a mini tube of Coke.
“You can have it. I just snatched it and the bagel.”
She chugged some down, coughed violently, chugged again.
“You’re all sweaty. Maybe from being sick or whatever, ’cause it’s not so hot yet. Down this way.”
He led her down another alley, then pulled up a break in a security fence. Her leg hurt more now, but he kept going until he stopped in a skinny, scabby-looking lot and dragged up a metal cover.
“Now we go down.”
“Down there?”
Heat washed over her, and cold swept after it.
“Tunnels.”
“Best way to get there. They don’t use ’em anymore ’cause they changed the grid or the something, and don’t need this one.”
“Tunnels,” she repeated.
“They ain’t—aren’t scary. It’s like a secret, okay? You can’t tell. Hurry up.”
Her mind turned off. She saw walking, walking. Running, walking. Had to hurry, had to get out.
Away.
Everything echoed, outside her head, inside.
She stumbled.
“We’re almost there. Swear to God. Come on, get up.”
“Can’t.” Curling into a ball on the rough concrete, she let the tears come.
He tried patting her head, patting her back, but the tears didn’t stop.
“I’ll be right back, okay? Here, here, you take the light. I know the way.”
Then she was alone. She’d sleep, she told herself. And if she didn’t wake up, okay. She was so tired, so sick, so scared. She didn’t need to wake up again.
She thought she heard footsteps coming fast.
They’d found her, she thought as she drifted away. She’d known they would. But they couldn’t hurt her now because she was going to sleep. Forever.
She didn’t feel the hand cool on her face, hear the voice speak.
“Poor thing, she’s burning up.”
“Leg’s hurt. She could hardly walk on it.”
“Mmm. Well, we’ll see what we can do.”
Arms lifted her. Somewhere inside she flailed out. But she only moaned and muttered.
“All right now. We’ve got you, and no one’s going to hurt you.”
Because she beat her way through traffic in good time, Eve went straight to her office to write out her thoughts and theories. A kind of boot camp, she considered, for sex slaves. Training facilities.
She pushed up, got coffee. She knew something—something from the dream. Something connected to it.
“Not pretty enough.”
Squeezing her eyes tight, she willed memory back.
Troy, Richard Troy. Did he say that? Something about her not being pretty enough, never going to be pretty enough to bring the big bucks?
Rent instead? Rent her out, use her up, sell her off?
“Am I making that up? Just projecting?”
She walked to her window, stared out, stared down.
“Needed seasoning. Goddamn it, I’m not pulling that out of the air. You need some seasoning, little girl. I can hear him say that.”
Because it made her sick, she pressed her forehead to the glass. She needed to stay steady. If something pushed through, she’d still stay steady.
But if not pretty enough meant something—something relevant to the investigation—she’d need to dig down for it.
She turned at the tap.
Detective Willowby stood in the doorway, her knuckles still resting on the jamb.
“Lieutenant, Detective Willowby. I’m a little early. I only live a few blocks away, and thought I’d come right in.”
“No problem. Coffee?”
“Yeah, sure. A little milk, one sugar. Do you mind?”
Eve nodded when Willowby gestured to the board.
While the detective studied it, Eve programmed the coffee.
She didn’t look like her name, Eve thought.
On the short side with a compact, athletic body, Willowby hooked her thumbs in the front pockets of black, straight-legged pants. With them, she wore red high-tops, a white T-shirt—with confetti-framed sunshades hooked in the neck—and a red bomber-style jacket.
She sported a colorful braided cloth bracelet on her right hand, and a tattoo—a crescent moon and three stars—on the back of her left. Her hair, a razor-sharp short bob, read ink black except for the crown and thick fringe dyed dark blue.
The quick research Eve had done said Willowby’s paternal side had come to the U.S. from England a couple hundred years before. Her maternal side had its roots in Iran, and she favored that with golden brown skin, amber eyes, sharp features.
“Thanks,” she said when Eve offered the coffee. “I read up on the case when McNab gave me the nudge. I want to say good job getting Jewell Gregg charged. If we find Dorian, she’ll have a chance now. Second.”
She paused, sipped coffee. Her eyes, heavily and beautifully lined and lashed, popped. “Okay, wait.” She sipped again. “You’re married, right?”
“Yeah.”
“If you weren’t, for this coffee, I’d get down on one knee right now. So, second, I want to offer my personal as well as professional kudos for kicking that useless Truman in the crotch.”
“You know her?”
“No, or I’d have given the crotch kick a solid try. But like I said, I read up. People like her screw up the system, screw up all the ones who work their asses off, and most important, screw up the kids. Dorian Gregg didn’t have much of a chance as things were. We find her, she does.”
“No sightings yet,” Eve said. “Not here, not back in Freehold.”
“She won’t go back there. Nothing there for her but misery. She won’t come in. She’s got no reason to trust the system. You think the same, that came across in your report. But you figure she got loose.”
“Why set her up for murder if you have her?”
“A couple possibilities. You keep her as a slave or you sell her off-planet or overseas. But…” Willowby gestured toward Dorian’s ID shot. “You could do that without the setup. You don’t need the setup. Mina’s dead. Making it look like a street crime, okay, but adding Dorian’s blood?”
“Vindictive,” Eve concluded. “Add the hope that would discredit her if and when she’s pulled in.”
“That’s how I see it. They—and no way this is a single abductor, or even a partnership—they’ve invested in these girls. The clothes, the food, the care. The time. Months for Mina. We can’t be sure how long for Dorian, but long enough for them to have formed an alliance.”
“‘Alliance,’” Eve repeated.
“Friendship’s possible, but an alliance absolutely. I’ve worked with victims who’ve gotten out of bondage or bad homes that way. It’s going to piss you off to lose that investment—times two. And it’s not impossible more got out. Maybe I think you’d have gotten wind of more, but not impossible.
“Can I sit?”
“Don’t sit there. Use the desk chair.”
“Okay, thanks. Siblings, for instance, may work together to get away from an abusive parent. Women or girls—because it usually is—held against their will may work together, even if it means just one getting out.”
Willowby cocked an ankle over her knee. “We can bust up, with time, trafficking operations that ship in a half dozen at a time, say. Bring them in on boats, mostly—the occasional charter—house them in some dump. Some put them right to work, the forced sex trade. A lot of times they’re promised a legit job to get them here. Modeling’s a classic for a reason, then they’re crammed together in a shithole, rented or sold. Drug them up, get them addicted. But that’s not this.”
“No, not a shithole, no drugs, no visible signs of physical abuse.”
With her eyes on the board, Willowby bounced her cocked foot. “Psychological abuse and torture. Lock them up in a dark room for a few days, or in a room where the lights blast and never go off. Run constant propaganda on a wall screen. Shock collars, shock sticks, something that doesn’t damage the product.”
She drank more coffee, savoring. “Offset that with rewards. Toys or games for younger ones, ice cream, candy. Affection. They’re going to crave it, especially the younger ones. A hug, a smile, a kiss on the head. It doesn’t take long for a kid—six, seven, eight—to fall in line. It does take consistency, a secure location, vigilance. Even then, some of these kids are tough customers, and they find a way out.”
She pointed toward the board again. “Those two? On the older edge for the kiddie porn racket, but they hit the Chicklet sweet spot.”
“‘Chicklet’? I’ve heard that term.”
“Usually ages eleven to fourteen—boy or girl—starting to develop. Attractive—on the boys side usually at least somewhat androgenous. The user or buyer or viewer, depending, isn’t into the young kids, but wants that youth, the freshness. If it’s a sale, they’ll likely get sold again when they hit sixteen or so, unless the buyer develops an attachment. It can happen. Or finds other uses. But trade-ins are common.”
Back to the assembly line, Eve thought. “Like a fucking car.”
“You got it. The way this reads to me? You’ve got a syndicate with a lot of arms. Scouts to find the kids. They may double as the pick-ups. They’re going to look harmless, ordinary, may be or look pretty young. Kids trust other kids more—that helps me get their trust. I look like one of them. Alternately, they might look or pose as authority. A cop, a teacher, first responder, someone a kid’s taught to respect.
“Then you’ve got the keepers—who take the kid in. You might have more than one location for that. You need medical people, you need people to get food or prepare it. If you take your business seriously—and this one does—you maintain records. Outlay, profit and loss, cost per product. You’re probably going to want some sort of studio and the equipment to shoot vids, take photos—and somebody who knows IT well enough to get them onto the dark web without leading us right to them. Business manager,” she continued. “You have to calculate what to charge the pervs for viewing, what to charge if you rent out the product, what to charge when it’s time to sell or which ones should go up for auction.”
Willowby shrugged. “And I’m not telling you anything much you haven’t already concluded. I’m probably not adding anything much by saying if whoever took them has a solid business model, financial backing, and contacts, those two girls would go for top dollar. With those looks, that age bracket? Eight to fifteen million on the block after some smart marketing.”
“Explain the marketing.”
“Photos, anywhere from provocative to hard porn. Same with some short vids. No penetration, so if they used a male partner, everything but that. Some girl-on-girl, some solo. We’ve come across actual brochures listing kids. They give them names like Candy or Hank, list their data, their skill set, set a price or, if it’s for auction, a minimum opening bid.”
“Can you copy those to me?”
“Sure.”
“Explain skill set.”
Willowby shifted, brought up her legs to sit cross-legged in the chair.
“They’re going to hype, but if they want to grow the business, want return customers, not overhype. Rate them on their skill in giving or receiving oral sex, coming or bringing to orgasm, fondling, masturbation, seduction techniques. If they’re dominant or submissive, or can do both, and all that. If they’re not selling or renting as virgins, how they rate as full sexual partners—vaginally or anally for the girls. More than one partner, group sex, role-playing.
“Then there’s Domestic Slaves, Pets, Whipping Boys, Party Favors.”
“Okay, wait.” Since she wanted it, Eve got them both more coffee. “Domestic Slave’s easy enough to figure. Round up the rest.”
“Pets, usually the younger ones, but not always. Somebody wants a kid they can dress up, play with, train, like a pet. Whipping Boys—girls there, too—for sadists. Somebody they can knock around, torment, torture. You know, had a bad day? Here’s your punching bag. Party Favors tend to be somebody they can pass around to guests and friends.
“Those probably aren’t going to look like our girls up there,” Willowby added. “Unlikely to be virgins, as rape would be part of breaking their will. Regular physical punishment, too. And they sure as hell aren’t going to put them in high-dollar silk underwear. Not enough return on the investment.”
“Not pretty enough,” Eve muttered and began to pace. “That’s where that came from. Okay. Not adolescent beauties who’ll draw top dollar. Kids broken down enough to serve other needs.”
“Rent ’em and rape ’em, buy ’em and beat ’em. I’d really like a shot at helping you crack this one open, Lieutenant. If I could work with somebody from EDD. McNab or somebody as good?”
“Work with how?”
“I’ve been working on prying open a door in the dark web, and I’m really close. I’ve got a handle, a persona, I’ve filtered in some data. I’m a rich bastard toying with the idea of buying a product. Just testing the waters, right? If I have some tech help on it, I really think I can break through, but I need that background solid. Any organization like this is going to do serious checking. I need to look like I’ve got the money to buy a prime product.”
“Have you cleared it with your LT?”
“He’s waffling some, so I’ve been putting most of my time on it when I’m off duty. A word from you would make a difference. Especially if Captain Feeney got on board. I’m close. I know I’m close. And one more thing? They had Mina Cabot for over eight months. She was thirteen. They had to be about ready for auction. She wasn’t the only one about to go on the block. They’ve got to have an auction coming up.”
“And if we’re right, they’ve lost two returns on their investment.”
“They need to recoup that. Not only bring in new girls, but prep any they have for sale. And I’ve got some street contacts. I already put the word out on Dorian Gregg. If she’s in New York, we’ve got a shot at finding her.”
“I’ll talk to your lieutenant, and to Feeney.”
“I appreciate it. Almost as much as this coffee.” She got to her feet.
“Why SVU? Why minors particularly?”
“Me? I had a perfect childhood, good as it gets. My dad’s uncle was a cop, in Queens. He had the best stories, like fairy tales to me. I wanted the Academy. My parents weren’t thrilled, let me tell you, but they gave me a year to get it out of my system. I didn’t. Then my second week in uniform, we find this kid, seven years old, beaten half to death. His father did it before he passed out drunk. Mother was doing her second round for fraud down in Virginia where she’d taken off when the kid was about five.”
She shrugged. “That was it for me.”
“Where’s the kid now?”
“Evan? Evan Hawkins. He was lucky. He had grandparents living upstate who wanted him, with no idea he even existed. He just graduated high school. He’s going to fricking MIT. Too many aren’t lucky, but now and again.”
“I’ll be in touch, and so will somebody from EDD.”
“Great. I’ll send you those brochures.”
When she left, Eve sat to update her notes and reach out to Willowby’s lieutenant.
When she heard Peabody coming, she rose.
“Read my updates. You can use my desk. I’m expecting some data from Willowby. I’ve cleared it so she’s attached to the investigation.”
“Oh. Okay. How—”
“I have to go up to EDD.”
“Did something break? How long have you been here? Shift just started.”
“I got in early. Read the notes. Do you know if McNab’s clear?”
“He closed one yesterday afternoon, but—”
“Read the notes,” Eve said again. “And yes to the damn coffee.”
She swung through the bullpen, tried to avoid eye contact with Jenkinson’s tie as he stood by his desk slurping coffee.
She failed, had her retinas blasted by what might have been a depiction of the big bang.
She just kept going.
She’d known, of course, she thought as she jumped on a glide. Willowby’s general information hadn’t been news. But she hadn’t known, not fully, the details. The terms used for the children in trafficking. The categories, she supposed.
She needed a hook, and Willowby might help her find it. She saw some openings now. Dorian Gregg could bust those openings wide, but she’d begun to see.
When she stepped into the carnival of EDD, Jenkinson’s tie seemed tame, almost ordinary. Colors blasted and clashed, neon baggies, polka-dot suspenders, screaming T-shirts, and crazed airboots.
She spotted McNab standing in his cube, hips twitching, long blond tail of hair swaying as he worked on whatever he worked on.
She moved quickly into the sanity of Feeney’s office.
He sat at his desk, scarred brown shoes up, baggy, crap-colored suit reassuring. As was his explosion of ginger, gray-threaded hair.
His basset hound eyes slitted in concentration as he studied his wall screen.
“Got a minute?”
“Barely got my ass in the chair, this crap coffee in my hand, and already caught one. Fricking cyber fraud, already hauled in five mil inside twelve hours, targeting centenarians. I get that old and stupid, stun me.”
“You’ll get that old, but you’ll never be that stupid. I need McNab, or somebody on his level you can spare.”
“I just tossed the boy one.” Frowning, Feeney slurped coffee. “I could have him pass it off, maybe. You need an EDD man on the dead kid?”
“It’s a ring, Feeney, I know it. A trafficking ring.”
As she filled him in, he put his feet on the floor.
“You got him. I can shut down this scam in an hour—it’ll pop up somewhere else, but I can shut it down. You can have me, too. Sick sons of bitches. Give me the data on the kid you think’s in the wind. I can put some of my uniforms out there.”
“Thanks for that.”
“We’ve got some channels into porn sites, helped bust a trafficking case—adults though—a couple months ago. Bringing women—eighteen, twenty, twenty-couple—over from Eastern Europe on a cargo ship, jamming them into two or three rooms on the Lower East, then renting them out to pervs, using the better-looking ones for underground porn sites.”
“Yeah, this is like that, only bigger. More rooms, I think. Slick, sophisticated, Mira called it. I’m going to copy you on what I’ve got. Anything pops for you, I’m ready to hear it.”
“You got that. I’ll pull Willowby up here, have her and McNab work in the lab. Let me shut this damn stupid shit down. I’d pass it on, but one of the suckers who tossed in five K is the wife’s grandmother.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You think she’d know better.” He shook his head in disgust. “Promised Sheila I’d take care of it myself.” He grabbed one of the candied almonds from the rickety bowl—crafted by Sheila—on his desk. Popped it.
“Stun me,” he repeated. “Put me down.”
“Solemn oath. Thanks.”
She headed out and back to Homicide.
Peabody, her eyes horrified, looked up.
“Oh, Jesus, Dallas. They’re like sales kits. Like brochures. It’s…”
“I know. Send them to your unit and get me some printouts. Send them to McNab and to Feeney. I need the desk. Come back in ten.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take your coffee.”
Peabody just shook her head. “I think I’ll get some water right now.”
Rather than look at Willowby’s data, Eve engaged her ’link.
Moments later, Nadine Furst, not exactly camera ready, Eve noted, but ready for something, came on-screen.
“Dallas. I’m in the last few hours of a thirty-six-hour moratorium on work of any kind. I’m about to have an elaborate breakfast with my moratorium companion.”
Jake Kincade, rock star and Nadine’s lover, angled on-screen. “Hey, Dallas.”
“Hey. Sorry to interrupt. Nadine, why don’t you give me the contact of your top assistant or researcher and I’ll give this to him or her.”
“Give what? Damn it.”
“Go, Lois,” Jake said, and kissed her cheek.
“I haven’t had any media source in my life for twenty-four hours. Twenty-seven,” Nadine corrected. “It’s a record. I bet Jake I could make it thirty-six. I bet extreme sexual favors.”
“Win-win,” Jake said off-screen, and made her laugh.
“What did I miss?”
“Get to Central and I’ll tell you.”
“Off record until?”
“Some of it. Some I’ll want you to break, and fast. Bring a camera.”
“On my way.”
Eve noted the skinny black straps on Nadine’s shoulders and the froth of black lace visible below.
“Maybe change into something less comfortable.”
“To use your term, bite me.”
When Nadine cut her off, Eve rolled her shoulders. She decided Peabody had a point about water, rose to get some.
Then sat and read the brochures.