Despite the black lace, Eve knew Nadine would double-time it to Central. She did the same to the bullpen and Peabody’s desk.
“Shake it off,” she ordered. “I need you to do the coffee thing in the conference room. I hooked the same one. I want to set up the electronic board in there, so I can give Nadine some details, then shut it down for her camera.”
“Nadine?”
“I want as many hands and eyes on this as I can manage. She’s coming in cold.” Eve gave Peabody a come-ahead so they could walk and talk. “She had some bet with Jake about her taking a media blackout for thirty-six hours.”
“Nadine?” Peabody repeated, but with a laugh. “What did she bet?”
“She almost made it, and serious sexual favors.”
“With Avenue A’s front man?” Peabody executed a sexy shoulder wiggle. “That’s a no-lose situation.”
“However that goes, she can and will dig in, and maybe do a big deal about child exploitation—including by some bitch-ass rep in CPS.”
“Oooh, an in-depth story on Truman? That would be even better than a punch in the face.”
“Punching her would’ve been—momentarily—a lot more satisfying. A big-ass Nadine story lasts longer. Meanwhile, I’ll give her a one-on-one, get Dorian’s face out there. We’ll set up a tip line, put some experienced drones on that.”
“She could’ve rabbited right out of New York.”
“Could’ve,” Eve agreed as she swung into the conference room. “So I’ve got some uniforms hitting transpo stations, showing her photo. But where’s she going to go? She’s got nobody.”
“Her great-grandmother,” Peabody began.
“Dead—three years ago, traffic fatality. So, nobody.”
She switched on the board to start on the transfer of data and images. “With Covino and the others Dawber took, they had people, they had jobs, residences. And he took them for himself, not for profit. Mina Cabot had the same, but they still managed to hold her, without a trace, for months. Dorian, and others like her? They’ve got nothing and nowhere.”
“Easier pickings.”
“Probably, sure. But someone like Mina represents more projected profit. That’s my take, anyway, after a glance at the sales packets.”
“Do you want me to finish that?”
“No, I want you to start a search, nationwide, using Mina Cabot as a template. The age range, the good, solid family/neighborhood/schools angle. No history of running away, no trouble. And start with the seriously pretty type. Factor in missing for at least two months.”
She continued as she worked. “Filter out any with more than a sixty percent probability they were taken by a parent, family member, or other individual, any with conclusive ransom demands at the outset.”
“Nationwide?”
“If you don’t get a break in the next twenty-four, we’ll take that global. But for now, I want to whittle down whatever you get to highest probability, see if we can map it out, pinpoint areas, hunting grounds. When Feeney shakes free, he wants in. He can take this end over from you, but get it going.”
Peabody puffed out her cheeks, released the air. “Do you need me in here with Nadine?”
“Did you do the coffee thing?”
“Done. And if you don’t need me, I’d do better on a search of that scope at my desk. And I could tap one of the techie-type uniforms to assist.”
“Go do that. And have Nadine’s camera wait in the lounge until I clear him or her in.”
When Peabody left, Eve stepped back to scan the board. A lot of data already. Hadn’t done Mina Cabot any good, she thought, but they wouldn’t have the data without her.
“An alliance,” she said to herself, thinking of Willowby’s term. “I can see it. Same age, good brains. Your idea, I’m betting,” she added, looking at Mina’s ID shot. “Somebody like Dorian’s more used to going it on her own. You? Solid family, soccer team, friends. So you reach out to somebody you figure has some street smarts, somebody who wants out as much as you.
“And you’re the distraction.”
She thought, paced, thought, paced.
“Make yourself boot up dinner. There’s a mess. Do they call in a medical, take you to whatever sort of medical facility they have on-site? Have to have one on-site. It’s smart, took some guts and … trust,” she decided. “There had to be trust between the two of you. More than two of you?”
She rolled that around, but she just didn’t see it. Bring too many in, you widen the possibility somebody breaks, says or does the wrong thing, screws it all up.
Not impossible, she thought, but unlikely.
She stepped up, looked into Dorian’s angry eyes.
“Where the hell are you?”
Dorian woke in a bed, and under the hurt, under the fog, panic cut like blades. They’d found her. They’d taken her back to … She couldn’t remember, not all the way.
But she surfaced swinging, slapping out.
“Easy now, you’re safe now.”
The voice, male, older, quiet, had a steady calm. But her breath kept jumping in and out of her chest.
“You’re hurt, and you’ve got a fever. We’re going to help you.”
She saw the man, the wavy mass of brown hair, the little beard, the blue eyes, calm and quiet like the voice.
“Who are you?” Her voice sounded wrong, all croaky and hoarse.
“We’re friends. Mouser found you, and helped bring you here. It’s a safe place. Your ankle’s not broken, but you have a very bad sprain, and your knee’s banged up. You hit your head, or someone hit it. It’s probably a concussion. Do you understand me?”
“I guess.”
“We have another friend, and he’s a doctor. I sent for him, but if you want, we can get you to the hospital or contact someone. Your mother? Father?”
“No, no, no!”
“All right. We won’t do that. Drink a little water.”
When he held a cup to her lips, she grabbed it, tried to gulp it all at once.
“Not too much too fast. You’ll just sick it up. I’d like Dr. Gee to have a look at you before we give you anything more than the water. Do you want to tell me what happened to you?”
“I don’t … it’s all messed up in my head.”
He nodded as if he understood, and she saw something in his eyes she hadn’t seen in many in her life. Kindness.
“That’s the concussion,” he told her. “Don’t worry about all of that right now.” He set the water glass aside, then took her hand. “Do you want to tell me your name? It doesn’t have to be your real name if you’re not ready.”
She had a fresh moment of panic when nothing came, then it did, at least that did. Her relief rose so fast she didn’t think of making up a name.
“I’m Dorian.”
He smiled at her. “Hello, Dorian. I’m Sebastian.”
Nadine Furst powered into the conference room in a sharp blue dress paired with a short white jacket and towering white heels. She carried a bag approximately the size of New Jersey with big blue flowers over a white field.
Her streaky blond hair fell in a new style to swing, ruler straight, at her chin. Cat-green eyes scanned the board before shifting to Eve.
“I filled myself in on the way over. Mina Cabot, age thirteen, missing from a Philly suburb since November. Her body was found yesterday morning in Battery Park, impaled. You’re primary. Early reports suspect a mugging gone wrong.”
She scanned the board again. “Which is bogus or you wouldn’t have tagged me. Who is this?” She gestured toward Dorian. “Who is Dorian Gregg, and why is she on your board?”
Eve walked to the AutoChef, programmed coffee for both of them. “None of this goes on the air yet. I’m turning off the board before I give you the one-on-one.”
“I’ve got that part, Dallas. Give me the rest.”
“What do you know about Chicklets, youth sex trafficking, sex traffic in general, and kiddie porn?”
“For one thing, if you ever watched Now, you’d know we devoted an entire show to the bust a couple months ago. Importing women from overseas, locking them into the sex trade, selling them. Chicklets are generally between eleven and fourteen. Too old for the Kiddie circuit, too young for the adult. A prime spot for certain types of predators.
“Why do you think this is that?”
“Two twelve-year-old girls—twelve when Mina was taken, and when we project Dorian was—were abducted. Devon, Pennsylvania, and somewhere, we believe, between Freehold, New Jersey, and New York for Dorian.”
“Beautiful girls,” Nadine commented. “Strikingly pretty girls. Was Mina raped?”
“No, she died a virgin. One in very good health, who’d recently used high-end hair products and was wearing a custom-tailored white shirt, her old school uniform pants, and silk underwear that retails at a couple grand.”
Nadine opened her mouth, and Eve pointed to the conference table. “Don’t ask, and I’ll tell.”
She ran it through with the respect and trust that had built through friendship. She ran it through, Eve realized, almost as she would for another cop.
“An organization,” Nadine commented. “What you see as a structured and sophisticated, even practiced one. Do you think it focuses on girls in this basic age range?”
“Can’t say, can’t know. But it’s a hard swallow for me to believe these were the only two.
“Selling in bulk, either auctions or choosing and grooming a girl for a specific client or client type. You have the setup, the structure, the staff, the facility, and some of that is steady outlay. Additional girls only cost to feed and clothe, essentially.”
Nadine sat back, held her coffee mug in both hands. “Jesus, Dallas, if you’re right, and they have scouts in other areas, it could draw girls in nationwide, even import them from overseas. Or have other locations like the one here in New York.”
“There has to be a money man. You can’t start up an organization like this without serious financial backing. Money to buy the property—you’re not going to rent unless you’re renting from a head guy. You need money to hire, for a security system, for medical, for food and clothes.”
She’d already pushed up as she’d briefed Nadine, and now continued to pace in front of the board. “And that money man expects to make a profit, so you’ve got somebody keeping an accounting.”
“And how do you hide girls—however many—without anyone noticing? How do you keep them contained without restraints or drugs?”
“They might use either or both at first. ‘Want these bindings off, kid? Behave.’ And still … my best guess is they have a solid front. Maybe run some business out of part of the property, or have the look of it. Some people coming and going, so it looks like it’s a business or residence. Some property that has a garage or a shipping dock or something that allows them to bring the girls in, take them out when it’s time without drawing notice.”
“And you’re confident this second girl, Dorian Gregg, not only didn’t have a part in killing Mina Cabot but got out with her?”
“It’s unlikely she’d have the strength to drive the weapon clean through the victim, and she sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to move the body to the dump site alone.”
Once again, Eve studied that young, angry face. Shook her head. “Add her blood was planted. No reason for that but to throw suspicion on her. No reason to throw suspicion on her unless she got out.”
“I’m trying to think of an argument to that, but really can’t.” Nadine set the now empty mug aside. “If you’re right about the setup, you’re right on the rest.”
Like Eve, Nadine studied the face on the board, the pretty girl with the angry eyes. “You want me to get her name and face out there.”
“I want you to do that, and do whatever you can to have her name and face out in as many media markets as possible. How long she’s been missing, all of her data, and as a material witness to the murder of Mina Cabot.”
“You want to implicate her?”
Eve angled her head. “Is that what it sounds like?”
“It will to some. They wanted to throw suspicion on her, you said. Won’t calling her a material witness solidify that?”
“Be nice if it works that way. And I’ve already gone there,” Eve said before Nadine commented. “They’ll look for her, too. They already are. If they have any contacts in the NYPSD, the local government, the media—and they likely have some whether the some know it or not—they’ll try to push to see what we have.”
“But they won’t get anything unless you want them to,” Nadine concluded. “You run a tight ship.” With a nod, Nadine looked back at Eve. “How much of this can I air?”
Eve crossed to the AutoChef to get more coffee for herself.
“Other than the data on Gregg, I’ll give you a one-on-one on Cabot, as much as I can, and that’s going to include the angle that she and Gregg met up, hooked up, ran into each other on the street so we believe Gregg may have witnessed the murder, or have some salient information on it.”
“Whoever killed her will think you’re hedging, but you’re hedging about finding Gregg’s blood, about her being your prime suspect.”
“Again, it’d be nice. Either way, we get Gregg’s face out there, and that could be how we find her. I’ll give you a tip line for viewers to contact. We’ll get a lot of bullshit, a lot of cranks, but it only takes one genuine sighting to give us an opening.”
“You think she’s still here, in New York.”
Now Eve turned to the board again. I know you, she thought as she studied Dorian. I know you.
“Where’s she going to go? How’s she going to get there? She’s got no one, and most likely nothing but the clothes on her back. She might be hurt. She’s thirteen, and if she isn’t scared, she’s not as smart as I think she is.”
“All right.” Pushing away from the table, Nadine rose. “We’ll get this started.”
“One more thing. You maybe want to take a look at Pru Truman, CPS, Freehold.”
“And why would I want to look at her?”
“Dorian’s caseworker, or shitbag excuse for her caseworker. Could be a big, juicy story on neglect, abuse, and how some—even one—inside the system designed to protect can corrupt that system and lead to the exploitation of those they’ve sworn to protect.”
Nadine’s eyebrows winged up. “You’ve given this some thought.”
“Yeah, I have.”
“All right. I’ll take a look.”
“Good.” Eve shut off the board. “You can bring your camera in.”
It took longer than she’d wanted—Nadine was thorough—but if it paid off, well worth the time.
When she walked back into the bullpen, Peabody hailed her.
“I’ve already got nine—using your filters. I pulled in Officer Jonas, and she’s running west of the Mississippi, while I’m doing east.”
“Nine—I figured more.”
“That’s nine on my area, and with the filters—so far. But I wondered about the runaway filter. We would’ve figured Gregg for a runaway, so maybe—”
“Good thought,” Eve said before Peabody finished. “Add them in, then we’ll work through them. Some, maybe even most, probably took off on their own. But so did Gregg.”
“That puts my number up to seventeen. The other thing is the pretty level. It’s, you know, in the eye of the beholder and all that.”
“Use your judgment there. We have to start somewhere, Peabody. Odds are they’ve snatched up others who aren’t as physically striking, for other levels, purposes. But we start with—what is it?—the high-end. When we bust this open, we bust it all.”
“I get you. Stupid for me to think: You’re not pretty enough, like she didn’t count. That’s not it.”
“It’s not. We keep the focus tight, we have a better shot. Keep at it.”
As she walked back to her office, it occurred to her she wouldn’t have made her own cut. Too skinny, bony—what was the word? Gawky? She supposed it applied. Definitely not a high-end product.
Had he raped her to “season” her or because he enjoyed it?
Probably both, she concluded. And it didn’t matter, she reminded herself. Unless her own experience somehow applied, somehow helped the investigation, it didn’t matter.
She got more coffee, sat, and thought: Location.
But where did she start? What kind of building/facility? Not abandoned, condemned, up for sale, and not—she believed—recently acquired.
What type?
An apartment building, converted office building or warehouse, factory. Something that could be tightly secured.
Apartments and office buildings had windows. Sure, you could install one-way glass, break-proof.
A big expense, she considered. Less glass in a warehouse or factory, and either of those might have—likely had—shipping docks, garage access.
She’d do a search, for what it was worth, and take a hard look at anything that seemed remotely hinky. She admitted Roarke would have a better system, but she didn’t want to ask him.
Stupid, she admitted. Like Peabody feeling guilty about judging girls on their looks. But she just didn’t want to put him into this one. It hurt him, brought too much stress and worry with it.
So she’d get it started her way, and while she ran properties, she’d pull up Peabody’s search results and start digging into missing girls.
Too many, she thought, too many lost, angry, scared young girls. She needed to find one to have a chance at helping others.
She glanced back at Dorian Gregg.
“You’re the damn key, Dorian.”
She felt better. A lot better. One of the other kids, a girl named Chi-Chi (totally made up), helped her into a shower. It didn’t embarrass her to get naked in front of Chi-Chi. Her months at the Academy had killed any modesty in her.
And it felt so good to get clean.
They gave her clean baggies, a T-shirt, and the doctor—if he was a doctor—used a healing wand, a cold pack, put some sort of wrap on her ankle. Whatever he did to her knee hurt like fire for a second, then eased almost all the pain.
He said she had a concussion—the worst of it—a sprained ankle, and had knocked her knee out of alignment. He’d aligned it again. She was supposed to keep the knee and the ankle elevated as much as possible, and rest.
She didn’t see Sebastian for a while, but that was okay. She was tired, and since Mouser—he seemed to think since he’d found her, he was in charge—brought her a grilled cheese sandwich and ginger ale, she wasn’t hungry.
Mouser chattered away while she ate, but since her head didn’t hurt very much, she didn’t mind. He said they got to stay there as long as they wanted. But they had rules and stuff. No fighting, no bullying, no stealing from each other.
They could steal from marks, sure, but had to be careful so they didn’t get caught. No illegals, no alcohol.
What came into the family—they thought of themselves as family—belonged to the family.
Everybody took an oath to keep it all secret. Most were runaways, like her, or abandoned, like him.
Mouser’s mother had left him in a flop and hadn’t come back again. After three days, he ran out of food, and went out, wandered the streets.
She drifted off as Mouser told his story, and drifted into dreams.
Her mother, her mother. She could see her mother, hear the raging voice, feel the hand crack over her cheek. Even in the dream it burned like her knee had.
Like fire.
Then it wasn’t her mother, but someone else. Cold, hard face, cold, hard eyes, not raging hot like her mother’s. She jabbed something into her side, and the fire blazed. Bigger, bigger than the knee, than the slap, than the dozens of slaps of her life.
She cried out, but only in a piping gasp as her lungs burned, and her legs gave way.
“Spare the rod, spoil the child. We don’t spare the rod here. Follow the rules and you’ll have lovely clothes and good, healthy food—even cake. Break the rules and feel the rod.”
Another jab, another blast of fire that turned her vision bright white, then dull gray.
Someone touched her. She didn’t want to be touched, not that way. They probed inside her. It shocked and hurt almost like the rod, and somehow worse.
She threw out all her curses—and she knew plenty. The rod struck again. Again. Again.
She ran, ran and ran, through the dark. Through the tunnels. Someone took her hand, and she gripped it like life. Running, climbing, falling, everything so mixed up and horrible. Pain and fear, pouring rain.
She saw a face, pale against dripping red hair.
“Don’t go! Don’t go!”
But the hand pulled away; the face faded.
She woke crying and calling. Someone held her, and she shoved and pushed. But the hands didn’t slap or probe. They stroked gently down her back, over her hair. And the voice spoke as gently as the hands.
“Hush now. You’re safe. You’re all right. It’s just a bad dream.”
“Is she okay, Sebastian? Is she? Is she going to be okay?”
“She’ll be fine, Mouser. You go get her some water. She had a bad dream.”
“I used to have them.”
“I know. But you’re okay, aren’t you?”
“Bet your butt! I’ll be right back.”
“Try to relax now,” Sebastian told Dorian. “Do you want me to let go?”
“I—no.” Nobody held her or stroked her hair. It felt strange, made her a little ashamed that she liked it, and made the awful less.
“Do you want to tell me about the dream?”
“I don’t know. It’s all mixed up. Everything’s all messed up, all mixed up. And my head feels too big or something.”
“It’s no bigger than it should be, but you knocked it hard. Is there pain?”
“Not really, not like before. I’m so tired.”
She rested her cheek on his chest, heard his heart beating. And her eyes filled and spilled because—in that moment—she felt safe.
“And no wonder, so you rest as long as you need. And here, quick as a mouse, is our Mouser with some water. Sip a little.”
When she did, she looked up at the man who brushed tears from her cheek. She should’ve felt shame that she’d shed them in front of him, but she felt relief.
He looked smart, she thought, looked like somebody who knew lots of stuff. But why was somebody smart living with a bunch of kids? Why was he giving her a place to stay when he didn’t even know her?
“The wheels are turning,” he said, and tapped a finger on the side of her head. “You can’t know the answer to a question if you don’t ask it.”
“I wondered … Why are you helping me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Mostly people don’t help.”
He smiled, but she thought his eyes looked sad. “Only the wrong people don’t help. You’ve met too many wrong people, I think.”
“We help each other.”
Now, when he smiled at Mouser, his eyes smiled, too. “Absolutely. Go on now—you’re a good boy. I need to talk to Dorian for a minute, then she can rest.”
“I can stand guard in case she has another bad dream.”
“A good boy and a good friend. It’s all right. Go out, get some sunshine. It’s a bright summer day.”
“I’ll be back later.”
Sebastian waited until Mouser shut the door. “It might help if you’d tell me about the dream, even if it’s all mixed up. Or if you’ve remembered anything else and want to tell me.”
“What is this place?”
“It’s home for now. A building I came by. A small apartment building once, and now home.”
“Are you rich?”
“Not the way you mean, but we’ve got enough. And there’s more to be had when needed.”
“I ran away, I remember that. My mother hits me all the time, and gets high and brings men in. I ran away from that, and I’m not going back. If you try to make me, I’ll just run again.”
“I don’t believe in making people do things. I especially don’t believe in making children stay with people who hurt them just because they share blood.”
“I’m not a child. I’m thirteen.”
“From my advanced age, that makes you a child. Did you run away to New York or live here already?”
“I came here, but it gets mixed up. I remember some now, but it’s all blurry and jumbled up.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you remember, and we’ll see where that takes us?”
When she did, he listened. When she spoke of the prod, or the probing, he took her hand, held it.
She cried again. She couldn’t help it.
“I can’t remember more. I don’t think I made her up, the girl with red hair. I think—I think she’s my friend. But if she’s my friend, why can’t I remember her name, or how come we were running together?”
“Sometimes the mind protects us from what we’re not ready to remember.”
“But I want to!”
“And you will. You’re so much better already than you were just hours ago. A little patience, Dorian.”
“I don’t like patience.”
Now he laughed, and she liked the sound of it.
“I can’t think who does, and still we need it. Why don’t you rest awhile?”
“I—can I get up? I don’t want to stay in bed. Can I get up and see more of where we are?”
“If you promise to tell me if you get dizzy or feel sick, or if you have pain.”
“I can promise. I don’t lie after I promise, so I don’t promise if I think I’ll need to lie.”
“That’s a very clever philosophy. I follow a similar one myself. Well then, let me give you a tour. We can start here. This is your room as long as you need it.”
It wasn’t very big, but she’d never had big. It was clean, and had a window where the sun shined in. It had a bed and a dresser with three drawers and walls painted a bright, bold blue.
“I like the color. It’s pretty.”
“The last girl who stayed here painted the walls her favorite color.”
“What happened to her?”
“She moved on. She liked to cook, and got a job in a restaurant kitchen, and a little place of her own. It’s how it should work, the moving on when the time comes. Until it does, this is your room.”
“Do I have to pay for it?”
“You do, by following the code, helping to keep it clean, sharing what you have or acquire with everyone.”
She got up slowly, then stood in her borrowed pajamas—sweats shorts and a T-shirt. “I don’t feel dizzy. I promise.”
“An excellent start. Let’s continue our tour.”
While Dorian got her tour, Eve walked into the bullpen.
“Listen up! I need volunteers to take shifts manning a tip line.”
She ignored the collective groan because she—sincerely—sympathized. “We’re looking for information on this girl. Peabody, put Dorian Gregg’s ID shot on the main screen.
“Dorian Gregg, age thirteen—you can read her data. A runaway and likely abductee. We believe she was held in the same child trafficking facility as Mina Cabot. Cabot, also thirteen, was found early yesterday morning, impaled.”
She briefed them quickly.
“Officer Carmichael, if you’ll select four uniforms to assist on the tip line. Detectives, you can rotate, two hours on unless you’re running hot.
“We need to find this girl before whoever killed Mina Cabot finds her. Any tip that doesn’t include her being carried off by alien overlords gets a follow-through. Even the alien overlords get documented. The media’s about to cut loose on this, so we’ll get the leading wave of calls in the next twenty-four.
“Any problems, I’m in my office till end of shift, and working this at home when I get there.”
Because, Eve thought as she went back to continue her searches, if they didn’t find her in the next twenty-four, odds were she went rabbit, or got herself caged like one.