CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Veronica went straight from Grace’s apartment to Mac’s building and pulled out her phone before starting up the stairs. It was almost eight. Logan would be home, maybe fixing dinner, or walking Pony. She jotted him a quick text.
Then she took the stairs two at a time up to Mac’s apartment. Mac opened the door before she even had a chance to knock.
“What happened?” Mac asked. “Did he confess?”
Veronica had called her on the way, saying only that she needed her help. Now she stepped into the apartment without preamble and asked, “How hard is it to retrieve a website once its admin has taken it down?”
Mac shut the door. “Well, most stuff on the Internet gets cached. It’s pretty easy to find. If you really want to make a website go away there are ways to do that, but most people don’t bother. It’s kind of a headache.”
Veronica threw her jacket on one end of the oversized sofa. The rugs and curtains had bright, geometric prints, and the air smelled like chai from the teashop downstairs.
“I need to find a webpage for someone named Chloé Huston.” She pulled her laptop from her bag and handed it to Mac. “It would have been taken down in late March or early April.”
“Sure,” Mac said, her brow furrowed. “What’s this all about?”
“Best to just show you, I think. And uh, be warned—there’s probably going to be some adult content on there.”
Mac blinked, but didn’t comment. She sat down on the sofa, opened the laptop, and started to type.
Working late with Mac always felt vaguely collegiate. They ordered pizza—half olive oil and eggplant for Mac, half cheese and pepperoni for Veronica. She hadn’t eaten since before San Diego, and was surprised at the surge of energy she got from righting her blood sugar. Before long she was pacing the living room, trying to determine what their next step should be, while Mac worked steadily at her computer.
It was an hour and a half before she found anything.
“Respect to the girl. She covered her tracks pretty well,” Mac said, exhaling loudly. “But I’ve got the site up if you want to take a look.”
Veronica sat next to her. On the screen, a black-and-white photo depicted a young woman sitting demurely on an outdoor terrace in a lace dress with a plunging neckline. Her face was turned away from the camera to gaze off over the city, but Veronica recognized Grace easily enough. There was a studied elegance in her posture.
Cursive script across the top of the page read Chloé Huston. Beneath that, in smaller font: Your fantasy come true.
“?‘Welcome to my world, gentlemen. I’m ready to share it with you,’?” Mac read out loud. “?‘Refined, sophisticated…looking to share romance and adventure with generous, discerning men…enjoys intelligent conversation about art, music, philosophy, and spirituality’??” She looked up at Veronica. “What are we looking at?”
“Grace Manning’s alter-ego,” she said. “Or, rather, her former alter-ego.”
“She’s a hooker?” Mac gasped.
Veronica took the laptop from Mac and kept reading.
I’m a cosmopolitan but approachable paramour who can provide a natural, satisfying girlfriend experience, whether we choose to go out or stay in. I also specialize in different kinds of role-play. I can make your dreams come to life. Contact me for details.
“Nope,” Veronica said. “She was a high-end escort. Trust me. There’s a difference.”
A gallery section had a collection of photos showing Grace, always looking away from the camera or with her honey-blonde hair obscuring her face, in a variety of provocative positions. Standing in front of a window in a corset and knee-high stockings; lounging chest-down on the deck of a sailboat wearing nothing but a bikini bottom. One showed her from the chin down, sprawled in a tangle of sheets.
The pictures were more pin-up than porn, and shot beautifully. But looking at them turned the pizza in her stomach into a leaden lump. Because you’ve seen the “after” pictures. Because you’ve seen her when someone took away all this care and control and turned her into a victim.
Veronica clicked on the section of the website marked “Donation” and scrolled through the pricing list. “Chloé Huston” charged $500 for an hour-long “interlude.” A two-hour “cocktail date” was $800; a four-hour dinner was $1,500. Other fees may apply. Mac’s eyes went suddenly wide. “So all that time we spent trying to find her ‘boyfriend’…”
Veronica put a hand on Mac’s arm. “I’m sorry, Mac. I guess Charles was one of her regulars.”
“Jesus,” Mac said. She took the laptop back from her and stared at the website. A mix of shock and disgust registered on her face as she scrolled through the information. “Oh, great. She likes fine dining and walks on the beach. I’m sure they have that in common.”
Veronica cleared her throat. “Mac, I hate to intrude on this reverie, but have you perchance checked out a vibrant little online salon called The Erotic Critique?
“The Erotic…?”
“Critique,” Veronica said, stressing the eek to help Mac with the spelling. “It’s like Yelp—but for lonely, horny fellas.”
When Mac gave her an incredulous stare, she shrugged. “Hey, hardboiled, remember? I’m on personal terms with the seedy underbelly.”
Mac typed The Erotic Critique into her search bar. The site launched, and a helpful intro explained the service. Customers could type in their parameters to find the perfect girl, or could simply browse through names, clicking on profiles to see descriptions and reviews. Veronica had once used it to try to help a client track down a prostitute who’d sold the GFE role a little too well.
A list of names filled the screen. Savannah Duvall. Miko Minami. Taylor Moran. Bella Diaz. Chloé Huston. “Seriously, how did anyone pay for casual sex before the Internet?” Mac murmured.
Veronica pointed at the screen. “There—could you click on Chloé Huston’s profile?”
Mac did. Instantly Grace’s vital stats popped up: eye color, hair color, height, and weight, along with measurements (34-24-34), tattoos (none), piercings (navel), and “breast description” (natural B cup). Below that was a comprehensive list of sex acts with bright green check marks indicating which ones were offered.
And below that were the reviews. Chloé Huston had forty-three reviews, all from guys with names like lovebandit and continental_gentleman.
Full, firm tits, fit bod, made me feel comfortable and at ease right away.
Has that something special u cant put ur fingers on (but I did!!!)
I have always had a teacher/schoolgirl fantasy and Chloé was awesome about making it “cum” true.
“These sounds like dirty Yelp reviews,” Mac said.
“Yeah. Raunchy lies and half-truths, a soup?on of single-entrendre humor, and a ton of dick-shaking—literally and figuratively. Ladies and gents, your American sex industry.” Veronica stood up and started pacing again. “So, did anyone give her a bad review? Anything two stars or lower?”
“A few.” Mac looked down at the screen. “One guy said she was ‘cold and aloof.’ He gave her two stars. One said some things I don’t plan to read out loud, but the gist is ‘unrefined technique.’ One said she didn’t follow instructions. The rest are just toxic gibberish.”
Veronica stopped in front of a framed movie poster for Nights of Cabiria that showed a doe-eyed Giulietta Masina smoking a cigarette. Something in Masina’s brittle, hopeful face made her think of Grace.
“This wasn’t his first time.”
Mac looked up. “What?”
Veronica turned away from the poster. The thought had been nagging at her since the beginning. “If I’m right, and Bellamy was the attacker, this wasn’t his first time. Think about how calm he looks in the surveillance footage—he’s standing right in front of a hotel clerk with a girl in his bag, getting the team checked out. A security guard is right there. A million ways he could get caught and he’s risking all of them. He’s forty-one years old. I seriously doubt that he just woke up one day after a life of respectful behavior and decided to start raping and brutalizing women. He’s been escalating to this. And so far he’s getting away with it.”
Mac looked queasy.
“If we could find other victims we could prove a pattern. We could show that he’s a repeat offender. It’d be harder for a jury to dismiss Grace Manning’s injuries. But the thing is: How do we do that if no one’s reporting?” Veronica said, now making her way toward the kitchen.
“The, uh, gentle hippie folk in the tea shop downstairs always know when you’ve come over to talk about a case,” Mac said, lowering her voice and gesturing at the floorboards beneath them. Veronica smiled and stopped pacing. She walked back to the sofa and sat down next to Mac. The Erotic Critique was still up on the screen.
“Anyway, they list the reviews chronologically, right?” Veronica peered over Mac’s shoulder at the computer. “Can you scroll down to the last few? Query the last date anyone reviewed her?”
Mac clicked a button labeled Search by Date and a dialogue immediately popped up: WELCOME BACK, VERONICA! WE SEE IT’S BEEN 9 YEARS, 8 MONTHS SINCE YOU ACCESSED THIS PREMIUM FEATURE. FOR DEEPER, MORE INTENSE SATISFACTION, CLICK HERE TO UPDATE YOUR PAYMENT AND ADDRESS INFORMATION.
Veronica groaned and Mac exploded in peals of laughter. Rolling her eyes, Veronica handed over her Visa card. A couple of minutes later, Mac was in the date-specific review, angling the screen toward her so she could see more clearly. “Looks like the last one is dated March twenty-eighth.”
Veronica stared at the screen. There were five reviews posted after the night of the attack.
Two were five-starred, one had three stars, and two had one.
professorXXX: 3 stars/5. Refused to come to my house even after I offered her extra—she made me take out a room in the most expensive hotel in town. I guess because she’s cute she’s gotten away with calling the shots before. Aside from that, I can’t complain too much—she worked pretty hard to placate me and at least at the Grand I didn’t have to clean up afterward.
mr_kiss_and_tell: 1 star/5. Gave me a lot of attitude and wouldn’t follow through on my requests.
top_dog: 5 stars/5. As amazing as advertised. Gorgeous girl, sophisticated and fun. After a few preliminary dates I finally persuaded sweet Chloé to go with me to the Sundance Festival in Park City. She fit right in and could have been a starlet herself—people kept staring at her, trying to place her. At one point I caught James Franco flirting with her!!
playhard69: 1 star/5. TIME WASTER!!!! Made an appointment with her THREE MONTHS in advance and she STOOD ME UP. No call, no email. I guess this WHORE is too good for my money?
master_P: 5 stars/5. ChloéChloéChloéChloéChloé. That is what you’ll be saying over and over again as she works her magic.
Her eyes narrowed. Would the attacker be ballsy enough to review a girl he’d left for dead? She thought again of Mitch Bellamy, standing at that front desk, laughing with the receptionist. Yes. If he was the one who did it, he’d think it was his right. He’d think, since he’d gotten away with it, that the universe was clearly entitling him to use and throw away whomever he wanted.
“ProfessorXXX is obviously a local,” she said softly. “He wanted Grace to come to his house. And Sundance is in January, so I’m thinking top_dog was just late in posting his review. Which leaves playhard69, master_P, and mr_kiss_and_tell.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Open up their profiles for me, will you?”
Mac clicked on playhard69. He hadn’t included any personal information—no surprise there—but all of his reviews sprang up on the screen. In addition to Grace, he’d apparently sampled the wares of Larissa Grey, Angelica Starr, and Alexis van Dyne, all of whom worked in Neptune.
It gave Veronica an idea.
“We need to go through and flag any users who’ve reviewed women in multiple cities, and any users who’ve reviewed lots of women in San Diego.”
Mac stared up at her. “You think Bellamy was crazy enough…?”
“I don’t know. Might be a long shot. It’s not like every guy who hires an escort is going to leap right out of the sack and write a review, right? But if Bellamy’s a serial offender, he’s hired escorts before.” She leaned toward Mac. “Maybe it doesn’t matter that no one’s reporting him. Maybe he’s incriminating himself in his reviews.”
They combed through the reviews. Fourteen of Grace’s clients had supped from the erotic smorgasbord in multiple cities. Of them, only one of them had posted a review after the attack.
mr_kiss_and_tell.
The reviewer had patronized more than thirty high-end escorts. It was hard to pinpoint the exact dates; he could have waited weeks between when he saw a given girl and when he posted a review. But the majority of the girls worked out of cities in the western half of the United States: Boise, Albuquerque, Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Seattle, L.A. All university towns with Division I teams—places a basketball coach would have a reason to visit.
“He has a type, that’s for sure,” she said, looking over the list. The girls were all “small,” “slender,” “petite.” They were all very young, at least from what Mac and Veronica could see—most of their faces were obscured on their websites. All were high-end. And they all specialized in role-play.
I have a full closet of fun costumes I just can’t wait to wear for you.
Pretending to be someone I’m not really turns me on!
I’m eager to be the very girl you want.
Mac stared at a picture of a lithe brunette in a low-cut gown, a flute of champagne in one hand. “I just don’t get how anyone could do it. Like, even if danger weren’t an issue, there is no way I could let some rando get intimate with my lady parts.”
Veronica didn’t answer. It wasn’t that Veronica could suddenly imagine going into the business herself, but Grace didn’t feel foreign to her at all. Grace felt like someone who, in other circumstances, she might have been friends with.
Mr. Kiss and Tell’s rankings were all across the board. He gave most girls three or four stars out of five, critiquing their performances like a cross between Hugh Hefner and Simon Cowell. Yvette had perfect breasts, full lips, and a toned body, but the sounds she made were distracting and ridiculous. Or: Delia was very sweet and obedient but I didn’t care for her clothes. Why does everyone assume that just because I want a submissive that means I want leather and straps? That said, she had a great bedside manner. A few girls, like Grace, had one star. Those reviews were even more critical: Tonya Vahn from L.A. acted like a stuck-up bitch. Looked nothing like her picture. One, a Nikki Valentine from Albuquerque wasn’t properly groomed: I could see her roots, her nails weren’t done, she showed up in the trashiest dress I’ve ever seen. For $400 an hour I expect a princess, not a tramp.
“What a charmer,” Mac muttered.
“There’s a reason he’s paying for it,” Veronica said. “Tomorrow we need to start searching the criminal databases in all of these cities. We’ll look for open assault cases dating in the past four years and see if any of them match up. But I’m pretty sure Grace is right—if any of these women were attacked, most of them won’t have reported it.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Can I see your computer for a minute?”
Mac handed over the laptop. Veronica opened up one of her private e-mail accounts and sat, thinking for a few minutes. Then she started to type.
I’m writing in the hopes that you can help me. I know you have a vested interest in keeping your clients confidential, but I’m currently investigating the rape of a working girl here in southern California and I think the man may have done it before. I’m trying to establish a pattern of abuse in the hopes that we can find a way to stop him. I’ve enclosed a photo of the suspect. If there’s anything you remember about him, please, call or e-mail.
It was a shot in the dark. If these women hadn’t reported an abusive john to the cops, there was no reason for them to do so for a perfect stranger. But Grace had mentioned that there were forums where sex workers could warn each other about “bad dates.” These women, at least some of them, looked out for one another. Veronica had to hope that the news that one of their own had been raped might move at least a few of them to reply.
Veronica and Mac sent the message to every girl Mr. Kiss and Tell had reviewed. A few of them had taken their websites down, apparently out of the business. A few of the e-mails bounced back immediately, the addresses no longer valid. But Veronica pictured the message winging its way across the country, popping up with little red Urgent flags in dozens of inboxes. Maybe landing in the right inbox. Maybe finding the woman who could help make their case against Mitch Bellamy.