“It’s been around for a couple of years now,” said Maclean. “Mostly it’s girls looking for attention. But some of them try to work it too. The site pays them sixty dollars per set of nude selfies. They can post up to four sets a month.”
“Two hundred and forty dollars a month to post nude pictures of yourself on the Internet? Are you kidding me? That’s what, less than three grand a year for giving the world unlimited access to nude photos of yourself. I wonder how much the owners of the site make.”
“Probably millions. Welcome to the digital economy.”
“Welcome to the race to the bottom.”
“Some girls in the sex trade use it like advertising too, to make contacts. They figure they can charge more money and get a better sort of clientele if they build a public image and a fan base.”
“Well, my money says that that ‘fan base’ is exactly where Rachel met her killer. Rachel needed a new high, and she was looking for a bad boy.”
“And unfortunately for her, she found one.”
“So can we find out who contacted her through the site?”
“Yes, but Assassin Girls is based in the Netherlands. That means we need to go through Interpol. The National Central Bureau in DC will make the request to the Dutch police for us. It’ll happen, but it will take a while.”
“Meanwhile our killer could be out and killing again.”
“That’s why we have to find another way to get to him. Time is one thing we don’t have.”
“I’m curious. What was the Seattle PD doing in the time between when Kyle Davis filed the report and when Rachel’s body was found?”
“Nothing. I checked into it. When I was trying to ID the Jane Doe and pulled Rachel Friesen’s file, it was the first time it had been opened since the day he reported her missing.”
Verraday shook his head, disgusted.
“Listen,” said Maclean, “it’s not that simple. Rachel dumped Kyle. Usually when a jilted partner reports someone missing, that person doesn’t want to be found, at least not by their ex. Particularly in the case of a girlfriend reported missing. The police department doesn’t want to be helping an abusive boyfriend stalk his ex. There are twenty thousand missing persons cases in Washington State at any given moment. Do you have any idea of the kind of manpower you’d need to track them all down?”
Verraday frowned. How in hell do twenty thousand people just go missing, even in a place the size of Washington State?
“What about Alana Carmichael?” he asked. “What do you know about her? I mean, besides what’s in the official report?”
“I dug around in the social services file. Her parents divorced when she was seven. Father moved to California, and she lived with her mother after that. Mom had a series of boyfriends, finally married one who sexually assaulted Alana when she was twelve. That was the first time she ran away from home. After the fifth time, the authorities finally clued in to what was going on. They were going to place her with her father, but by that time, Dad was in a halfway house and a methadone program, so instead Alana was made a ward of the state and went through a series of foster homes. Alana left as soon as she was old enough, never finished high school, and ended up working as a stripper, doing some webcam stuff on the side.”
“Totally different background than Rachel Friesen, but the same outcome,” Verraday wearily mused.
Maclean pulled the Interceptor up to the curb in front of Verraday’s small two-story clapboard house.
“I’ll get Rachel’s bank and cell records tomorrow and see what turns up,” said Maclean. “Meanwhile, if you can look over the case files for her and Alana Carmichael, and the rap sheet for Fowler’s suspect, Peter Cray, I’d be grateful. They were a little tricky for me to get; I had to sneak the originals for the Carmichael case out and get them copied on the sly, so as far as the rest of the world is concerned, you don’t have them, okay?”
“Got it.”
Verraday caught a glimpse of something in Maclean’s expression.
“What?” he asked.
Maclean was hesitant for a moment, then spoke.
“How can a family give up on their own flesh and blood like the Friesens did? I see it all the time, but I just can’t wrap my head around that.”
“You ever date anyone who was bipolar?” asked Verraday.
There was a long moment of silence between them. Then Maclean handed Verraday two manila envelopes. “These are the case files. There’s some pretty unsettling stuff in there. I’ll be up for a couple of hours. Call me if you want.”
He climbed out of the vehicle and closed the door behind him. She lowered the passenger window.
“Seriously. Call me if you need to.”
“Thanks, I’ll be okay,” said Verraday. “Good night.”