The tech complied. At 4:47 A.M. per the time stamp, the blonde left room 606. She wore the same clothes but was walking like she was in pain. She kept her head down for the most part, and weaved a bit as if drunk. As she neared the elevator she turned her head. She had a cut on her face and bruises on her neck. Then she disappeared into the elevator.
“Bastard,” Lucy muttered. He’d had her in that room for four hours. Lucy didn’t care if she was a hooker, she didn’t deserve to be brutalized. It was clear she was well under eighteen. Certainly no older than sixteen, and Lucy would not have been surprised if she were younger. That’s why this john wanted her, not only because she was young but because she looked young.
“Do you need to take a break?” Barry asked Lucy.
She was surprised by the question. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.” She wanted to skewer whoever hurt the girl.
“Keep going,” Barry said, clearing his throat. The tech sped up the recording.
It was nearly three hours later that the guest left the room, dressed business casual. He carried a small overnight bag. He was well over forty.
“I’ll get the warrant to make it official,” Barry said. “But I know who that is.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Driving back to FBI headquarters from downtown San Antonio took twice as long as usual because of traffic, but Barry used the time productively. He first told Lucy that the man in room 606 was James Everett, a multimillionaire who’d made his money in real estate. “I don’t see what the connection is between Everett and Worthington, if there is a connection,” Barry said. “They could have known each other because they were both wealthy, established families in the city. Probably moved in the same circles, but they weren’t business partners. And Worthington is dead and Everett isn’t—otherwise I’d think maybe we did have a potential serial killer targeting dirty old men.”
He glanced at her. “You’re quiet. I expected you to have a theory.”
“There is a connection—that girl. She went from Worthington’s room to Everett’s room. She left Worthington’s phone in Everett’s hotel.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If she gave the phone to Everett, why would he leave it there? It connects Worthington—a suspicious death—to him.”
“Good point.”
“The girl must be working for someone who is getting her these jobs,” Lucy said. “She had the card key to the hotel room. She went straight up to the room, but the numbers aren’t on the cards.”
“You got intense back there. Are you okay with this case?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m just mad.” And upset, but she had closed down her emotions as soon as Barry had seen her reaction in the security office.
Nothing about human nature surprised Lucy. She was only twenty-six, but had faced evil too many times, in her personal life and on the job. She’d interviewed hookers and johns, pimps and madams. She understood the business of sex better than almost anyone, and that didn’t make her happy. She wondered if that was why Juan had wanted her on this case, because she understood this world. An underage prostitute rarely worked for herself. Almost exclusively, they had managers. They were often exploited, especially at the beginning of their careers, but over time they became as hardened as those who recruited them.
There were many paths that led young girls into the life of selling themselves. Childhood abuse. Manipulation by a boyfriend or even a fellow girlfriend. Kidnapping. Runaways. Some went in knowing full well what they were doing; others had no clue. Many became addicted to alcohol and drugs; most died far too young, broken.
The men who used them were more predictable. For most, it was about power and control. To pay a submissive to do what they wanted when they wanted. For some, it was a fantasy; they pretended they weren’t paying the girls, that the girl was with them because she wanted to be. But wealthy, influential men like Harper Worthington and James Everett probably convinced themselves that because she was paid, it wasn’t child rape. Because she was willing, it wasn’t sexual exploitation. They wanted, they took.
Men like Worthington and Everett made her physically ill. She didn’t harbor a lot of sympathy for the fact that Worthington was dead and Everett was going to be on the hot seat. She felt true empathy for the girl who’d been used and manipulated. If she did have a hand in Worthington’s death, she needed to get help more than punishment. Someone must have set her up to do this. And Lucy needed to convince her to overcome her fear—of law enforcement and her pimp—and talk to the authorities.
But first, they needed to find her.
“Send the photo to Tia Mancini at SAPD and see if she knows the girl,” Barry said. “I need to call Juan.”
“We’re going to talk to Everett, right?”
“Not tonight. It’s six o’clock. Neither of us is at the top of our game after thirteen hours in the field. After I talk to Juan, I’ll call you and let you know what the plan is.”
“I want to be in on it, Barry.”