vnNeSsa1 (15 page)

“Absolutely.”

I get through the rest of the show by putting blinders on, pretending there’s no one else around me. It’s easy because everyone ignores me, acting as if they don’t want to catch whatever it is I have. Some of the dancers were on the houseboat and saw me panic in the water. They especially treat me like I’m a headcase.

Even Ian hurries by me without saying anything. I want to talk to him, but things got so painfully awkward on the boat. The more time
we let go by, the easier it is not to say anything.

Tink comes to me in the dressing room when she hears what’s happened. Tink
doesn’t treat me as if I’ve lost it. She just makes sure everything is all right.

One foot,
and then the other. Get to the car in the parking lot. Drive to the apartment. Then fall into unconsciousness for as long as this body will allow.

The night air raises goose bumps on my arms on the short walk toward my car. The weather, like my relationship, has gone from hot to cold overnight.

There’s someone leaning against my car. Its familiar shape sends my spirits soaring and my pace automatically quickens toward him. Hope rises in my throat, only to be smashed when I get closer.

His face is closed, color leached from it by the halogen lights overhead. All sparkle is gone. His arms are crossed over his chest. There may as well be a brick wall between us.

“Let’s talk in my car,” I say, eager to get this over with, unenthusiastic for public display. Victor is silent until we’re in the car and I’ve prompted him with one question. “Why?”

“I need to keep this job,” he says, his voice monotone
. “Liam says you’re off limits.”

“I thought I meant more to you than that.”

He responds to this and says a lot more. But, after a while all I hear is, “Blah, blah, blah.” And, I wonder, are all break-ups the same bullshit? It seems to me, the bottom line is if they
wanted
to be with you, they would be with you.

I’m about to cry and I will not do that in front of him. There’s not much of me left. I have no past. Now, everyone has left me, but one friend. The new self I’ve created feels like a shell. But what there is of me will not cry in front of him.

Just before falling into oblivion that night, an image burns bright in my mind. It’s of Victor, seen through my rearview mirror as I sped away from the hotel. He’s rooted to the spot where my car has been, looking after me.

So the routine is to sleep until just before work, then get through the show, then eat if I can, and then go back to sleep. So, I sleep too much, eat too little, and work. Sleep, work, sleep, work. Sometimes Tink and I go out. We don’t talk much about my breakup because of Liam’s connection. There’s not much to say, anyway. She spends most of her time with Liam. I spend my time alone.

Now would be a good time to leave this city. The glitter and performing aren’t exciting without the people I love. Except for Tink, they’re gone. If only I had the energy, I’d take off right now. My time’s almost up. I can feel it.

Tonight, Josie has asked whether I’ll stay to talk to her after the others leave, so I’m removing my make-up very slowly. As soon as everyone is gone, she takes the empty seat next to me. My bed and sleep are waiting for me. What could this be about?

“Honey, I know you’ve had some bad things happen lately,” she begins, looking
as if she doesn’t know how to go on from there. I try to smile to encourage her. She gives me a look of pity that makes me look away. She clears her throat and continues.

“Anyway, I think you’ll understand this better than anyone else.” She starts to say more, but closes her mouth and looks over her shoulder. She turns back and goes on. “That dancer that looks like Haley Taylor? Well, she quit. But, I don’t think she quit.” Josie leans toward me. She looks
as if she’s waiting for me to say something.

“What do you mean?” I oblige.

“I’ve been working here longer than anybody. I’ve noticed a pattern. A very rich man will come to the show, sometimes twice. Within a week or so, one of the youngest female cast members disappears. It’s happened at least seven times in the two-and-a-half years that I’ve been here.” She looks over her shoulder again and then sits back and watches me, waiting for her news to sink in.

My brain feels foggy and resistant. Even so, it processes the implications.

“You’re talking about kidnapping,” I say slowly. “You’re talking about, like, forced prostitution.”

“Yes,” she says, leaning toward me again. She seems excited that I get it. “Trafficking. It’s not all Asian and East European girls like people think. I looked it up.”

My brain’s processing speed increases, trying to compute this outlandish idea.

“OK, but wouldn’t it be easier to traffic more vulnerable girls? Like runaways? You know, girls already on the street?”

“I don’t know,” Josie says, doubt in her eyes. “Maybe these rich guys don’t want girls from the street. Maybe it’s beneath them, or something.”

“That’s another thing,” I say, desperately trying to find fault with her thinking. “How in the world have you been able to pick out rich men in the audience?”

“I watch the audience from the wings. Have for years. I go crazy with boredom if I don’t. I know rich when I see it.” She sits back in her seat and rubs at the crease between her eyes as if she’s trying to smooth it out.

“How are they able to force them to stay wherever they take them?” I continue, relentless in my drive to prove her wrong
. “Can’t they just escape? And…” Something hasn’t fully formed in my mind, but it’s really bothering me. Ah, there it is. “Isn’t prostitution legal in Las Vegas? Why don’t they just go to one of the places that offer it?”

Josie flails her arms out. “I don’t know, Savannah. Sex is about fantasy. You girls on stage look so beautiful and out of reach.” She shakes her head, looking dispirited
. “I just know what I’ve seen. I see who the rich guys watch. Damned coincidence that the same girls the rich guys watch quit soon after.” Her mouth is set in a grim line. It’s at a right angle to the groove between her eyes.

This is too much. My mind wants to shut down again. To go to that numb place where I go through the motions of life.

“What do you want me to do?” My voice sounds dull in the empty room. “Can’t you go to the police?”

“They’d laugh at me. I have no evidence. I want you to help me find evidence. Or something the police will pay attention to.” She leans toward me again, her eyes excited. “Like, I’ve noticed every time the rich men show up there’s another guy around with eyes like a Husky dog’s
; they’re such an eerie blue. I think he’s connected with the hotel in some way. Maybe we could follow him.”

At her reference to Liam, I stand so fast my chair tips over. I trip over myself getting away from her and everything she’s saying. She can’t be right. What she says is happening can’t possibly be true. If Liam is behind it, then Victor might be connected and that’s unthinkable.

“I can’t. Josie, I’m sorry. It just isn’t possible. I don’t think you’re right.” I’m almost out the door.

The words she calls after me are stuck on a ceaselessly repeating loop in my head. They’ve become distorted from reality in the replaying. Sometimes the words are shouted. At other times they’re whispered. Always they haunt me. Sleep that night is not the usual void releasing me for a few hours. Instead, it’s filled with dreams of Josie’s words echoing in the vacant dressing room.

“They like the younger ones, Savannah. That means Tink could be next.

“Or you.”

Chapter 19

“Daddy, please, please reactivate it.”

Oh, save me. She can’t possibly think that display of teeth is a winning smile. Smile more, darling. You’ve just about convinced me I’ve wasted good money on braces.

She continues in a voice like her mother’s: an ice pick on a chalkboard
. “I promise I won’t run it up the way I did before. I just thought I needed those jeans because Chelsea has them and you can’t just get jeans; you need shoes and a top and a bag to go with them and I had to have a new iPad. I ran over my other one and Chelsea also got the newest version of the i –”

“Stop, Olivia! OK, OK, I’ll take the hold off the card.” Anything to get this child from hell
—really, I must get a paternity test—off my back. I’ve got to get her out of this room in a hurry. The other bane of my life, the tracker, will be here any minute.

Normally, I take refuge in my study when I know my daughter is at home. She is not allowed in my retreat. She would probably boost half the antiques and sell them for her precious designer jeans and whatnot. However, I have a meeting with the tracker at
five thirty. Let’s see if the industrial carpet and stainless steel of my fully equipped workout room can survive the destructive tendencies and foul habits of the Wilcox woman. Unfortunately, my alleged offspring tracked me here.

“Oh, thank you,
Daddy!” I endure her hug and sloppy kiss. It would be welcome were it from a normal, authentically grateful child. Lord knows, I give her everything. But she’s acquisitive, like her mother, and affectionate only when I’m heaping material goods on her or handing out cold cash. Exactly as was the case with her mother. Pity. A beautiful woman. Empty headed, though. Like her daughter. She can’t get out of the room fast enough now that she’s gotten what she wants.

What a relief. Where was I? Ah, yes. Bicep
s curls. God, I look good. No middle-aged, sagging man-boobs here. Just one hundred percent lean muscle. Girls half my age want me. Not only because of the way I look but I can still rut like a bull.

My housekeeper’s voice over the intercom tells me that the tracker has arrived. I curb my current train of thought immediately, not wanting to associate Rita Wilcox with images of sex. When she appears at the doorway, the wisdom of my decision is affirmed.

She’s not wearing her usual hideous, shapeless cotton dress. That would be a gloriously welcome sight by contrast. Instead, she’s wearing designer jeans all spangled to hell on the ass like somebody threw up rhinestones on them. She’s turning left and right as though she’s surveying the room, but really she wants me to see her ass. God, I wish I hadn’t. The tracker is also displaying cleavage. Lord knows from what far reaches she had to haul up her tissue to achieve this effect. There are, of course, the ubiquitous Harley boots in which the jeans are tucked. This is all so unsettling. I’m calling for a liquor cart immediately.

Rita’s ecstatic
—I can interpret her mouth tics now—that I’ve ordered up her Scotch. She crosses in front of me to seat herself on a leg press bench. Her butt is eye level. The last of my curls take half my concentration. The other half is spent eradicating the image of the tracker swaying her butt in tight jeans.

“Looking good, Howard,” she monotones, ticking. This time, she’s exhibiting amusement.

“Yes, well, and you’re dressed…differently today, Rita.” Words fail me. I lay down the weights and pull on a sweatshirt. Can’t have the tracker lusting after me. My parts shrink into my body at the thought, hiding.

“Girls’ night out,” she explains, garrulous as ever.

“Unimaginable fun.” My aim is to get down to business immediately, but she jumps in just as my mouth is opening.

“Every Friday night.”

“Fascinating. Now, I was about to say—”

“We certainly attract the males, especially the young ones.”

If my nether parts were recoiling before, they’re in full retreat now, hopelessly lost somewhere, probably near my neck. She’s watching me closely, mouth ticking so violently, her face is convulsing. This is new. This must be Rita Wilcox laughing hysterically.

Fortunately, the liquor cart arrives and Rita hikes over to it the second it crosses the threshold. She hitches the low jeans back up over her butt crack
, which broke free during the act of being seated. I head to the cart to pour myself a double.

Settled with my drink, my mind turns over possibilities of women to call at the last minute for this evening. I don’t want this Wilcox woman to ruin sex for me. Taking a long pull on my drink, I return my attention to the tracker. Time to get down to business.

“You actually called me. What’s going on?” I make reference to her aversion to phones. She’s paranoid about someone listening in, thus the unfortunate personal appearances.

“I have good news and bad news. Which first?”

“Bad news,” I say, bracing myself.

She takes her time about it, per usual. Sucking on her drink, staring at her reflection in the mirrors that line the walls, licking her mole in apparent approval
. Lord, no. Where’s my squeezy ball? Unspeakable oversight to leave it behind in my study. I look around the room, feeling quite frantic for a suitable substitute. Nothing is adequate to relieve this strain.

“We could have stayed in Los Angeles forever, getting nowhere. I got impatient.” More sucking. More mole-licking. “I decided to call in a favor from a contact at LAPD even though it was risky for you and for me.” She sneezes abruptly. I see the fine spray go everywhere and duck reflexively. She wipes her nose with her hand and puts the same hand back down on the leg press machine. I fly over to the liquor cart and hand a fistful of napkins to her, equally horrified by what she’s saying and her snot.

“A little over air-conditioned in here, isn’t it? Anyway, my contact is a techie. He works for the Homeland Security branch of LAPD, analyzing computer security breaches. I asked him if he could track anyone who has done a missing persons search on someone matching the profile of Vannessa Van Clief.”

“Oh, my God, you contacted the police?” This is more than bad news. The ten-pound weight within inches of my fingers could crush her skull if applied with sufficient force.

“He’s trustworthy. I have information on him that might be detrimental to his career.”

“I see. Go on.” Mentally filing the idea of crushing her skull, I’ve recovered enough from the shock of Rita’s rash act to be anxious to hear what the contact found. But, as usual, the tracker has her priorities. She’s got a firm grip on the liquor cart and she’s wrestling it over to the leg press machine. Of course, how utterly exhausting to walk the thirty feet there and back. Once she’s nursed on a fresh
Scotch a bit, she continues.

“He found a few computers around the country that made a search in that time frame fitting those criteria. Three in particular are red flags right now. All three were still actively being used at the time he hunted them down. One belongs to a guy named Seth Martin, goes by ‘Wolfman.’ A sleazebag, sells crap outside one of the hotels in Vegas.”

“Las Vegas,” I say, trying to keep myself from moaning. The tracker had been right about the Van Clief girl’s location.

“You noticed that. Yes, Vegas.” I believe she’s gloating although there’s no change of expression. Her chin might have moved.

“Did you ask the sleazebag—was it Wolfman—about the missing persons search?”

“I was still in LA, but I sent one person to Las Vegas a week ago out of frustration. Ironically, he had shown
Vannessa’s picture to this Wolfman guy. Of course, he denied knowing her. When I go out there, I’m sure I can get more information from him.” Rita sits up and pokes her chest out at this pronouncement. Obviously uncomfortable, she grabs her underwire bra and yanks it around like she’s curbing a bad dog. When this doesn’t work, she plunges her hand down each bra cup and hoists a breast up from God knows where until they’re satisfactorily situated. She looks down at her mammoth cleavage and smacks her lips before continuing. I go to the cart and pour another double.

“The second computer, a laptop, was tracked to a homeless shelter being used by a guy named Pete. He thought we were going to take away his computer, so he didn’t cooperate at first. With persuasion, meaning we gave him money, he swore he found the laptop in a dumpster a couple of months ago.”

“Was this in Las Vegas also?”

Silly me. I should know by now that when the tracker exhausts herself with long speeches
, she simply must replenish herself with drink and contemplation. Yes, there she is, alternating between nursing, licking, smacking, and single-minded lip pumping. I, on the other hand, am desperate for my squeezy ball. The physical outlet of lifting weights might suffice, but the moment my fingers feel the delicious heft of the ten pounds, I know I’ll murder her. I see Rita’s eyes behind her thick lenses tracking my movements. Her amusement tic is activated. She knows what I’m thinking.

“Yes, it was Las Vegas.” Ah, she’s decided to join me now.

“So, if it was the girl’s laptop, this guy could have killed the girl and stolen the laptop,” I say, thinking of a worst-case scenario.

“I doubt it. He seemed harmless. It’s more likely that she did the search to see if anyone was looking for her, got paranoid, and threw away the laptop. Remember how she immediately tossed her cell because she knew people could track her by it?” What Rita says makes sense but doesn’t lift my spirits any.

“When are we getting to the good news?” I ask, wearily. So, she was in Las Vegas two months ago. The damn, blighted, elusive, plague of a girl still could have traveled anywhere by now.

“I haven’t gotten to the bad news yet.”

How can she sit there looking so sober and steady, staring at me with those bugged-out eyes, stunning me with her blandly delivered statements?

“Wait,” I command, jumping to my feet. God, I need my squeezy ball. My eyes sweep the room. The towels. It will have to do. I flick one off the stack and begin chewing on it. There was a basketball coach who used to chew on towels during games to keep his anxiety under control. He coached in Las Vegas, I believe. The irony of the location is not lost on me.

“Go ahead.” Oh, tic away, my sweet. I have plans for you.

“My contact pinpointed the location of the third computer, but he wouldn’t disclose it. He shut up immediately and said he couldn’t give me more. It was only when I reminded him of the consequences of not cooperating with me that he at least told me the owner of the computer.”

With that, the tracker stares off into space, her silence broken only by vigorous lip pumping. Oh, hell no.

“Who?” I explode, snapping my towel on my bench. The snap sound seems to bring her to.

“This is the bad news part.”

“Goddamn it, Rita. Who does the computer belong to?”

“FBI.”

This is not the time to panic. I’ve been in tight spots plenty of times before. But I need to drain my drink to moisten my dry throat.

Why the FBI? I’ve covered my tracks meticulously. Before the guide disappeared, he was questioned by authorities. As I instructed, he told them the raft hit rocks and was overturned. His foot got caught in roping and he got hauled down the rapids with the raft. By the time he got free to help the others, they were lost. The authorities bought his story.

The coroner ruled Van Clief’s death accidental. The tracker was right. Van Clief was wearing a helmet. There was no evidence of head trauma. I didn’t even have to bribe or blackmail the coroner. His death was declared due to drowning. He had just been helped along in that regard.

The guide on Van Clief’s river trip “left town” somewhat abruptly. But that shouldn’t be suspicious enough to alert the FBI. Breaking into Van Clief’s wife’s lab was risky, but, again, I covered myself.

Dragging the lake for the girl was abandoned ages ago. She’s been given up as fish food. So why would the FBI do a search on her?

The towel on my lap has been chewed soggy, a product of my racing thoughts. I leave my bench to get a fresh towel and drink.

“Why would the FBI do a search on her?” I ask Rita
, who’s looking at the clock and tapping her boot slightly.

“I have no idea, but my advice is to get to her first.”

“Profound wisdom.” But my sarcasm is lost on her. Rita’s engrossed in chewing her ice. She becomes very still and then releases a gargantuan, breast-shaking sneeze, spraying ice everywhere. I hastily toss her my towel, cover my mouth with a fresh one, and remove myself to a safe distance. Really, must I don biohazard gear for these encounters? Once she and her immediate environment are relatively free of body fluid, I continue.

“That’s why I hired you, Rita. Ages ago. To get to her. It’s a wonder she hasn’t worked up the nerve to go to the police in the interim.”

“No it isn’t.” The tracker is violently shaking her head. For her, this means a slight rotation to the left. “Vannessa knows you bribed the local police. She doesn’t know what other police you might have bribed. In other words, she doesn’t know how far your power extends. She doesn’t know whom to trust.”

“This all doesn’t explain the FBI’s involvement,” I worry, chewing my latest towel.