by Jenifer Ruff
PRETTY LITTLE GIRLS
An Agent Victoria Heslin Thriller – Book 2
Jenifer Ruff
What’s next from Jenifer Ruff?
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AUTHOR JENIFER RUFF’S READER GROUP
Until you know who you can trust, you trust no one.
Chapter One
Ava trudged up the hill towards the woods behind her apartment complex, following her dog. She glanced at her watch again as she tugged the leash, pulling Max away from whatever he was sniffing. “Crap, why did you let me hit the snooze button five times, Max?” Puffs of white breath formed in front of her as she wrapped his leash around her wrist and picked up her pace. “Because a warm bed is heaven, Ava. That’s why.”
Max trotted straight through a mud puddle; Ava jumped over it. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you, boy? Can you give me a good one for Mr. Parker when I’m late for the third time this month?”
Wearing a large puffy coat, Ronald drove toward her on the maintenance golf cart, brooms and shovels bouncing along in the back. She waved at him. He was nice enough, but as she hurried onto the trail into the woods, she hoped he wouldn’t follow like he did that day last summer.
The blanket of crisp leaves crunched under her feet. Max strained against the leash, flung his head into the bushes, and nuzzled his nose into a mound of decaying vegetation, going after every strange and wonderful outdoorsy scent. Ava peered back over her shoulder and was relieved to see Ronald driving in the opposite direction. Groaning against the cold, she jogged in place, one hand in the pocket of her coat. She had to admit, the chilly air was invigorating, and it would make her morning coffee so much more enjoyable, even though she’d have to take it to go. Why did Mr. Parker care so much about her being late anyway? She always got her work done.
Wheezing, Max hauled her forward, deeper into the woods. Once he caught the scent of something interesting in the wild—a deer or its droppings, a discarded hamburger wrapper—he was determined to get to it.
“No, come on. Are you trying to get me fired? Max, stop! We need to turn around.”
He lurched ahead, ears erect and nose twitching, dragging her off the worn path.
“Max, no!”
A large tree trunk stretched alongside the trail, covered in moss. Max lunged to inspect it, his entire body wagging with excitement.
Ava’s phone buzzed from inside her coat pocket. Don’t be Parker, don’t be Parker. She reached for her phone. Please let this be one of the days when he has a doctor’s appointment for his weird skin condition.
She glanced at the screen. Jared. She didn’t have time for ex-boyfriend’s antics right now.
The leash went slack. Max whimpered. His front paw was lifted and his tail pointed. Ava moved closer to see what he’d discovered on the other side of the log.
Ava blinked. Her mouth dropped open. Her phone fell from her hand as she screamed. She stumbled backwards, tugging on Max, unable to tear her eyes away.
Is she . . .? Is she . . .?
The young girl didn’t belong there, underdressed, unmoving, alone on the ground.
She had dark brown hair and pale skin. Her gray sweat pants and pink flannel shirt were wet from the morning’s frosty mist. Leaves were tangled in her hair and strewn across her body. But it was her beautiful brown eyes staring blankly at the cold, gray sky that shook Ava to the core.
Ava screamed again as Max stretched forward and licked something off the corpse’s chin.
♦ ♦ ♦
FBI Medical Examiner Dr. Rebecca Boswell didn’t care if it was still November. As soon as the Thanksgiving dishes were washed, Christmas was on. An acoustic version of Deck the Halls blasted through the autopsy room as she studied the slender girl on the steel gurney. No identification on her—another Jane Doe, number 2537 to be exact—and this one was unusually young, sixteen at most. The ME lifted the girl’s eyelids, revealing bloodshot brown eyes. A linear ligature mark circled her neck. Even before doing an internal exam, Rebecca was confident that the girl was a victim of foul play. No doubt she had been suffocated.
She pressed a button on her recorder.
“Jane Doe. Caucasian female, possibly of Eastern European descent. Very slender. Height five-foot-four, weight one hundred and two pounds. Long, dark hair.”
An exceptionally lovely, symmetrical, face. Would have grown up to be a stunner.
“She’s wearing eye makeup and blush. Aside from ruptured capillaries—consistent with asphyxiation, will confirm—her skin is smooth and clear. She has pink gel polish on recently groomed nails and matching polish on her toenails.”
Youth today—in such a rush to grow up.
“Blood trailing from the corners of her mouth and over her chin, suggesting an internal injury.”
She leaned over the table and gently pulled open the girl’s lips. “Examination of the mouth indicates…” Rebecca’s gut wrenched as she jerked backwards, gasping. In ten years of autopsies, she’d never done that before. Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut, letting her sadness turn to rage and then back to professionalism. She opened the girl’s lips again and continued her examination. “The subject’s tongue…” The ME swallowed hard. “…has been cut out.” She turned off the recorder and took a deep breath, gazing at the child. “You didn’t deserve that, honey. No matter what you did.”
Rebecca removed her gloves and filled a cup with water. She gulped it down, crushed the cup, and slammed it into the trash can. She took another deep breath, wiped her forehead, donned new gloves, and returned to her work.
“Bleeding minimal, no inflammation, indicating the tongue was removed post-mortem.” That, at least, offered Rebecca a small morsel of relief. She’d seen tongues cut out before, although never in such a girl. Whoever did it could be a unique kind of messed-up and wanted a souvenir. However, there was a more likely, uglier explanation. Someone was sending a message—keep your mouth closed, don’t talk. But to whom?
What were you involved with before you died?
Rebecca cleared her throat. “Healthy, straight teeth, but no signs of previous dental work.” No fillings or caps to trace.
After making dental impressions, she turned Jane Doe over to study her backside. At first glance, because the back of the girl’s neck was covered by an array of silky hair, she thought she saw a brown tattoo. When she swept the hair away for a closer inspection, she frowned. It wasn’t a normal tattoo.
“Dark, well-defined scar, two inches in diameter, at the base of her neck at her T1 vertebrae—a circle with marks around the perimeter and an infinity symbol inside, most likely made by a small branding iron.”
The brand was unusual, but could mean anything—an impulsive pact made with girlfriends, a boyfriend’s favorite symbol—but seeing that the girl had likely been murdered, Rebecca wondered if the marking was gang related.
Serenaded by Carol of the Bells, Dr. Boswell pushed her braids over her shoulder, snapped digital pictures, and measured the bruises across Jane Doe number 2537’s arms and neck. She collected scrapings from under the girl’s finger nails, combed through her hair, and applied tape over her body to collect fibers. After she finished collecting external evidence, she washed the girl’s body. She’d been found in urine and feces, a sign she’d lost control of her bodily functions. Might have been sick, or terrified, or a result of dying. It’s possible Rebecca wouldn’t be able to discover which. Lastly, before beginning the internal exam, Dr. Boswell printed the girl’s fingers.
The internal exam took her over an hour. With a tap of her foot she recorded the summary of her findings.
“Abnormal findings in the internal exam included evidence of healed fracture
s, minor, but on multiple bones. Vaginal bruising and tears indicated recent, rough sexual activity. No semen found.”
Rebecca neatly stitched the body back together, minus its vital organs. She exercised her lungs belting out Gloria in Excelsis Deo as she returned Jane Doe to cold storage.
“Jane Doe Number 2537 is only a temporary designation. Mark my words, poor girl, we’re going to find out who you are and who did this to you.” Dr. Boswell slid the heavy, steel drawer into place.
The ME washed up, anxious to load the photo of the brand into the computer and hopefully find a match in the FBI’s database of tattoos and symbols. After the search had run its course, nothing turned up that looked like the mark on the back of the corpse’s neck.
Curious, the ME called Special Agent Dante Rivera. A quick glance in one of the mirrors confirmed her full lips still held a hint of shimmer and her hot pink scrubs were great with her skin color. No reason not to look and feel good when she spoke to him, even over the phone. They hadn’t been on a date yet, but she was a patient woman.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Boswell,” Rivera answered, always the gentleman.
“Good afternoon, Agent Rivera. I just finished the autopsy of a teen-aged Jane Doe. She was suffocated. Her tongue was removed post-mortem.”
Rivera grunted. “Such a nice world we live in.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Rebecca sighed. As much as she wanted to flirt with him, the circumstances of their interactions rarely allowed for it. “What prompted my call was an interesting burn mark on the back of her neck. A brand.”
“Like cattle?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I was hoping it might help identify her or give us a clue as to who killed her. I checked in the FBI database, and there wasn’t a match. I also sent a picture to your phone. In case there’s a chance you’ve seen something like it before. I know you’ve worked with some gang cases in the past.”
“You know that, huh?”
Alone in the autopsy room, she smiled. “Yes.”
“Okay.” She heard the echoey noises of being switched to speaker phone, and a few seconds passed before he spoke again. “I’m looking at it right now. Can’t say it looks familiar, but I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks, Rivera. I’m sending her prints and her dental images out. Such a young girl. And the final indignity is that as far as we know, no one has reported her missing. No one is looking for her.”
Chapter Two
Sofia was a beautiful, graceful girl. She had vivid blue eyes and thick, dark lashes. Her mouth held a natural pout, even when she was terrified. In her petite, red dress, she stared out through the floor-to-ceiling window, squinting. She couldn’t see the skyscrapers, only thousands of tiny lights blurring together in the darkness.
Anastasia joined her at the window. She was just as stunning. Light brown hair, emerald-green eyes with specks of copper, full lips, and an upturned nose. “Sexy and childishly innocent,” according to their boss. The childish part wasn’t hard to accomplish, especially not when she started working for him. She had only been thirteen.
Anastasia placed her hand against the glass and leaned into it. “Big view city skyline. I wish you see it clearly.” She often dropped her articles and mixed up a few words when she spoke English. The girls were forbidden to speak their native language.
They’d worked in many nice homes, and this condo with its enormous televisions, sleek furniture, and modern art was no exception. A buzzed exuberance vibrated through the home along with the bass in the sound system. A new group of men burst in, all wearing Panther jerseys.
“Super Bowl bound, baby!” shouted the loudest, slapping a big bald guy on the back. “I knew they were going. I called it at the beginning of the season, did I not?”
The bald guy draped his arm over his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t jinx them, man. There’s lots of games left.”
With big smiles, and long swigs of beer, the hardcore fans broke into a chant. “We’re number one! We’re number one!”
“Are they some of the players?” Sofia asked Svet.
Her bodyguard huffed. “Hardly. They’re just a group of traders who probably take roids.”
Sofia sat on the couch and stretched one of her long, slim legs over the lap of a guy who could have passed for an NFL lineman. She gently stroked his bulging biceps with her light pink nails. He was an ugly white dude with a crooked nose and a neat, close-shaven beard, clearly intended to cover his acne scars. Even though he was much older than her, he was younger than most of her customers. Best of all, he was having a hard time making eye contact, focusing on his drink instead. It didn’t happen often that a man was uncomfortable, but when it did, she appreciated it. He would be gentle. Chances were good he wouldn’t hurt her.
The man patted her behind. “She looks really young, Mikey.”
Mikey, just as large but not as ugly, responded with a laugh, his hand cupping Anastasia’s breast. “Don’t worry about her.” He finished his beer and set the iced mug on one of his fancy glass tables. “They cost a small fortune. They probably take home more than we do.”
Sofia cringed inside. He was wrong. So very wrong. She made nothing. If she had been earning money to send back to her mother and siblings in Ukraine, there would have at least been an upside to the miserable circumstances of her life. Yet, she knew better than to correct him. She couldn’t trust any men with the truth. She’d tried before. Just because someone seemed kind, didn’t mean they could be trusted. The last time she’d thought she could trust someone, he’d betrayed her. She’d been locked in a closet for days with only water to drink and a pot for relieving herself. So, no matter how sensitive the huge man with the bent nose seemed, she had to assume he was just like all the rest—stone-cold and uncaring to her plight.
She shrugged it off, forcing her sweetest, most genuine-looking smile. Batting her eyelashes, she shook her head slightly, pretending she couldn’t understand his words. He offered her a drink, pointing to his own bottle and then the mini-bar across the room. “No, thank you,” she said, adding an extra thick layer to her existing accent.
Svet carefully surveyed the rooms from a corner, wearing a silk suit and a scary, stern expression. A giant man, he had a thick neck, square jaw, and puffed out chest. He would force a quick stop to anything or anyone that might permanently scar the girls’ faces or bodies, but that wasn’t his real purpose. He followed them closely at every party as a constant reminder that there was no escape.
With guards, constant threats, no money, and little idea of how things worked in America, the girls believed they had no chance of successfully getting away. Meanwhile, there was a never-ending stream of men ready and willing to hand over cash and take advantage of them.
The ugly man took Sofia into a bedroom. Closing her eyes, she moaned softly in the practiced way she’d been taught. It helped each ordeal end quicker. She put her actions on autopilot and let her mind travel to another place. She asked herself the questions that had been circling through her mind since her best friend Sasha disappeared two days ago. Where was she? Locked inside a dark closet with only a bottle of water and a bucket? Had she been taken to a different city? Would Sofia ever see her again? Sasha was too brave for her own good, and that might be the reason she had disappeared. Sofia said a silent prayer that her friend was still alive . . . somewhere.
She closed her eyes and moaned.
If Sasha didn’t come back, Sofia would have to be the brave one.
Chapter Three
Magda pulled her employer’s Lexus up to the South Charlotte Mall behind a Porsche SUV and a flashy BMW Coupe. Tiny white holiday lights were already strung around the bare trees on each side of the mall’s main entrance. In the center, a tall pine with silver and gold ornaments the size of bowling balls rose to the roof line of the building.
A valet parking attendant rushed toward her car. Magda held up a finger. “One second, please. I don’t need parking. I’m only dropping off.”
Emm
a brushed another coat of gloss on her lips and bared her teeth in the visor mirror. Her thorough once-over finished; she opened the passenger side door.
“Wait.” Magda placed her hand on Emma’s arm. “I don’t see your friends. Where are they?”
Emma shook off Magda’s hand and rolled her eyes. “They’re inside. Waiting for me.”
“Are you sure? I shouldn’t drop you off until I know they’re here.”
“They’re here. See? Emma shoved her phone in front of Magda’s face, then pulled it away just as quickly. “I’m already late.”
“You’re meeting Tiffany and Nicole?”
Emma sighed, heavy and loud, as she got out of the car. “Yes. I’m meeting Tiffany and Nicole.”
“All right. Be safe.”
Emma slammed the door.
Magda lifted her eyes skyward, silently asking God for strength, before watching Emma walk away. The teen wore tight stretchy red pants and a draping black top with cut-outs in each shoulder. Magda wished she could reverse the girl’s age back to when Emma was sweet and friendly and enjoyed spending time with her nanny. Despite Magda’s best efforts to help raise a decent human being, Emma’s attitude was turning out to be more like her mother’s and father’s. Magda had evolved into a personal assistant and chauffeur, while the sweet Emma had become a sullen teen who grew a bit more disrespectful every day.
“You can’t stay here, ma’am.” The parking attendant frowned at her. “You have to move.” She held up her hand and offered a slight smile. “Sorry. Going now.” She put the car in gear and drove off. Maybe Emma was simply angry with her parents again. That was probably it. The constant threat of divorce hung heavy in the air at the Manning home. It made sense that Emma was taking her frustration out on Magda, who was always available.
♦ ♦ ♦
Emma strutted to the center of the mall, past the big Christmas tree and the Santa station and straight to the bathroom near the food court. She had to pee, even though she’d just gone before leaving her house. Nerves did that to her. After exiting a stall, she stopped at the mirror. Pulling her long, straight, reddish hair forward on her shoulders, she slowly turned to her right and then to her left, studying herself again. She pursed her lips and sucked her cheeks in, so her face looked thinner, more angular. She was pretty, everyone told her so. Her newly straightened and bonded teeth looked amazing. She had long dark lashes and beautiful brown eyes that popped thanks to expertly applied eyeliner and eyeshadow. But she wanted to look really pretty, and she needed to look older. If Damian found out how young she really was, he might be angry. And worse, he might not be interested in her any more.
