LUCY: The Complete Lucy Kendall Series with Bonus Content (The Lucy Kendall Series Book 5)

by Stacy Green

  Her black eyebrows knitted together, the movement thinning the baby fat on her cheeks, making her face look strikingly beautiful. “I don’t need your help, bitch. This is my job.”

  Her anger didn’t surprise me. Kids like her are usually abused most of their lives, and working for sex is a natural transition. Even more were convinced prostitution was their only direction, and their loyalty to their pimps was unquestionable. Shuddering against the cold wind, she looked thin in her insufficient coat. “Why don’t you let me buy you some supper, and we can talk about it?”

  “No thanks. But you can pay me the seventy-five bucks you just cost me.”

  I debated. Giving her the money made me a hypocrite, but that certainly wouldn’t be the first time. It might earn enough of her trust to glean some information. And I didn’t want to be responsible for her getting a beating from her pimp because she failed to deliver.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “You walk down to the diner on the corner with me and have something to eat, and I’ll give you a hundred cash. Plus the meal. You can’t beat that.”

  She snorted, looking me up and down. “You want something. Like everyone else.”

  “Just information.”

  She folded her arms, stuck out her jaw in the rebellious way teenagers excel at. She’d lost all of her self-assured attitude from the street. “Don’t have any.”

  Cold settled into my jaw making speech a struggle. I wiggled my toes to make sure they weren’t frozen. “What’s your name?”

  She held out a bare, exposed hand. “Give me the money now, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

  I fumbled in my coat pockets for the cash I’d withdrawn earlier. I held out a wrinkled bill. “Here’s fifty. Answer some questions, and you’ll get the rest.”

  Her ruby lips pouting, she snatched the money. “Riley.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.” Her narrowed eyes challenged me to tell her she was too young. “Do I know you? Your voice sounds familiar.”

  I bet on her memory being too full of the destitute women she likely saw every day. “Trust me, I’d remember if we’d met before. What was your friend’s name?”

  “Can’t say.”

  I nodded. “How’d you meet him?”

  “Mutual friend.” She smirked, trying to be cocky, but the effort failed. Shame flashed through her eyes.

  “Her name Sarah?”

  Riley couldn’t hide her surprise. She rocked back, mouth falling open, and then snapped it shut. “Don’t remember.”

  Another hard gust of wind whistled between the buildings. Both of us shook with cold. I cut to the chase.

  “Just tell me if she’s the boss, or if she’s working for someone else. And their name–that’s all I need.”

  “I can’t give you no more names, lady. And Sarah don’t have anything to do with tonight.” Her voice cracked. She wrapped her arms around her thin waist. “I’m just trying to make a living. I don’t need to get my ass kicked. And that’s what happens when the boss gets crossed. If you don’t get out of here soon, my friend’ll be making an example out of you.”

  “You mean your pimp?” I gave her a quick once-over. My surprise attack had taken away the bravado she had on the street, and she was too young and inexperienced to know how to recover. My advantage.

  She looked past me, glaring down the alley. “Whatever.”

  “I can help you start over,” I said. “And I can help any other kids being used by your boss. Just give me his name.” I rested my shaking hand on her rigid arm, hoping the human contact would breach her walls. Before I even registered movement, her forearm shot out, slamming into my chest. I lost my footing this time, landing hard on my butt. My elbows hit the pavement hard, and tears sprouted in my eyes. Shock and pain and sheer cold paralyzed me. I gazed up at her trying to catch up. “Riley–”

  “Shut up.” She planted her feet on either side of my hips and reached toward me. I remembered my pepper spray too late. She grabbed my arm, fingers digging through my coat and into the flesh, and fished into my pocket with her free hand. “You owe me money.”

  “You owe yourself more than this.”

  She faltered, but only for a second. Then she drew out the rest of my cash–over two hundred dollars–and took another fifty. She shoved the rest at me. “I’m not a thief.”

  I took the money, locking eyes with her. “My name is Lucy Kendall. I’m a private investigator. When you’re ready, I can help you.”

  Footsteps halted whatever she might have said next. A tall man rounded the corner, his expensive winter boots thudding against the concrete. His heavy, wool coat was at least twice as thick as Riley’s, and his head was covered with a designer knit hat.

  “Get away from her.” Chris bore down on us like a bull. Riley sprinted down the alley, disappearing into the freezing, black night.

  Chris knelt beside me, his warm hands on my cold arms. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “I’m not.” That wasn’t entirely true. My tailbone throbbed. My pride singed. I took Chris’s hand and allowed him to haul me to my feet. He grabbed my shoulders, pulling me toward him. Even in the below zero weather, his cologne wafted over me, the familiar scent comforting. I fisted my hands against his chest in a half-assed attempt to push him away. He leaned down, his face too close to mine. “Lucy.” His soft voice sent a wholly different kind of chill down my spine.

  “Go ahead and say it.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re such an unbelievable dumbass.”

  I didn’t say another word as I stalked behind him to his waiting car. I let him rant, knowing it was better to get it over with. “I can’t believe you came down here, in the freaking Arctic weather, at night, by yourself, to Shitville, with only some creep’s initials to go on.” Chris yanked open the car door, and I fell into the leather seat. I wanted to soak up the blissful heat. He ran around to the driver’s side and planted himself next to me. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  He glared at me, and I tried to think of what I wanted to say. His damn eyes always did me in. Every time I decided to stay angry with him, or to tell him to get out of my life, he looked at me with those eyes. It wasn’t their bright blue or the way they always looked flirtatious. Good-looking men I can handle. But Chris’s penetrating stare, his keen ability to see through every layer of my bullshit, rattled me. I hated that about him, and yet I craved it like the worst kind of addict. “That’s me. Always looking for new ways to die.”

  He rolled his eyes, slamming the car into drive, and then merged into traffic. “Right. Where are you parked?”

  With every second of warmth came fresh irritation. I didn’t need him sticking his nose in my business trying to play hero. “Three down, off Pear Street. For your information, I had it under control, and you ran off my best lead. Jackass.”

  He didn’t say anything, instead making a derisive noise from somewhere deep in his throat. The sound only torqued me off even more. “Seriously. If I wanted help, I would have asked.”

  “There’s a difference between need and want.”

  “Fine.” I gave him my most insincere smile. “I don’t need your help. Nor do I want it. Happy?”

  He ground his teeth, making his full lips even plumper. “In your obnoxious presence? Not a chance.”

  “Pot, meet kettle.”

  Chris skidded into the small parking garage, his Audi handling the slick surface like a race car. “Level?”

  “Two.”

  I tried to make my exit as soon as he found the Prius, but he hit the child locks–a favorite trick of his. “Come on. I want to go home.”

  “Kelly told me about the phone.” He spoke as if I wanted to listen to him. “She’ll never get all the information you need out of it.”

  “She already got something. You lost it for me.” I shivered, wondering if I’d ever be warm again.

  “That kid wasn’t going to tell you anything.” He turned the heat on high. “Wh
at’s wrong with letting the police handle this? Give them the tip and move on.”

  “That kid was the same girl who gave me the information about Exhale,” I said. “She’s got a pimp who’s in this up to his neck. And as far as handing information over to the police, it’s not that easy,” I said. “Riley is a teenager, and in Pennsylvania, minors fourteen and older can give limited consent to sexual activities. Kids over 16 can give full consent. If I call her in, Vice gets the tip. They won’t want to arrest her, but if she doesn’t give up her pimp, they will. And then she’ll never trust me, and I won’t get the information I need.”

  “Yeah, well, she looked like she was fine with consenting.”

  I turned a furious glare on him. “Really? Because a sixteen-year-old girl has the emotional capacity to consent to sex with an older man, in a seedy hotel, for money? Because she just up and decided one day to sell her body for sex? Yeah, that’s exactly what’s going on.”

  “You don’t know–”

  I cut him off. “You’re the one who doesn’t get it, Chris. In the vast majority of trafficking cases, these kids, even the older ones, have been abused from a very young age. They don’t know their own worth, and they don’t see themselves as human beings because they haven’t been treated as anything more than property or a toy that will eventually wear out.” I took a deep breath. “If I call the police, they’ll bring Riley in. She’ll tell them the same story she told me, and guess what will happen? She’ll be charged in the hope she’ll give up her pimp.” These were truths as old as the profession of prostitution. And the men doling out the girls made my manipulative streak look tame. Some spark of instinct drew them to the vulnerable girls–the ones who needed acceptance and security, even if those things turned out to be smoke and mirrors–and they knew exactly how to entwine their prey so deeply into the net the girls became too afraid to leave.

  “She won’t do it,” I said. “These guys keep their girls good and brainwashed. So she serves some time, goes out and does the same thing, right back with the pimp. Meanwhile, this big network keeps right on trafficking kids. And make no mistake, they stretch further than we realize.”

  “Why do you think that? Right now you’re looking at prostitution, not trafficking.” He shrugged his broad shoulders like we were talking about the unending winter weather. I wanted to shake him for his lack of compassion.

  I shook my head. “Any cop worth their badge will tell you that’s a gray area. A lot of times this starts off consensual, with a runaway thinking hanging out with an older man is heaven. Then they’re in over their heads and can’t get out. But I think there’s more to it than that. I think some of these kids are local, but there are also others being brought in, like Aron. And they all go back to the same person.”

  “I don’t understand why you can’t let it go.” Chris slouched in the leather seat, not looking at me. Even in profile, he had a way of looking like a beautifully sad puppy that wasn’t getting its way.

  And I couldn’t give him the concise answer he wanted. Chris lived his life by simple cause and effect. If certain bad things happened to a person, then he must be destined for a specific fate. That’s the same thinking that caused him to believe he was a sociopath for so many years, when it was actually just his inability to deal with trauma and repressed memories. I knew he wouldn’t like my response. “Riley’s afraid of someone other than Sarah. Most likely a man, and most likely a man who believes he’s all powerful.”

  “And you know this how?”

  I scowled. “I just told you.”

  He shook his head, stubborn to the bitter end of the building argument. “You’re just guessing. And fixating on something you can’t change.”

  And so we came full circle. “I can too change it. Maybe only for a handful of kids, but I’ll change their lives for the better.”

  “Unless they end up in jail or back on the streets in worse situations.” Chris heaved the same sigh I heard every time we had this conversation. “You’re right about one thing: this is bigger than you realize. But not because it’s some kind of massive network. It’s bigger than you realize because you’re not going to kill just one guy and move on. You kill one, there’s more to deal with. Some who might want revenge. And who knows how many kids that have been brainwashed into thinking they only have one option in life. You can’t just drop some poison and then move on to the next with this one. Are you really prepared to deal with the collateral damage?”

  “I’ll deal with whatever comes my way.” His warming anger electrified the car’s already hot exterior. I loosened my scarf, pulled off my winter hat. His tense posture latched onto my nerves, alerting my defenses until I was primed for battle.

  He snorted. “Except the promise you made to me.”

  And there it was. We’d gone around about this so many times. He thought he could convince me to see it his way, and every time he pushed the issue, I stepped farther back. But I didn’t want to argue. “There hasn’t been any sign of your mother in months. I can’t just make up leads to follow.”

  “You’re not really looking.” He wasn’t entirely wrong. But I had Kelly keeping an eye out. We’d hacked into Mother Mary’s last known credit card account, but it hadn’t been used in nearly a year. We didn’t even know if she was still in Pennsylvania, and the police weren’t faring any better. Mother Mary knew how to disappear.

  “If we get a tip, we’ll follow it.”

  “No you won’t.” His eyes darkened. “You’re too fixated on this trafficking thing.”

  I probably was. But he didn’t have any room to talk. His obsession with his mother invaded every conversation we had, even when Chris said nothing. I saw it in the shadows that passed through his eyes. Heard the sudden exhaustion in his tone, as if a memory had walloped him and he needed to rest. But I didn’t think finding Mary would give him the peace he longed for, and some part of me wanted to protect him from going down a road he could never escape.

  “Have you talked to your brother?”

  Justin, the younger brother Chris had only recently discovered, was the only person who could truly understand the shame and hatred Chris endured. And that was exactly the reason Chris avoided him. As I’d expected, he slammed his hand down on the child locks. He stared straight ahead while I exited the car.

  I leaned into the still open door. “Listen, even though I didn’t need your help tonight, I appreciate your being there for me. Really.”

  He grunted, still not looking at me.

  I sighed. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I shut the door, and he peeled off.

  The biting cold wedged my guilt aside as I fumbled with my keys. The car’s cold engine turned over three times before finally grinding to life. Wrapping my arms around myself, I waited for some sign of warmth.

  Tomorrow, I’d go to work like nothing had happened. Imagining Sarah’s reaction made my blood pump a little harder. I hoped she was scared, pacing, wondering where her phone had gone and waiting for the police to knock on her door.

  The police would be a blessing for Sarah.

  5

  Our justice system is a convoluted mess of red-tape and personal agendas. Every politician I’ve encountered–no matter the level of government–was staunch in his belief that his plans for change were vital to our government’s survival. He championed his platform everywhere he went, and the really good ones managed to convince the masses they weren’t after power and glory but were just trying to help the little guy. Middle America, as the latest catchphrase goes. And some politicians really meant that. But every single one had a pet cause attached to their docket. Most of them were of little use to me, but Senator Mark Coleman was a man who could help my own agenda. After weeks of asking for a meeting, I’d finally been given my shot.

  Most people didn’t intimidate me, but sitting across from a man like Senator Coleman wasn’t an everyday occurrence. A middle-aged, Democratic dynamo, Senator Coleman was equally loved by the press and the voters, and he appear
ed to possess more of a moral center than most politicians. Hopefully that was more than a political shell.

  Still nearly as fit as his days as a star high school quarterback, Coleman’s Nordic ancestry was obvious. Thinning, wispy blond hair and fair skin the winter hadn’t been kind to. His left cheek peeled from windburn. But his fine features were pleasant to look at, and his voice had the ring of authority that every good politician has.

  “I’m sorry you had to wait this morning, Miss Kendall.” The Senator’s smile seemed meant to set me at ease.

  “Please, call me Lucy. And it’s fine. I know you’re a busy man.”

  “I appreciate your understanding.” He rested his arms on the tidy desk giving me his full attention. “I understand you want to talk about my human trafficking task force.”

  Two years ago, the Senator formed PCAT, the Pennsylvania Coalition Against Trafficking. His efforts resulted in the state passing a bill to create a cohesive legal definition of human trafficking, something Pennsylvania had been sorely lacking. Now PCAT consisted of over one thousand volunteers–civilians, Federal and Custom Agents and law enforcement officers–across the state, and Assistant District Attorney Hale had heard rumblings of the group expanding into Maryland and West Virginia.

  “Yes.” I put my carefully practiced speech into action. “Senator, you’ve done amazing things for trafficking victims. The bill you lobbied for now gives victims a better chance at putting their abusers behind bars. And that’s incredibly admirable. But up to this point, most of your investigations have focused on adult women. You’ve barely touched the tip of the iceberg of child sex trafficking.”

  Senator Coleman nodded vigorously. “You’re absolutely right, and that’s something I’ve been working on with Customs and Immigration.”

  “It’s not just immigrants being trafficked, sir. There are children born in this country who end up in this horrible situation. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “The Richardson case,” Senator Coleman said. “ADA Hale apprised me of your perseverance in saving that child. Considering your involvement and your work as a private investigator, I’m willing to share some information. I checked in with the federal agents handling the case, and they’re making progress with the trafficking ring. Thanks to the information found on Steve Simon’s computers, they’ve infiltrated a group working well below the surface web.”