by Alex Gates
“I do not get special treatment.”
“Of course, you do, London. Nothing to be ashamed of. You usually do good work. But, given your past, you are suspicious of men in roles of authority over young women.”
News to me. “That’s not the case here.”
“If it appears that way to me, it’ll look ten times worse to others. You can’t go inventing abuses at a respected institution like Grayson House, not without irrefutable proof.” He tapped the desk, his ring plinking off the wood. “This sort of allegation ruins lives—not just the careers of the honest men who work at Grayson House, but the character of an overzealous detective.”
I kept my mouth shut. No sense inventing reasons to be held in contempt in the middle of a Judge’s office.
“You’re a smart girl, London,” he said. “Don’t go ruining your career by investigating Grayson House.”
He fiddled with the cufflinks once more. Solid gold. Matching a gold tie band, the rings on his fingers, the designer briefcase tucked beside the desk. Over the coat rack, a hook mounted on the wall. Silver keys dangled, the keychain bearing the logo of Aston Martin.
Don’t investigate Grayson House?
I just figured out why.
“You’ve answered a lot of my questions.” I forced a smile and stood, offering a hand to shake. He reached out, the gold band embedded with diamonds pushing into my skin. “Thank you for your time, Judge Reissing.”
“Of course, London.” He wagged a finger at me. “I hope you take my advice. You have a big career ahead of you, young lady. Very promising. I’d hate to see you ruin your chances with something so…insignificant.”
“Thank you.” At least I could cordially lie. “I appreciate your time.”
“It’s my pleasure, London.”
I nodded and showed myself out, escaping from his office and breaking free of the cold, impersonal court house. I slipped into the sunny street and gulped a breath of warm air. It did nothing to ease the prickling chill scraping my spine.
Jesus Christ.
Judge Reissing knew exactly what was happening at the facility. He might not have threatened me, but he made sure I knew damn well what it’d cost to start an investigation.
But why?
Why would he defend a place that potentially hurt so many of the girls that he, himself, sentenced to the facility?
Because he meant to send them there.
Judge Reissing sentenced the girls to their own rapes.
11
“If you behave, you won’t get in trouble.
But you’re not afraid of trouble, are you, London?”
-Him
Penn Avenue at two in the morning showcased a different side of the city.
Here, business boomed between flashes of headlights and wherever the girls could get WiFi. No more street walking for them. They’d moved up in the world. Craig’s List and other sites offered more security than leaning into a stranger’s car. Plus, it meant I could meet with my contacts a hell of a lot easier than hiding in darkened alleys and exposed in dangerous areas.
Alexa had been my most trusted and loyal advisor on the streets for the past three years. She waved to me from the corner of Penn and 18th.
“Here comes trouble!” She pouted, hands on her hips. I wished she’d lowered her palms. Something had to cover the space between her thigh-high boots and the hem of her miniskirt. “How come you only visit me when you got a problem?”
“Sorry.” I greeted her friends, Sage and Scarlet, outside of Parmanti Brothers. Punctual. If nothing else, the girls had a remarkable sense of time. Good for their business, I supposed. “Working a couple hard cases.”
“Too busy saving babies?” Sage popped her bubblegum—the same shocking pink as her lipstick. “Saw you on the news, big hero.”
Didn’t feel like one now.
I held the door open and escorted the escorts inside. Not the best company for a cop, but these girls heard every bump in the night and could identify the monsters lurking under—and in—the beds. They were good for information, especially when a lot of my Missings ended up on the streets looking to score drugs or a ticket out of town.
I worried about the women—more than I should have. Times had changed. Rates had gone up, and security was tight. They carried a laptop with them—their mobile pimp. Then, from their hotel of choice or an all-night coffee shop with free internet access, they’d place their ads online and screen the men they’d entertain for the evening.
It wasn’t the life I wanted for them, but I couldn’t convince them to get off the street. At least they humored me for cheap. As long as I never joined VICE, they’d talk all night for a good dinner and coffee.
Our sandwiches piled high with capicola, tomato, coleslaw, and French fries. The girls inhaled theirs—either eager to return to work or hungry from their first shift. I picked at mine, wishing I had an appetite. Hard to get hungry when I couldn’t even sleep.
I passed them the picture of Hannah. “Have you seen this girl?”
Alexa answered for her friends, tugging on the thin strap of her top with a polished red fingernail. “Depends why you want to find her.”
“It’s me.” I lowered my voice. Didn’t do much good. This Parmanti’s was cramped, the painted sports murals on the walls doing little to open the space. Our table practically wedged into our neighbor’s. “I’m not going to bust you. She’s missing. Broke out of rehab, and I think some serious shit went down there. She might be looking to score or desperate for some money.”
The picture passed around the girls. Alexa nibbled a wayward French fry that had slipped from her sandwich. “Nah. I don’t think I know her. Pretty little thing like that. She could make some good money if she played it smart.”
“She’s not being smart now,” I said. “She’s been recently abused. Now she’s scared and she might be out here, running for her life. I have to find her. She’s my only lead to stop the man who hurt her and other girls.”
“Sounds serious.” Scarlet, true to her name, twirled her flame-red hair over a finger. “I know a woman who takes in the ones she finds on the street. They don’t get a great cut, but she’d be safe. Maybe she’s already there?”
“She’s underage.”
Sage smirked. “And if a guy requests it, I’ll be sixteen again for twenty minutes. Doesn’t mean anything out here. If they want to get their kicks with a stranger, they’ll take whatever they can find.”
My head started to throb. “That’s what I’m worried about. She’s just a kid. Doesn’t understand the world. Last thing I want is her hurt more or…” I sighed. “She came from Grayson House. She’s been clean for six months.”
All three girls fell silent, their eyebrows arching. Sage shook her head. “Nah-uh. No way.”
“What?”
“That place?” Sage’s eyeliner was too dark. She went for cat eyes but landed somewhere between a fist fight and a raccoon. “Isn’t that where Tasha came from?”
My pulse jumped. “Tasha? Know her real name?”
Alexa laughed. “We’re not exactly filling out W2s for this gig, London. Around here, people can choose who they want to be.”
“Well, who was she?”
“Just a girl. Same as us. Pretty. Brunette.”
“Fucked in the head,” Sage said. “On and off the streets.”
Alexa agreed. “She used to work too many hours for too little money. Just kept going out, night after night, like she was…”
“Like she deserved it.” Scarlet sipped from her pop. “I’m not saying we’re living like queens, or that this is where we thought we’d end up, but Tasha? Someone made her that way. Made her think she was no better than a…”
“Whore.” Alexa spoke the word they didn’t want to say.
“Did she ever talk about Grayson House?” I asked.
“Said it was wrong there,” Sage said. “That no one saw what was really happening. That no one wanted to see. Worse than prison.”
“Do you think she was raped?”
“Think?” Sage snorted. “The girl had nightmares so bad she had to drug herself to sleep. Raped. Beaten. Starved. You name it, it happened to her.”
“Did she ever go to the police?”
“We told her to, not that it’d do any good,” Scarlet said. “She said no one would ever believe her. That some people were too important to be punished.”
My heart thudded, hard. I stood. “Where is Tasha now? I need to talk to her.”
Alexa’s eyebrow popped. “You really want to know?”
“If I can find her, she could help expose what’s happening at Grayson House.”
“I doubt that. Not unless you want to dredge the bottom of the Allegheny River.”
I plunked back into the seat. “She’s dead?”
“Probably. Haven’t seen her in a year. She swore people were after her. We thought it was the drugs making her paranoid, but now…?” Alexa pushed her sandwich away. “Now I’m starting to think she told us the truth. And if you’re right? I bet they finally killed her.”
“Knew too much,” Sage said. “And now, so do we.”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to anyone else,” I promised. I tapped the picture of Hannah. “Spread this around. If anyone sees her, tell them to contact me. I’ll owe them a favor—and you can vouch for me. I’m good for it.”
Alexa nodded. “I hope you find her.”
Me too.
Because time was running out to save Hannah.
I left the girls to their meals and headed home for a few hours of tussling with the sheets. I’d managed four hours before giving up, showering, and returning to work at the asscrack of dawn. Armed with a mug of strong coffee, I let myself hope.
VICE worked late nights, and the city wasn’t big. A girl acting as recklessly as Hannah might have popped up on their radar. Maybe I’d get lucky and one of the guys on patrol already snatched her off the street? I’d put a call in as soon as I got to my desk.
First, I wanted to see if Tasha was on Grayson House’s list.
I flicked on the lights to my storage room turned operations center and froze.
The pictures on the walls, the meticulous research behind each girl, the maps and backgrounds...
All gone.
Someone had taken them.
And with it…the file I’d started on Judge Reissing.
My heart seized. I spun from the room, bolting to my cubicle. Adamski’s door creaked open, and he crossed his arms.
“McKenna. Here. Now.”
The pit in my stomach hardened. I stormed into his office, unable to sit as my box of papers and files wedged into the chair opposite his desk.
“Want to explain this?” He didn’t offer me the courtesy of a good morning. “What the hell are you doing?”
I didn’t like his tone. “Working.”
“On what?”
“The Amber Reynolds case.”
“Oh, no.” He laughed, shoving a lid onto the heap of files in my box. “No. you’re not. Amber Reynold’s case is closed. She’s awaiting sentencing. It’s done.”
The department was empty, but I was glad he shut the door. This was the sort of conversation that wouldn’t be spoken above a whisper.
“I’m onto something,” I said.
“The unemployment line?”
“There’s something strange about the Amber Reynolds case.”
“What’s strange is that you’re still investigating it after I told you to close it.”
“I have reason to believe she was being abused. That her and fifteen other girls or more were also harmed.”
“London—”
“Hannah Beaumont—a friend of mine—is missing, Bruce. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl with a history of sexual abuse and opiate addiction. Two weeks ago, she called and begged me for help. When I went to visit her again, she was gone, and the administrators stonewalled me on all my questions. I have to find a way to help her.”
“You won’t be able to help anyone if they take your badge and gun.”
“What are you talking about?”
Adamski ripped open his desk’s top drawer and revealed my most important file. But he didn’t hand me Judge Reissing’s sentencing history and records. Ignoring my profanity, he pitched the entire file into his shredder.
“What are you doing?” I yelled.
He pointed a finger in my face. It trembled, but not because of rage.
Was he…scared?
“I don’t ever want to catch you doing something that fucking stupid ever again,” he said.
“Bruce!”
“Christ, you’re doing background checks and surveillance on a judge?”
That and more. “I pulled his records, that’s all.”
“That’s all it takes! Do you know what people would say if they caught you with this? What would happen to you?”
“What about the things happening to those girls? The pretty little teenagers Judge Reissing sends to Grayson House are ending up missing and potentially dead. Last night I met with some of my sources—”
“You met with whores, London.”
“Well, they knew all about Grayson House. I need to talk with VICE. They might have busted a girl who came from the facility. If they have a file on her, maybe I can find her—”
“Listen to yourself!” Bruce grabbed me, squeezing my shoulders. “Just listen. Do you know what you’re implying? What you think a judge is involved with? You’re implicating him in what? Sexual abuse?”
“He might not know it’s happening...”
“Then leave him out of it.”
It didn’t work that way. “Or maybe that’s why he sent the girls to Grayson House.”
Adamski turned away, rubbing his head. “Jesus, London.”
“He’s got an awful lot of money, even for a judge—”
“—Stop it—”
“And he’s protecting Grayson House, insisting that nothing improper would ever happen there. I’m not accusing him of anything, but I found a pattern that suggests—”
“What? That he’s deliberately putting teenage girls convicted of possession and other crimes in this particular facility?” He popped an antacid from his pocket and chewed. “You have no real evidence. No real witnesses. And don’t you give me any bullshit about Amber fucking Reynolds because you know as well as I do—she’s not saying a damned thing. She’s content to rot in a jail cell for what she did, and you should be relieved that you got the credit for the arrest.”
The thought shredded me. “Relieved? Why would that relieve me? She’s the key to protecting these girls!”
“Or she’s a mentally ill teenage girl who nearly killed her baby and a half-dozen other infants. No conspiracy. No hidden meanings. Just you trying to rationalize the irrational.” He exhaled, lowering his voice. “London, I trust you. I do.”
“You’re not acting like it.”
“Your instincts are good, but I can’t stand here and let you make the biggest mistake of your career. You can’t implicate a judge with these theories. Especially Judge Reissing. If you want to search for your missing friend—fine. But as far as Amber Reynolds and Grayson House is concerned…until you have a solid piece of evidence, unless you have direct witness testimony from someone who comes to you with information, you’re not investigating this. You’re done.”
“You can’t order me off this case.”
“There is no case, London. Now go home. Cool down. You can thank me for saving your career tonight.”
“What are you talking about?”
He tossed an envelope towards me. I removed the invitation—a sixty-fifth birthday celebration for Judge Edgar Reissing, held at the Grand Concourse in Station Square.
Fancy. Maybe Reissing would choke on an oyster?
Adamski returned to his desk. “Keep it. You’re going.”
Like hell. “You can’t expect me to go to this party. I’m not kissing Reissing’s ass.”
“What?”
Adamski frowned. “Black tie, London. In distinction of your heroism on the Amber Reynolds case, you are cordially invited to attend this celebration as Judge Reissing’s personal guest of honor.”
“A warning?” I asked.
“I’m not the only one who knows what you’ve been researching,” he said. “Be careful who you make your enemy, London. Some men are more important than justice.”
12
“You never see the worst in people...
And that’s why you’ll always get hurt.”
-Him
A blindfold would have clashed with my black cocktail dress, so I was forced to walk into the firing squad that was Judge Reissing’s birthday celebration with opened eyes and a plunging neckline.
Reissing had staged his party in one of the city’s more upscale restaurants, the Grand Concourse. Converted from the old Lake Erie and Pittsburgh Train Station, the interior had been transformed from a once bustling passenger rail complex to an elegant and refined dining experience. Edwardian architecture blended angled, dark woods with Greek and Roman vaulted ceilings. At least I’d dressed up. This place was a bit more posh than my usual fare.
Victorian globe streetlights glowed beneath a green, stain-glassed domed roof, and tables draped with white linens were placed between the thick Corinthian columns. An elegant, marble staircase with polished golden handrails led guests down into the dining area, the entirety of which had been reserved specifically for Judge Reissing’s party of two hundred socially connected and unabashedly wealthy friends, allies, and enemies too important to not receive an invitation.
James offered me his arm and guided me through a maze of black ties and ruffled dresses, beelining for the waiter brandishing a tray of crab puffs and other meats. Nothing vegetarian, but I found the champagne. Needed the alcohol more than the hors d'oeuvres anyway.
“I hate politics.” The champagne hid my fake smile. I’d slithered into it easier than the curve-hugging silk wrapping low over my bust and hips.
