by Libby Howard
I’d admit the idea that one of our clients had run off on her bail was exciting. J.T. was worried about the money, but I was already thinking of passports to Mexico or a new identity in Wyoming. These sorts of things didn’t happen in Locust Point. But then again, we didn’t have arrests for a madam of a prostitution ring every day either.
“Want me to try to track her down?”
J.T. nodded, the frown easing somewhat. “Maybe she headed to the beach or something, but missing a meeting with her lawyer worries me. I just want to make sure I’m not going to be left holding the bag for ten grand.”
“It would make a great episode on your show,” I teased. “Me on the cell phone feeding you information while you are on a high-speed car chase with a warrant for Caryn Swanson’s arrest.”
Now my boss looked positively gleeful. “The folder with the information on her is in the file. I added some notes. And I managed to get this.”
I took the outstretched paper that J.T. handed me and looked it over. It was a copy of a police report—one that neither of us was supposed to be in possession of. I wasn’t even sure Caryn’s defense attorney had all of this.
“You’ve been working your own magic, I see.”
J.T. reddened. He was a notorious flirt, and the emergency service operators loved him, as did the clerks at the courthouse. That and he’d been promising them all parts in his new reality TV series—the one he didn’t have.
Caryn Swanson. Blond. Green eyes. Five feet six. One ten. The arrest record was odd, not what I expected from someone who’d been caught up in a random undercover prostitution sting.
“What do you think?” I asked J.T. “You’ve got your ear to the pavement of the courthouse. Is she guilty? How did they catch her? Pimps and madams usually don’t get caught through these undercover things.”
According to my knowledge gained from years of investigative television shows, johns and hookers got caught in the stings. Pimps and madams were usually brought in through a longer investigation, turned in by a prostitute looking to bargain her way to a slap on the wrist and probation.
“There’s a background investigation I don’t have the details to. It’s got to be in another case file somewhere. I’m assuming a few of her girls got arrested and turned her in, because this was clearly a setup.” He gestured to the file.
I glanced at it briefly. Undercover officer communicates with suspect after contacting her through an online ad. She insists on a preliminary interview—huh, a bit classier than I’d expect. He gets enough information at the interview to arrest her for pandering. Maybe it was really this cut and dry. Maybe Caryn Swanson was holed up at the beach drinking away the horrors of the weekend and trying to forget that she might be facing jail time. Maybe she was meeting right now with her lawyer, offering up her list of clients for a lighter sentence. Either way, I was going to spend some time today digging up everything I could find on this woman.
I put the folder in my stack next to the Creditcorp file. “Are you in the office today or out?”
“Out. I’m meeting with Pete Briscane this morning.”
Our illustrious mayor. “Is he still trying to get you to sponsor a boat in the regatta?”
The wrinkles returned. “His son was in town this past weekend.”
“Oh.” The younger Briscane was trouble with a capital T. A few brushes with the law in high school, a few stints in rehab, a college that finally kicked him out in spite of the substantial donations his parents had made. They’d bought him a BBQ place on the shore a few years back, hoping to keep him busy and out of trouble—and hopefully take some responsibility. His restaurant was far enough that he wasn’t on their doorstep every month, but close enough that they could keep an eye on him. That he was in town and that the mayor wanted to talk to J.T probably meant David was in trouble once more—in enough trouble to potentially require bail or investigative services.
I added a mental note to check into David Briscane’s BBQ joint and finances. Yes, that made me just as much of a snoop as Daisy and J.T… I’d blame it on my investigative journalist past, but honestly, I was curious. And a snoop.
I logged on and waved J.T. out the door, adding Briscane’s name to my list. I had a lot to do today, but even if I had to skip lunch and make do with the scone in my purse, I was going to see what I could find on Caryn Swanson and do some digging on the mayor’s notorious son.
Chapter 9
I never got to David Briscane. The Creditcorp subject had just started a job as a third-shift cashier at the Gas N Go. He wouldn’t make enough there to allow much for the judgment, but there was evidence that a local construction company was paying him as a contractor—cash, judging from the regular Friday-night deposits into his bank account. I was willing to bet the man kept most of the payment under his mattress, depositing just enough to cover the automatic payments for his cable television and internet service.
That done, I wolfed down my scone and tried to see what I could find on Caryn Swanson. At twenty-three, the girl’s credit history was a rollercoaster of on-time and late payments. There was nothing on the state case search beyond a speeding ticket she’d received last year. The employment history on her social security number showed the party-planner job. She made good money there, but when I put everything together, a pattern revealed itself.
Two years ago, her credit stabilized and small steady cash deposits began. At the end of last year, she paid for a car in cash—as in cash-cash, not a check. Admittedly, it wasn’t a luxury car, but most people didn’t carry around thousands for a used sedan.
But plenty of people did under-the-table work, including the Gas N Go guy I’d just finished tracing. I wasn’t accusing him of running a prostitution ring. And honestly, Caryn Swanson’s guilt or innocence wasn’t my job. Finding out where she’d run off to was.
Which meant I needed to go outside her credit reports and bank records. I turned to the research avenues that yielded my biggest results—social media. Nothing was private anymore, regardless of how people managed their security settings. I’d long since stopped being shocked at the detail of information humans put out for public consumption. It wasn’t unusual to see illegal activity splashed across Facebook or documented in Instagram photos.
And unlike us old folk, people today seemed to be unbothered by the need to keep anything private. Sure enough, Caryn Swanson’s life was laid out for all the world to see—beach pictures, holiday shots, guzzling a beer by a pool, flashing cleavage, and making duck-lips for the camera. She also had a business page with tons of photos from her various weddings, graduation parties, and anniversary celebrations. Nothing had been posted on either since her arrest. I downloaded all sorts of pictures from her personal account, complete with who was tagged, and the location of where each was taken as well as the time and date of post. I’d check these out later for a list of Caryn’s buddies who might have given her a safe harbor away from the publicity.
Snapchat was loaded with messages asking what was going on and less-than-subtle digs for details behind obvious curiosity. I copied down contacts and messages to cross reference with the Facebook posts.
In a way, all this on-line activity made my job harder. It took me hours to wade through the metric ton of selfies and party posts to get any kind of grasp on who Caryn Swanson’s friends were and who were just casual acquaintances.
There was one other thing missing from her online persona. I would have overlooked it if I hadn’t waded back through two years of mind-numbing posts and pictures. Caryn Swanson, as beautiful and sexy as she seemed to be, didn’t have a boyfriend. There were all sorts of less-than-subtle snide remarks about who I assumed was an ex from when she would have been eighteen, then there was nothing—nothing except party pics and business photos.
It seemed odd, but it had been a long time since I’d been a young woman and I honestly didn’t know how the dating world worked nowadays. Paging forward, I returned to the posts right before her arrest that might shed ligh
t on where Caryn had been over the weekend, and where she was now. Twitter and Snapchat held the most recent pictures, so I downloaded them and opened them up on my gigantic monitor, enlarging and photo enhancing what I could.
Nothing indicated she had been planning a trip to Ocean City, New York, or any road trips. There were some party pictures from the weekend before, posted right around sundown, but nothing afterward. It was better than nothing. I zoomed in on the party pictures, determined to find out where it had been held and who else was in attendance. Someone had to have known where Caryn had run off too.
That’s when I saw a familiar face. I don’t know a lot of teenagers, but this one had been in my house as of yesterday, and I would have recognized her anywhere. It was Madison Beck, the judge’s fifteen-year-old daughter. She was wearing a pair of toddler-sized booty shorts, what looked like a bandana across her chest, and she was holding a signature red Solo cup. There was the shiny silver of a keg off to the side. She wasn’t the focus of the picture, of course. But Madison was clearly visible off to the back.
She’d been busted by a photo bomb. While drinking beer at a party. I would have to tell her father. I really didn’t want to. Yes, I’d done similar stuff, although I didn’t remember drinking beer at fifteen, but that wasn’t why I was squirming in my ergonomic office chair at the thought of the conversation I was going to have later—it was the drama that conversation would cause. There would be crying and yelling, and a teenage girl grounded in a bedroom of my home. Plus, the judge would blame his wife who’d been responsible for the kids that Saturday night. It was going to be so ugly, and I hated ugly, but he had to know—and I had to talk to Madison. She’d been at this party with Caryn. I’d still give J.T. a list of contacts who had been tagged in other photos, but if Caryn was still missing, Madison might know where she was, or at least who she was with.
Chapter 10
I left J.T. a message with the typed summaries of both the Creditcorp job and what I’d dug up so far on Caryn. What I hadn’t done was let my boss know about Madison Beck’s presence at the party. The picture was in the file, although I didn’t think J.T. had ever met the girl or would be able to identify her from the picture. My loyalty to J.T. didn’t extend far enough to let him turn Madison Beck into the latest town gossip, especially not before either of her parents knew and had a chance to confront her themselves.
Plus, I wanted to talk with her first. I got the impression that the girl might be more open to telling me about the party rather than J.T.—or probably even her own Dad—although I had no illusions that she’d be warm and friendly, given that I was about to rat her out.
The judge, true to his word, had picked both kids up from school. By the time I got home, the two teens were at the dining room table, books and notepads spread all over the surface as they did their homework. I heard the bang of pots in the kitchen and smelled the heavenly aroma of bacon and beef. Whatever my new roomie was cooking up, I was willing to bet it was a whole lot tastier than the salad I had in the fridge.
“Can I speak to you for a quick second?” I asked Madison. She looked up from her homework with surprise.
“Sure.”
I led her off to the side room that had once housed Eli’s bed and pulled the photo from my briefcase, laying it on the back of the sofa for her to see.
She sucked in a breath. “Where…when…? Someone photoshopped that because it’s not me.”
“It’s not photoshopped. I had to enlarge it for this close up.” I pulled the print of the original out and sat it beside the other. This one had Caryn Swanson front and center, Madison just a figure in the back near the keg.
“Are you spying on me?” Her voice rose, then lowered with a quick look back at the dining room. “Why do you have these pictures?”
“I do research for a bail-bond firm, and we’re just making sure Caryn Swanson doesn’t skip out on her bail.” I let that sink in for a moment. “We think she might have gone away with a friend this past weekend. We need to reach her, so I’m trying to find out who her friends are, who she might have gone out of town with. And I’m hoping since you were at this party you might know.”
Madison rubbed her hands over her face. “Are you going to tell Dad? I was supposed to be at Chelsea’s. We were the only two there who weren’t in our twenties. I couldn’t even believe I was invited. Please don’t tell Dad.”
She was more concerned about getting grounded than me finding out where Caryn was. Teens. Although honestly, being caught at a party with a woman who’d been arrested for running a prostitution ring was probably a far more serious offense than just a run-of-the-mill teenage party.
“I have to tell your father. These pictures are on Caryn Swanson’s social media. They’ll most likely be introduced as part of her court case. Can you imagine what’s going to happen if your dad is serving on this trial and sees a party picture with his daughter in the background next to a keg?”
She crumpled and I held back the urge to wrap my arms around her. “He’s going to kill me. He’ll kill me. Then he’ll kill Mom. He’ll blame her for this whole thing.”
Probably. Well, the blaming Heather, not the killing.
“I won’t lie, you’re going to be in some serious trouble, but he won’t kill you and you’ll be better off letting him know now than if he were blindsided in the middle of a trial.”
She nodded, then took a breath to compose herself. “I didn’t know about the prostitution stuff. I swear I didn’t know, and I’m not sure I believe it. Chelsea’s sister knows her. Caryn did her graduation party a few years back. They’re not big friends or anything, but they kind of run in the same social circles. Locust Point is small. They hang out at the same places.
“Anyway, Leah knew about the party and asked if Chelsea wanted to come. Chelsea felt weird about being at a party with people that much older than us, so she asked me to come along. It was fun. I didn’t get drunk or anything. There weren’t any drugs, and the guys there were nice. Cute. But they didn’t try to hit on us or anything. It was like we were their little sisters or something.”
“Little sisters who drink beer from kegs and are practically naked.”
“My bathing suit covers less than that,” Madison shot back.
“It’s March. And you’re not at a pool.”
She glared silently at me after that. I needed to back off. She wasn’t my kid, and I needed her to give me information. She’d hate me enough once I showed her father this picture.
“So Chelsea’s sister, Leah, is Caryn’s friend?”
“No, not really. They just run into each other at parties and stuff. Leah probably knows her friends, though.”
And Leah might know who would have the inside information on where Caryn had gone. If she was still missing, that is. I was going to wring J.T.’s neck if I’d gone to all this trouble only to find that she’d missed the meeting with her lawyer because she was hungover.
“And what are Leah and Chelsea’s names?”
“Novak.”
“Thanks.” I nodded. “I’m going to talk to your father.”
She nodded, her eyes huge. “I’m so dead. Dead. Dad is gonna kill me. He’s gonna kill me, then Mom is gonna kill me.”
I patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll see if I can’t get him to kill you a little less then he normally would.”
I left her at the dining room table, hands shaking as she worked on her homework. Then I went into the kitchen. Judge Beck still had on his work pants, his shirt partially unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up. His jacket and tie were draped over the back of a chair. Grease was splattered all over my cooktop from the bacon cheeseburgers in a frying pan.
I didn’t know how to ease into this, so I just jumped right in. “Pierson did the bail for Caryn Swanson and I did some research on her today. There are worries that she may have run off, that she might be a flight risk.”
The judge looked up in surprise, spatula in hand. “For those charges? Why? She’d probably wind
up with a slap on the wrist if she turns over the client list.”
“I don’t know. It’s a small town. Even if it’s knocked down to a lesser charge, her party planning business is over. Maybe she’s looking into starting over somewhere else.”
He looked over at me, spatula dripping grease on the floor. “Has she left town? I know Pierson wouldn’t have you digging into this if she was home safe. If he was worried about her leaving, he would have checked this out before posting her bail, so she must be missing?”
I sighed. Might as well gossip like the rest of the town. “Yeah. She probably ran off to the beach with a friend to get away from all of this, but J.T. is worried she might have bolted.”
“She empty her bank account?” The judge flipped a burger.
“No.” Where was he going with this?
“She’s not going to run off on what will probably end up being a minor charge with her car and the clothes on her back. That’s why the bail is so low. If she was up for murder, if she was connected to organized crime or a drug cartel, that’s when I expect her to bolt. Not over this.”
My blood suddenly ran cold. I blame it on too many thrillers and those late-night television mysteries. What if there was something—someone—in that little black book who would really didn’t want to be exposed?
“Does Walsh know where she is? I’m assuming that gin-swilling paralegal of his tipped off Pierson.”
Hey. That was uncalled for. True, but uncalled for.
“Don’t underestimate Bonita. She might like her gin, but I wouldn’t call her a lush.”
I suddenly remembered the judge seeing Daisy and I drinking enormous glasses of wine on the porch. Did he think I was a lush? Was I going to need to sneak around my own house, just so my roommate didn’t condemn me for what his puritanical self might consider over-indulgence?
