by K. A. Tucker
Kristian opens the file folder tucked under his arm and holds up a mug shot of a woman with long, scraggly blonde hair in an orange jumpsuit. “You assumed the name of Mandy Hawkins. You served ninety days in Beaumont for prostitution charges in 2007 after—”
“Okay.” She stops him with a raised hand, her face pinched.
I hold my breath, afraid she’s going to tell us to go away, to never come back. That she doesn’t care about me or my mom, or what happened to my dad. “I was wondering if this day would ever come.” She doesn’t look at all happy about the fact that it has.
I have so many questions. About what happened to her; about what she knows of my father, and what happened to him. But right now, one seems to outweigh all the rest.
“Why didn’t you come home?”
* * *
“It’s been forever since I’ve heard that name, ‘Betsy.’ ” She sets glasses of water on the island countertop in front of us.
All I can do is stare at her.
I can’t believe we’ve found my mom’s sister. My aunt. The girl who ran away from home, who my dad tried so hard to find.
Who my dad died trying to find.
She definitely has the Richards eyes. She has the same face shape, same jaw as my mother, too—wide and angular. The rest of her features are daintier than my mom’s, though.
I see my nan in her, too. In her looks as well as in her mannerisms. The way she’ll stare intensely at you for a few seconds and then glance away, as if she can’t bear the connection for one more second.
She doesn’t smile much, just like Nan didn’t smile much. Or, at least, her smiles are tight and reserved, and she lets out a small huff right before she lets you see them. Also like Nan.
And she’s been wiping that same spot on the counter with a cloth for several minutes now, just like Nan used to do.
She clears her voice. “I saw the news. How’s Dina?”
“In rehab. We’re hoping it’ll stick this time.”
She nods. “Was there something you needed from me? Or . . .”
I open my mouth to explain, but I don’t know where to start. And both Kristian and Agent Tareen have been uncharacteristically quiet so far.
“It’s a bit of a story, ma’am,” Noah says, reaching over to place his hand on my knee. An offer of reassurance. He’s not used to seeing me so flustered.
“I have a bit of time.” She pauses to take a long sip of her drink, her hand trembling slightly. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Noah Marshall, ma’am. My mother was Chief Jackie Marshall.”
That earns a flash of surprise in Betsy’s eyes, followed by softness. “I’m sorry about what happened to her.”
Noah simply nods.
Betsy’s gaze turns to Kristian, hardening a touch. He is the one who produced her mug-shot photo, after all, and it’s clear she’d rather keep that part of her past buried. “And you two are the FBI agents investigating Abraham’s death, I take it?”
“Yes, ma’am. And we have some questions for you.” Kristian flashes an easy smile.
After a moment, Betsy—Mandy—nods. “Go ahead.”
“In April of 2003, Wilkes and his partner went to an Austin area hotel on a prostitution call. Abraham recognized the girl in the room. Were you that girl?”
“Yes.” A frown flickers over Betsy’s face. “It’d been years since Abe saw me last. Still, I saw it in his eyes, the moment it clicked.”
“Do you know the man you were with?”
She shakes her head. “My . . . handler drove me out to this quiet hotel. It was nicer than the ones I’d usually end up in. He gave me the room number, and I went in.”
“Do you remember any names?”
“No, but it was probably John, or Don. Or Bill.” She chuckles. “None of them give their real names.”
Agent Tareen is jotting down notes on a pad of paper while Klein questions. “What do you remember about that night?”
“Enough,” she says quietly. “We heard a knock on the door about twenty minutes after I got there. The man checked the peephole and then he panicked, and started the shower right away. He told me to get in the bathroom. So I did.”
“And then he answered the door?”
She shakes her head. “No. The bathroom door was open a crack, and I heard him talking on the phone, telling someone that there were cops at the door, and to get them off his back right away. Then he answered the door.”
Noah and I share a look. He must have called Jackie. “And you didn’t hear him say any names on the phone?”
She shakes her head. “We’d done a line of coke ten minutes before. I was trying to keep it together, and I was scared I was going to get busted. I heard the cops saying that someone from the hotel reported suspected prostitution with an underage girl in the room. He denied it. One of the cops kept saying, ‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ and ‘It was definitely a mistake, sir,’ but the other insisted to see my ID and for me to come to the door. That’s when he told them I was in the bathroom and they’d have to wait a few minutes and allow me the privacy of closing the door so I could get dressed.
“He came and got me. Made me drink a lot of water, hoping that would clear my head. He reminded me what to say—that we were on a date and to deny anything else.”
“Did it seem like he was stalling?”
“Yeah, definitely. He kept checking his watch. Finally the cops started pounding on the door, demanding he open it. He made me get my ID. He asked how old it said I was.”
“How old were you?”
She swallows hard. “I’d just turned fifteen.”
“And do you think he knew you were that young?”
She twists her lips. “The guys that like young girls . . . you can tell. Besides, whoever he was on the phone with, he told them I was underage.”
The sleazy bastard knew alright.
“And his ID?”
“He hid it in the inside pocket of his messenger bag.” She frowns. “But they weren’t asking for his. It seemed like they already knew who he was.”
I share a glance with Noah, to see he’s realized the same thing—Dunn lied to us.
“He told me to hang back while he dealt with the cops. But the one cop insisted that if I didn’t come to the door, they’d arrest us both. So I came. I didn’t recognize Abe at first, but I was scared all the same. I didn’t want to get in trouble with Damien. That was my . . . well, I guess you could say he owned me,” she adds quietly.
“And then what happened?”
“Another cop showed up then—a woman—and told them she’d take over. The one cop took off fast, like he didn’t want to be within a hundred miles of that doorstep. But Abe started to argue with her. My client made me go back inside while he talked to her and then she left, too. The guy threw cash on the table and told me to go. So, I met my driver by one of the side doors. Ricky. That was his name. He was waiting in the parking lot. He saw the cop cars coming in, and grilled me a bit about it after.”
“And that was it?”
She shakes her head. “A cop tailed us out of the parking lot. It was the female cop. She followed us all the way to the motel I was staying at. Somehow Ricky didn’t notice.”
“Do you remember what she looked like?” Noah asks, too calmly.
“Pretty. Short blonde hair and these piercing blue eyes.” Betsy stares at Noah for a long moment before averting her gaze. I can’t tell if she’s made the connection. “She came to the room we were staying in, and told Damien to get me out of town right away or we’d both end up in jail. And then she left.”
Noah’s hand tenses on my knee.
“Damien was furious. He thought I was working with the police, which didn’t make much sense, but he was a paranoid guy. He beat me real bad that night, and then threw me into the back of his car and took me to Houston.”
“Did you ever see Abraham Wilkes again?” Klein asks.
She shakes her head. “Give me a sec?” She disappears
through a door on the other side of the kitchen, the glimpse of a heavy wooden desk telling me it’s an office. A moment later, she returns and lays a business card down on the counter, the edges worn and torn, looking like it had been folded and crumpled a hundred times.
“Abe left me at that hotel that night and I convinced myself it was because he didn’t care what happened to me, just like everyone else. But one day, months later, I crossed paths with a girl I knew and she handed that to me. She said the cop had been going around, showing people my picture and passing out his card. She didn’t tell him that she knew me, but she held on to it in the chance she’d see me again. In that world, you never were sure if you’d see someone again.” She smiles sadly. “I’ve held on to that card all these years, to remind myself that even in my darkest days, someone did care.”
This is as good a time as any. I lay the charm necklace next to the card. “My mother never took this off.”
Betsy’s eyes gloss over as she paws at her neck, empty of jewelry. “Damien took my half. He didn’t want anything that could identify me.”
“People cared, Betsy.”
She swallows hard. “I called the number on the card, but it was disconnected. I didn’t know he had died until much later. I didn’t know much of what was going on back then at all. They shuttled us from one city to another. Someone was always with us or nearby, watching. Making sure we did as we were told, reminding us what would happen if we didn’t. They’d make us do lines of coke, and then bring us to hotel rooms to work. That’s how I usually found out where I was—a flyer in a hotel room. All I knew back then was that if I did what Damien asked, I’d get my next fix and he wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Where’s this Damien guy now?” I ask through gritted teeth. Because I want to kill him.
“He went to jail. He could still be there. Or maybe he’s dead.” She sounds hopeful about that.
“What else do you remember about that client?” Kristian asks, pulling the conversation back to that night.
She tops up our glasses with water, her eyes glued to the pitcher. “He was like all of them. Middle-aged. Married, with kids.”
“What did he look like?”
“Forties . . . but a lot of gray hair. Fairly fit.”
“Was his natural hair red-colored?”
She frowns, in thought. “No, I don’t remember him being a redhead.”
“Any idea what he did for a living?” Klein asks.
“We didn’t talk much.” Her cheeks flush.
“Right. Just . . . anything at all. Guys like to blow off steam, talk about things they shouldn’t talk about with girls who only pretend to listen.”
Betsy chews her cheek in thought. “No. I’m sorry. He was nice, if that helps. Some of them were . . . not nice.” She runs the tap to rinse out her glass, only to fill it back up with water from the pitcher again. “How’s my . . . how’s Peggy?”
“Nan died about five years ago of a heart attack.”
She presses her lips together and nods quietly.
I can’t help but ask. “Why didn’t you come back? We were still in Tucson. Still in The Hollow.”
She buys herself time, finishing her drink. “Did your mom tell you about my dad?”
“I just found out. Nan kicked him out right after you ran away. Did you know that?”
She shakes her head. “Once I left, I never looked back. It’s a hard thing, you know, to get the guts to go to your mom and tell her what your dad’s been doing to you when she’s out late at night. And when she tells you that you’re making things up . . .” Her eyes begin to glisten. “I hated her so much for that. Hated them both. Couldn’t wait to get away. And then I met Damien. He was older and attractive and doted on me. He bought me things and drove me everywhere, told me how beautiful I was and how much he loved me. He’s the one who put the idea in my head to leave. I mean, I’d thought of it plenty, but I was barely fourteen. I had nowhere to go. So when he said he’d take care of me, it was an easy decision. I packed my backpack, wrote a letter, and left. Met him a few blocks away.”
“My dad drove to Tucson, and came looking for you.”
“I’m not surprised.” Her bottom lip wobbles. “We headed to California for a bit, down near LA. It was exciting. No curfews, no rules, no school. Just partying in different people’s houses every night. Damien started feeding me alcohol and drugs. A joint here, a pill there.” She hesitates. “Then one day his friend came over and told me how pretty I was and that he wanted to sleep with me. Damien told him it was okay, that he could. He convinced me to do it, that he’d love me more for it. I was fourteen. I was stupid. And I just wanted to be loved.”
“You’re not alone. That’s how most girls get pulled into this. These guys know who to target,” Kristian says softly.
She smiles appreciatively at him. “And then it happened again with another friend, and then another, until I started to wonder if they were really his friends. Finally I told him that I didn’t want to be with anyone but him. He got so angry. He hit me a few times. I was scared that he’d dump me. Can you believe that? That’s what I was worried about.” Betsy’s face pinches, like admitting all this is painful. “I’m not sure when I actually figured out that Damien was selling me.”
“Why didn’t you run, then? You could have come back.”
“To what? A father that . . .” She doesn’t bother to finish.
“Still . . . all these years later. What happened to you?”
“When Damien was arrested, I had this brief glimpse of freedom.” She laughs bitterly. “It lasted all of an hour, and then this other guy took over me and two other girls. His name was Naseer, and he taught me just how good Damien had actually treated me. He got me hooked on cheap smack and locked me in rooms for twelve hours, letting a parade of guys come through and use me. He’d beat me, too. I mean, Damien hit me, but not like Naseer did, not on a daily basis.
“He told me that he knew where I was from and that I was disgusting, that my family would never take me back. He convinced me that he’d find me and hurt me if I ever tried to go. I believed him. I was scared. So I kept turning tricks, until one day I got busted by an undercover cop down in San Antonio and thrown in jail. And it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I got away from Naseer, from the life, and got clean in the inmate drug rehab program.”
“Does your husband know about all this?” Noah asks softly.
Her eyes drift to a framed wedding portrait on the wall and a small smile touches her lips. “He was my lawyer. His firm did pro bono work and I was assigned to him. He started checking in on me, while I was in jail, to make sure I was getting all the help I needed. And after I got out, he helped me get a job and a place to live. One thing led to another. I still can’t believe that he would ever want to marry me.”
The man in the portrait is at least ten years older than her, his hair sparse on top, his chin sporting sagging skin. Next to Betsy—beaming and beautiful in an elegant white lace gown, her golden-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders—anyone would say the opposite is true.
“No one but Gale knows about my past. We lied to his family and our friends about how we met. While he may be open-minded, others aren’t, especially not in this neighborhood.”
“So, this man . . . are you sure there isn’t anything else you can remember about him?” Kristian pushes, once again giving her just enough time to prattle before gently reining her back in.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” There’s a pause. “But what does that night have to do with Abe’s death?”
“We’re not entirely sure yet.” He sets his card out next to my father’s. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.” His steely gray gaze shifts to me. “Ready?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Now that we’ve found my aunt, I don’t want to leave. But I guess that’s the appropriate thing to do. Betsy will need time to process all this. I can’t blame her. She was picking weeds from her g
arden when we showed up, dragging with us a past that she hoped was dead and buried.
Betsy pulls a pad of paper from the fridge and scribbles down a phone number. “You know where I live. Here is my number.” She presses the page into my hand. “Please call me. And tell your mom I said hello.” She hesitates. “Maybe I could contact her, when she’s better.”
“She’d love that.”
“And maybe you could come over again another day, if you’re staying in Austin? It’d be nice . . . to have family of my own again.” Betsy gives me one of those small, tight-lipped smiles.
“I will. I’m not going anywhere.” I absently reach for Noah, my fingers grazing his bicep. He’s definitely stuck with me now.
It isn’t until we reach the massive two-story foyer that Betsy suddenly exclaims, “Wait! I do . . . yes, I do remember something.” She frowns, as if she’s trying to grasp a thought that’s flittering just out of reach in her memories. “The man . . . he walked with a limp.”
CHAPTER 58
Commander Jackie Marshall
May 4, 2003
I climb over the police tape and march forward into a circus show of flashing lights and people.
The last time I was at this seedy motel, it was to get Betsy out of Austin.
Now . . . I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I got woken up by a call from dispatch to tell me that an officer’s been shot and I needed to get out here.
Silas steps into my path.
That son of a bitch . . . I have nothing to say to him. I try to skirt him, but he grabs my arm. “Hold up, Jackie.” His eyes flash around us, checking to see who’s watching. “You can’t go in there.”
“The hell I can’t!” I try to shake his arm off me, but he squeezes tighter.
“Canning’s orders. Only a special team is allowed in there right now. They’re making me wait outside too, and I’m the damn DA!”
“You are not the DA, yet,” I grit through my teeth, adding quietly, “and you never will be if anyone finds out what you really are.” It was all I could do to keep from vomiting, walking up to that hotel room two weeks ago to find Abe facing off with none other than my brother, in a hotel room with a prostitute.
