by Debra Dunbar
Nothing. My choice was either to go with the might-as-well-be-naked dress, or my blood-stained clothing. We were off the highway and driving through West Hollywood, which didn’t leave me any time to change back.
Figuring I’d make the best of a bad situation, I pulled out one of the pairs of designer sunglasses. They had rosy-brown acetate frames and oversized square lenses with Salvatore Ferragamo written in script on the side. I preferred my dime store ones from home, but I wasn’t going to turn up my nose at a three-hundred-dollar pair of shades.
I put them on, looked in the mirror and saw a snobby rich girl who’d been out shopping for the day. The only thing that put a dent in the illusion was my shoulder holster with the Glock.
Bishop pulled over to the curb and looked at me. “You want my advice?”
Not really, but I wasn’t in a position where I felt I could refuse advise from anyone.
“Sure.”
“Stay with the dress. It’s better than walking into an office building looking like you’re coming from a murder scene,” he told me. “And leave your weapons in the truck. These office buildings have scanners at the entrances as part of their security. One pistol means you’re being safe. Five means you’re looking for trouble.”
I didn’t want someone to confiscate all my stuff. A metal detector alerting security that I was carrying several guns wouldn’t be good. But I didn’t want to leave all this with Bishop and have to arrange to get it back at a later date.
“I’ll wait here for you,” he told me. “Something tells me you’ll be running out of there like you’re on fire with a dozen armed guards chasing after you. If so, you’ll need a getaway vehicle.”
I hadn’t expected him to offer. Why was he doing this for me? I frowned, wondering if Bishop had been on the clock since he’d seen me lying on the floor with three dead Fixers and a pissed-off Durft. If so, I was absolutely going to protest the double-dipping. No way was I going to pay his hourly rate while he took Fluffy back to the Carlsons.
Although I wouldn’t have much of an argument about him charging me for being the getaway vehicle.
I thought for a second, then decided to take him up on his offer. I might be paying the debt for the rest of my life, but having Bishop at my back made me feel safe.
“Okay.” I unloaded the weapons and stashed them under the passenger seat as he watched. The only thing I kept was a multitool stashed in the pocket of my cardigan and a set of lockpicks that I slid into my holster.
“There. How do I look?” I lifted the sunglasses and tried for one of those duck-lip pouts, complete with batting eyelashes.
“Put the Glock in one of the bags and take it with you. That holster looks a bit too professional. You’ll raise suspicion, or at least a few wary glances.”
I hesitated. “I’m used to having my gun here. If I need to act fast, muscle memory is going to have me reaching for the shoulder holster. The fraction of a second it takes me to dig it out of a shopping bag might get me killed.”
He grunted. “Okay. Then you need to keep attention on something else instead of the gun.”
He dug around in one of the bags, pulled something out, then leaned forward. Taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger, he popped the lid off a tube of lipstick with his other hand, and carefully applied it to my lips.
I couldn’t breathe. He was inches from me, his fingers soft and firm as he held me still. I can’t begin to describe how incredibly erotic it was to have a man, to have Bishop, sweeping color on my lips, his blue eyes focused on my mouth.
He leaned back and surveyed his work, putting the cap back on the lipstick and tossing it back into the bag. “Go get ’em, Trouble. Knock ’em dead.”
I intended to.
Hopping out of the car, I glanced back to see Bishop watching me. Something about him drew me like a moth to a flame—and I wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t my type. I got the feeling he was just as dangerous as those demons flying around downtown. I suspected he might be a weredog or a weresomething. He never seemed to get his hands dirty. I got the feeling that if we worked together I’d probably end up doing all of the work—or me and Bob. But still, having him with me made me feel oddly…safe.
I shook off the weird feeling and adjusted my sunglasses. As I headed down the street, I made sure to put some swing in my hips. It was three o’clock on a Saturday. I was hoping that Jimmie was the sort of guy who didn’t work weekends. I was hoping nobody in his office were the sort to work weekends.
Plan A was to sneak in, find Jimmie’s office, search it for clues, then sneak out before the militia or the police arrived. Plan B was to convince whoever was working there that I was a visitor or client.
Hopefully there would be something informative or at least incriminating in Jimmie’s office. I might even try to steal his computer if it was a laptop. What I really hoped to find was some sort of planner where he might have written down the address where they were holding the girls. If I wasn’t that lucky, I hoped to find his home address or a schedule that would have photo shoot written across it in big red letters. In reality, I’d take anything—the location of the studio he rented, names and contact information for the people he was working with. Anything.
I stopped in front of a ten-story building that seemed to be made entirely out of glass to check the address Telaney had given me. Just inside the revolving glass doors was a fenced-off area that herded me through a set of metal detectors. I set my multitool and cardigan on the conveyor belt, unstrapped my harness and put it along with my pistol and hidden lock picks in one of the gray bins, then walked through the detector, glad that I’d taken Bishop’s advice and left most of my weaponry in the truck.
One of the guards motioned me over to the side and wanded me. As in, with an actual wand that looked like a prop from a Harry Potter set. A purple stone gave a faint glow, and the guard frowned at it.
“What does that mean?” I didn’t have any orbs or amulets with me. The white-muzzled gun and spelled paintballs were in Bishop’s truck.
“Means this is a piece of shit, and we need to hire a better mage,” the guard grumbled. She whacked the wand on her palm a few times, then ran it over me again. The purple stone flickered, lit up, then flickered again.
The guard cursed under her breath, then motioned for me to go on and collect my items as she smacked the wand on the side of her leg. I scooped up my stuff, pausing over near a bench in the lobby so I could put my cardigan and shoulder harness back on. Another set of fencing led me to a bored man sitting in front of a computer. He shoved a good old-fashioned sign-in book at me, so I wrote down an absolutely unimaginative fake name and handed it back. Without asking for ID or even looking at me, he printed off a name badge and waved me toward a bank of elevators.
I contemplated putting the sticker on that announced I was Mary Jones, but decide to shove it in my bag instead and try to pretend I was an employee, working somewhere in this huge building. If pressed I’d pull it out and claim with an airy wave that I wasn’t about to put something adhesive on nice clothing.
The hallway with the elevator bank was busier than I’d expected, with some people leaving, as well as a few others coming in. I stood with the crowd, hands held awkwardly at my sides as I stared up at the numbered lights above the elevator doors just like everyone else.
With a ding, the elevator to the right opened and disgorged its occupants. I crowded in with two women bitching about their boss in Spanish, a man holding two coffees, another man with bright yellow pants. We all faced front and listened to an instrumental version of Smells Like Teen Spirit as the elevator climbed upward.
I got out on three, thankful that no one else left on that floor. After a few moments to check for security cameras, I walked toward the big glass double doors with the words Lenasco Communications etched on them. They were locked, the rooms behind the glass dim. On the wall beside the doors, a red light blinked steadily on a keypad. I eyed the card reader on the door, then looked back at
the keypad. I’d need to take both out, but I wasn’t sure what to do to buy myself as much time as possible before whatever security Lenasco employed came running.
Sometimes it was better to use a hammer than a pick—in this case a lock pick. Going over to the keypad, I sent a surge of electricity through it that blackened a two foot circle on the wall and melted the plastic. Then I did the same to the card reader. The door opened with a solid kick, and I dashed past the receptionist desk, heading left down the hallway.
No alarms were screaming, but that didn’t mean something somewhere wasn’t going off and alerting a security company or militia that at the very least there had been an electrical malfunction. Time was not on my side. Thankfully the office doors all had nice little nameplates beside them. Halfway down the hall I saw the nametag I’d been looking for. I tried the handle, found the office unlocked, and went on in.
On the wall there were certificates with his name on them as well as the sort of awards companies print out in house and hand out like participation trophies. Jimmie obviously took them seriously because he’d framed them and hung them in neat rows behind his desk. Clearly it was more important for visitors to see how awesome he was than for him to view them as a continuous reminder of his excellence.
Along the side walls were pictures of minor celebrities and a few stills from commercials. An Asian man in a suit posed next to a restored Indian motorcycle. A woman with blonde curls lounged on a lavender papasan chair with her legs curled under her. Three men in chefs’ attire stood in front of a table loaded with ornately iced cakes. A group of suspiciously diverse men and women stood next to each other in white coats, a generic laboratory that was probably overlaid onto a green screen behind them.
The rows of frames on the walls were the only thing in the office that was neat. Along one wall were four plastic mail bins full of what looked to be camera parts. Spiral bound booklets were stacked on the desk beside a cup of coffee with mold growing in it. The trash can overflowed with takeout containers and balled up papers. Two tripods leaned against a corner, one with a video camera that looked like it was brand spanking new. I set my bags down and hurried behind the desk. This place was such a mess. It would take me longer than I’d bargained for, which would be a problem if a bunch of armed guys came to check why the security system had melted off the wall.
The spiral bound booklets were screenplays and project details for photoshoots. I quickly leafed through them all, even though I couldn’t imagine Jimmie would have a project book for a human sex trafficking photo shoot laying right on top of his desk. Beside the computer was a good, old fashioned paper planner. I looked through it, going back to Thursday, when Nevarra had been taken. They’d want pictures of her, and they’d want them fast so they could get them up on the sale site. There was nothing for Thursday besides an early morning photoshoot in-house and a noon lunch with someone named Lucy. I turned the page.
Bingo. Yesterday, at seven at night, Jimmie had been on a photoshoot. I ripped a sheet of paper from one of the screenplays and wrote the time as well as the address of the studio on it.
Then I tore through the desk, noting that Jimmie had stashed close to twenty granola bars and some packets of Gatorade powder in one of the drawers. Pens. Pencils. Empty notepads. The deep drawer on the left was filled with file folders. Most of them were empty. One held a bunch of paperclipped receipts. Another contained takeout menus. I shoved them to the front to get a better look at the back few folders.
There was something underneath them.
A slim manila folder had three sheets filled with digital proofs. My stomach turned as I looked at the fresh, innocent faces of children, all as carefully posed as the adults in the pictures on Jimmie’s office walls. The last sheet showed a blonde boy of around six and three girls—two white and one Asian. They were the exact same photos that had been on the website print out that Detective Juke had shown me.
I was sure that photo shoot on his schedule for last night had been for the “coming soon” kids that included Nevarra. Had he not had time to print a proof sheet for them yet? Or maybe the proof sheet was with Desiree for approval before the files were sent to Thumbs for upload? Either way, this was proof that Jimmie was currently involved in the operation.
Now I just needed to figure out what the fuck I was going to do with this information. Grab Jimmie and beat the living fuck out of him until he told me where the kids were being held or gave me the name and phone number for someone who did? Go to Detective Juke with this and trust the police to bring him in and get the information out of him in an interrogation room?
Or option three?
Sliding the sheet out I stuck it in an empty folder, then replaced the rest where I found them. Then I ran, taking a few seconds to ease the glass doors closed. Hopefully whoever responded to the melted security system would blame an electrical surge and not think someone had gone into the office.
I smacked the button on the elevator and watched the numbers slowly ascend. What if someone was on their way up from the lobby and the elevator door opened to reveal me standing here, a folder in hand and a vandalized office security system behind me?
That would not be good. I ditched the elevator and headed into the stairwell.
Thank God for sneakers and the fact that Lenasco Communications was only on the third floor. I bolted down the steps, only slowing to a walk as I came out into the main lobby. Sweat trickled down between my boobs. I tried to blend, to look as if I was just a weekend warrior finally leaving the office, and the whole time I was hyper aware of the guards, the bored receptionist, the other employees coming and going.
No one stopped me. Once I was clear of the building, that’s when I ran.
Chapter 20
“How did it go?” Bishop asked as I climbed into his truck. “I’d half expected you to dive in yelling ‘go, go’ over the sound of machine guns and grenades.”
Haha. What a comedian.
I gathered up my weaponry from the floor on the passenger side, never so glad to see anything in my life. There had been this nagging fear in my chest that I’d come back to find Bishop and the truck gone, my clothes, gun, and knives gone with it.
“I managed to get away without an exchange of gunfire. I also got confirmation that Jimmie is definitely still involved in this operation.” I pulled the sheet of photos out of the folder. “These are the same pictures that were on the trafficking website. He had a bunch of proofs at the bottom of a desk drawer.”
Bishop took the sheet from my hand, his face shuttered as he glanced at it and handed it back. “You’re going to the police with this?”
“Maybe. Eventually. I’m not sure.” I’d had a lifetime of distrust as far as the police were concerned, and from my discussion with Detective Juke yesterday, I doubted any investigation would move fast enough to save Nevarra.
He started the truck. “Where to? You said your bike was at a friend’s house, so should we swing by and pick it up?”
“It’s in Silver Lake.” I hated to impose on him, but it would be a huge help if we picked up my bike rather than me having to figure out how to get it home from the parking lot of a yoga studio.
Bishop pulled into traffic, and once again, we sat in silence as he navigated the streets toward the freeway. I bit my lip, wondering how I could possibly ask this man for more help after all he’d done for me so far.
Screw it. Embarrassing as it was to ask for help, I’d suffer through it to get Nevarra back safe and sound. Besides, he’d probably just tack it onto what I already owed him.
“As of last night Nevarra’s picture wasn’t on the trafficking website,” I said. “Since Jimmie took the other pictures, there’s a good chance he was hired to take hers as well.”
Bishop glanced over at me. “Do you know what studio he uses?”
Here goes nothing. “He had a note on his schedule that he was at a studio last night. He might have taken the pictures then.” I took a deep breath and plunged onward. “If
Bob could come to the studio and pick up Nevarra’s scent, we might be able to follow it. Assuming whatever spell they were using to hide her isn’t active any longer.”
“Those spells are of limited duration. Hiding something or someone long term requires some involved and very specific magic. Most of the time it’s easier to just shield the building so no one can detect what’s inside than to continue hiding the individual or the object, especially if you’re moving it to different locations.”
Was that a yes, or a no? I kept my mouth shut, and hoped if I were quiet, Bishop would offer to help.
“There’s a good chance they used an amulet to transport her, then took it off at her destination,” he mused. “Or they could have just warded the vehicle she was transferred in.”
“You think they’d continue to use the amulet or the warding spells when they moved the kids from wherever they were keeping them to the studio and back?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It depends. That much magic would seriously cut into their profits. They might decide it wasn’t worth the bother once they had the kids at whatever place they were using. They’d have trusted employees watching the kids, doing the driving, and taking pictures, so there wouldn’t be a need to keep warding them. Unless they’d stolen a high-profile celebrity kid and were worried that the parents had spent big money to track them down.”
From what I’d heard, these kids were mostly poor, or runaways. Why bother snatching a rich kid when there were so many families in Los Angeles who couldn’t afford to scour over four thousand square miles of the county looking for their child?
“So there’s a possibility she could be tracked from the studio to wherever they’re keeping the kids?”
“Yes, there’s a possibility.”
I sat for a moment, until it became clear that Bishop wasn’t going to make this easy for me. “Can you and Bob try to track her from the studio?”
