Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
The traffic to the place picks up after the sun goes down, and it's setting soon.
I drop an ice cube in the espresso so I can drink it faster. I'm not exactly keen on the taste of coffee, but I need the caffeine to keep me awake so I can log and research the people coming and going from the house on West Pace.
If it weren't for the way places like this draw in deviants who go looking for more and more sinister ways to get their rocks off, I wouldn't see a problem with organizations that provide these types of services. If the men and women working in these places are doing so willingly and, they're of sound mind and body, as in not trying to feed an addiction, then I say let people do what people want. Who am I to say what someone can do with their body?
Besides, how convenient is it to need to just blow a load without strings or having to pick a woman up in a bar and flirt and waste time still not knowing how the night is going to end? I can easily see the appeal of paying for an experience where you leave happy and don't have to worry if you're hurting someone's feelings.
"Jesus, I just need to get laid," I mutter, but I'm unwilling to go through the motions to make that happen.
The problem we've found with places like this one through years of research and case management is that they tend to be a gateway to worse stuff. Someone shows up wanting a woman who likes it a little rough and when spanking isn't enough, they want more, and, well, money talks. There's no shortage of green flowing into places like this. Greedy business owners are always connected to the dark side. They'll provide the drugs their clients need, and sometimes that drug is the adrenaline of doing something that is a little more off the beaten path than what is considered socially acceptable. Before they know it, they're providing unwilling clients, not just ones that are good at acting because, for some men, pretending isn't enough.
That's why we work hard at taking places like this one down.
I keep meticulous notes, but these guys are smart. Most cars that pull up outside of the brothel have plates that run back to rental companies. I know without having to research that I won't find one that has been reserved under their real names or paid for by a personal credit card. Most go back to shell companies and the vast majority circle right back to the brothel, with them operating under a legal entity by the name of Daydreamer's Spa. I seriously doubt these men are walking out after a quick microblading session or a foot massage.
"You rat bastard," I mutter the second I see a popular movie star step out of the back of a chauffeured car. "Knew he wasn't a good guy."
The man is instantly given access to the house, telling me he's been there before or they were expecting his arrival tonight.
I log his name and wait for the next car to pull up.
My eyes droop, making me stand up and stretch. This is the worst part about working a case—gathering all the intel and trying to figure out which direction a job needs to take me to render the best results.
The truth is, we have nothing as far as the Sadie Preston case is concerned, and that is what screamed so loud to both Kincaid and me. With the level of technology Kincaid has access to, there should be something out there that hints at where she has disappeared to.
There are no face recognition images on traffic cameras in DC or South Carolina. His team is working outward to try and find something, but there has been nothing from the bus or train stations. Nothing from airports, both commercial and private.
The girl literally seems to have just disappeared.
I figured they'd find her on a traffic camera, heading toward a dope den or something, but that avenue hasn't been successful.
I keep an eye on the television screen with the live feed as I make another espresso, and then pop open the clamshell container of croissants. The amount of caffeine I'm drinking will eat a hole in my stomach otherwise. My body doesn't function the way it used to when I was younger and realizing that makes me feel that much older.
I tilt my head, thinking someone didn't get the memo on how things are done on West Park when I see a bright blue sports car pull up outside of the house.
"Interesting," I say, crossing the room and abandoning the espresso so I can get closer to the television.
A long slender leg pops out of the car, and my stomach sinks the second her face is revealed.