 
THE COLLECTOR

Debut of the Alan Swansea Mystery series

by Scott Wittenburg

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Scott Wittenburg

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events of this book are entirely the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, or to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

The Collector peered through the viewfinder and scrutinized the scene. The angle of the floral patterned fringed chair still looked a little off so he backed away from the tripod and went over to adjust it. He returned to his Canon EOS Mark II and examined the set again. Perfect, almost. The pale green hue of the wall molding still bothered him but he could easily correct that in Photoshop later. The arrangement of clothes hanging in the closet just beyond the chair wasn't quite right either, but this too could be fixed on the computer.

Ah, the power of technology!

He turned around and raised the light stand another couple of inches. He knew that lighting was crucial to the scene and it had to be just right. Although there was the capability of modifying both light quality and direction in Photoshop, he refused to compromise what he felt was absolutely essential to his art. Lighting is what made it all happen—just ask any of the masters. And if it didn't happen naturally in real time, a scene was not worth rendering in the first place. Simple as that.

Tilting the soft box downward a bit, The Collector observed the shadows falling onto the bare hardwood floor. He closely noted how the shadows fell within the folds of the white cotton towel draped over the chair that she would be sitting on. Everything was just right.

His anticipation was palpable as he visualized the scenario that was about to happen. He would enter the dormitory and a hush would suddenly fall over the room. As he strode slowly and methodically between the rows of beds, he would see a mixture of excitement and fear in every one of their sweet innocent faces, absolute confirmation that he was in charge and their master. Witnessing that simultaneous fear and eagerness to please made it all worthwhile—the very fuel on which he thrived. That, and of course his art.

He had already made his decision several days ago. The lithe brunette with the long torso and radiant skin was hands-down the obvious choice. He would walk over to her, smile and offer his hand. There would be the slightest bit of hesitation before she smiled back sheepishly and accepted it, all young lady-like, and arose from the bed. The pair would then proceed to walk hand-in-hand to the door and stop. Then the Collector would turn around and announce to the room that she was the only one he needed this time. The girls would all breathe sighs of disappointment, but he knew that this would be just for show. Deep down inside, they would no doubt be heaving sighs of relief.

Amused and insanely inspired by all of this, the Collector turned and left the room.

CHAPTER 2

Alan Swansea positioned the cursor over the space and pasted in the html code. Nothing would make him happier now than to be done with this whole project. Yes, the money was decent, but there was something about designing a website pitching commercial cleaning products that sort of took the edge out of any real sense of accomplishment or enthusiasm.

Like, how awesome could a grid of toilet bowl cleaners look anyway?

He saved the file and previewed the page in Safari. Wonderful. Just three more pages to go and this project would be history. Chris Hammond would be overjoyed that his website was finally ready to go live.

Taking a sip of black coffee, Alan stretched out his legs and focused his weary eyes on something other than the screen of his iMac. The dusk had given way to night as he spotted a full moon rising over the horizon through the window. He stood up to crack it open a couple of inches and heard a symphony of cricket chatter pour in from the chilly night air. Autumn was at last making its debut and he was glad that the god-awful heat and humidity of summer in Columbus was finally over. Maybe his disposition would improve along with the cooler weather.

After warming up his coffee, he sat back down at the desk and resumed work on Hammond's website. He had just positioned a thumbnail of carpet deodorizer into a column when he heard the ping of an incoming e-mail. He clicked on the Mail window and scrolled down to the new message. It was from Beth Lindsay, whom he hadn't heard from in several months. The subject of the forwarded message read, _Puzzled in Denver_. Leave it to Beth to make even an e-mail heading sound dramatic.

The message read:

Hey old friend, hope this finds you well. Sorry it's been so long but I've been swamped with speaking engagements lately. I know I shouldn't complain but sometimes I wish that writing was all you had to do to be a writer. No one ever told me I'd be spending more of my time promoting books than writing them. But then, it is all for a worthy cause.

At any rate, I'm wondering what you make of this strange e-mail I got from one of my online visitors. At first I thought it was a hoax but something tells me there may be something to it just by the sheer brevity of it.

I clicked on the link and that's when this got really strange. It took me to a website where there's nothing there but a small collection of paintings that look sort of familiar—like they're by some famous painter. I figured since you are the big art major in my life, not to mention a former PI, that you could take a look and tell me what you think. I wouldn't bother you like this if I didn't have a weird feeling that this Elen woman is legit. Maybe she was going to say more but ran out of time. Anyway, I'd appreciate your professional advice. I can't rest easy if I know there's a desperate woman out there in need!

Get back to me when you get a chance. I know I owe you a drink. Coming out west anytime soon?

Love ya dear!

Beth

begin forwarded message

Please save my sister before it too late. She is here

http://kadanskl.com/gallery

Please do not reply to this

Elen

end forwarded message

Alan clicked on the link and was promptly taken to a webpage in his browser. What he saw was a page simply entitled _My Art_. Below the title were four images on a black background—two columns of two images each. He studied the paintings for a moment and realized that they were very much in the style of Edgar Degas, the nineteenth century Impressionist. The subject matter in all of the paintings was young ballerinas, favorite fodder for many of Degas' works. In fact, all of these paintings looked like they actually could be by Degas. Except—

Alan closely examined the first image of a young girl standing in a powder blue tutu with her back to the viewer. Her head was bowed down looking at the floor and there were three other ballerinas dancing in the background. He scrolled over to the next image of a solitary young ballerina in a large dance studio standing on one leg with her other leg extended horizontally backward. An arabesque position, he recalled.

Something's not quite right here, he thought. He just couldn't put his finger on it. Alan right-clicked his mouse over the image and downloaded it to his desktop. He followed suit with the remaining three images then dragged all four files into Photoshop. Choosing the first painting of the ballerina staring down at the floor, Alan zoomed in three hundred percent and studied the magnified image. Although it was of low resolution and considerably pixilated, he was able to come up with a startling conclusion: this was not a painting after all. It was a photograph that had been modified using image manipulation software—most likely Photoshop.

He zoomed in on the other three images one by one and came up with the same conclusion. The artist appeared to have created mock-ups of several Degas paintings by photographing the subjects then digitally manipulated them with painting tools and filters in Photoshop. Which meant that the models Alan was seeing here were living subjects, and one of them could be the sister that the Elen woman had referred to in the e-mail to Beth.

But which one? There was no way to tell.

He clicked on the tab of the third image and reexamined it. The image showed a ballerina sitting on a long wooden bench against a wall. The girl had her head bowed down with her elbow resting on her knee and her other hand grasping her ankle. Her feet were pointed outward, making the girl look rather awkward. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun and her face was not visible.

He studied the fourth and final image. There were also four young ballerinas in this one, one in the foreground and three in the background. The one in the foreground was standing in profile while one of the remaining three was looking directly toward the camera. The third one was looking off to the side and the fourth stood with her back facing the camera. All four girls wore blue tutus and appeared to be in a dance studio with a rail running along the wall on either side of a stone or plaster column.

And not one of the girls looked any older than fourteen or fifteen.

So what in the hell is going on here? Alan thought. Do these images imply some kind of foul play or are they simply a showcase of some photographer's concept of ripping off Degas and creating his own brand of digitized plagiarism? Was one of these girls actually the sister of the mysterious Elen and was she in some kind of trouble? Trouble enough that she needed to be "saved?"

And if this were the case, why in the world would this woman implore Beth Lindsay to be her sister's rescuer? Why not the police, for crying out loud?

It had to be a hoax, he thought. Something cooked up by some bored idiot surfing the net with nothing better to do than to send an e-mail to Beth after stumbling upon her website—

Alan suddenly recalled that Beth had indeed received the e-mail in question from what she referred to as "a visitor to her website." Beth's website, which Alan had designed for her a couple of years ago, featured a women's rights platform and hosted a forum for battered and abused women, causes that Beth Lindsay tirelessly advocated for in her books and lectures. That lent to the possibility of legitimacy to the woman's plea. But again, wouldn't simply calling the police be the most logical route to take for someone seeking help for a loved one in harm's way?

And why had this Elen woman added the link to this website, anyway? Why not just attach a photo of her sister along with her name and whereabouts instead? Why all the mystery?

None of it added up. Yet, Beth seemed to have a feeling about the e-mail's legitimacy. It's "sheer brevity," as she had put it.

Alan clicked out of Photoshop, returned to his e-mail program and reread the message. He had to admit that there was a sense of urgency in the body of the message—as though the sender was in haste to complete it. That could account for the minor typos and minimal content. Had this Elen woman—or was it actually _Ellen_ with two L's—written this under duress?

_Please do not reply to this_ , she had said. There was only one reason Alan could think of for this request. Ellen did not want someone to find out that she had written the message. A response would give her message away.

His suspicions mounting, Alan read the return address of the sender, jhb@ments11.net.

He selected and copied the e-mail address, went to Google Search and typed in "trace e-mail locations." He clicked on the first of several free sites that came up and pasted the sender's e-mail address into the search box. No luck— _unknown server_.

Alan copied the URL of the website link from the e-mail, opened his iMac's utilities folder and double clicked the Network Utility application. After clicking the Traceroute tab, he pasted the URL into the search field. Several lines of text appeared as the software began at his current IP location and worked backward through a network toward the source until it finally stalled and went no further. It was likely that the site's IP address was blocked behind a firewall or some other means, which meant that it would take a more sophisticated program than the one on his Mac to trace it down.

He would have to give Charlie a call. If the site was traceable in any size, shape or form, Charlie Ling, Mr. Hacker extraordinaire, could trace it. Maybe Charlie could even locate where the Ellen woman had sent the original e-mail.

Alan picked up the phone and keyed in Charlie's number

CHAPTER 3

Elena shut her eyes, oblivious to the ugly slob she was being forced to have sex with. She never heard his grunts and groans nor protested against the rough way he grasped the back of her head and slammed himself repeatedly against her. Instead, she was tuned into the song that was playing in her head, a tune so sweet and melodious. She tried to think of who had recorded the song—it was by one of those old bands from America that played folk music back in the sixties—but their name wouldn't come to mind. It didn't really matter what their name was, anyway.

It was such a beautiful song!

Afterwards, the man forced her to let him kiss her hard on the lips then lapped her face all over with his slimy tongue. Just before he left, he bit one of her nipples hard, making her cry out loud.

After the door had closed behind her client, Elena entered the small bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Peering beyond the tired, puffy eyes of a woman she no longer knew, she saw a young girl celebrating her sixteenth birthday. Her sweet sixteen party had definitely been the best day of her life. All her friends were there and she hadn't a care in the world. She had never wanted that day to end.

Such a glorious day!

A red welt now appeared on her breast along with a pair of bite marks. Her hair and eye makeup were a mess. She took a moment to freshen up a bit, wanting nothing more than a steaming hot shower to remove the smell and memory of the disgusting man from her body. But that was out of the question, of course. She had only ten minutes or so before her next trick arrived.

It was going to be another long night.

CHAPTER 4

Alan arose at 7:00 AM and headed for the kitchen to brew a pot of strong coffee. He sat down at the kitchen table long enough to down an English muffin and a glass of OJ before taking his coffee out with him to the patio. With a shiver, he sat down on one of the canvas-backed chairs and surveyed the backyard.

It had been a little over two years since he had lost Julie. He recalled how they had strolled these grounds of their new Clintonville home on a morning much like this one, planning out how they would be landscaping the spacious yard in the spring. Alan felt a lump come to his throat.

Would he ever get over losing her?

No, he would not.

Never in a million years.

He sipped his coffee and recalled how they had first met. They were in the same art history class and Julie had smiled at him when he entered the classroom on the first day of class. She looked absolutely stunning with long blonde hair, blue eyes and a perfect figure. The stuff that dreams are made of.

His pragmatic mind told him to promptly forget trying to get anything going with her. She was much too beautiful for him to have any kind of shot. An untouchable was what they used to call girls like her. So he did what his instincts told him to do and chose a seat as far away as possible from her. After all, there was no sense in letting some unattainable beauty distract him from taking his notes.

Shortly after the lecture commenced, Julie had turned around and glanced at him a couple of times. She smiled sweetly, leaving him simultaneously confused and excited. Surely this girl wasn't really interested in him! Don't even give it a single thought.

When the class ended, Alan had purposely stalled getting his books and notes collected in order to give the girl time to leave. She stalled, too. Finally he picked up his stuff and headed for the door, taking the furthest path possible from her. He made a beeline through the hall, out the door and trekked halfway across the oval before turning around to steal a glance.

There she was, three steps behind him.

"Are you trying to avoid me?" she asked, a little breathless from keeping up with Alan's brisk pace.

Alan was at a loss for words. "Uh, no, why do you ask?"

"You could have fooled me! I mean, I feel like a leper or something the way you have obviously gone out of your way to maintain the maximum mean distance between the two of us. Lucky for you I'm persistent and your actions have only encouraged me to want to bug you all that much more!"

Alan stopped dead in his tracks and stared into her lovely eyes. He knew that he had to be dreaming because things like this just didn't happen in his life.

"Girl, you can bug me all you want to," he said. "If I've seemed elusive, it's only because I'm trying to avoid the inevitable."

"And that would be?"

"If I spend any more time standing here with you, I'm going to become hopelessly smitten. And once that happens, I'll be totally at your mercy. Then after you've told me that you're already spoken for, I'll become a hopeless drunk and eventually kill myself to put an end to my miserable existence."

The girl laughed hard—so hard that Alan cracked up too.

She said, "I'm glad you have everything all figured out, Mr. Swansea. So I guess that means I should just be moseying along now, right?"

Her quip caught him off guard. "Only if I'm right. Am I right?"

She held out her left hand, her fingers splayed. "Do you see a ring on my finger?"

"Uh, no, can't say as I do."

"I guess you're wrong then."

Thus beginning the very best six years of his life.

Alan drained his coffee and momentarily closed his eyes. He would never be able to shake off the loss of the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. He had asked himself countless times why things had to end the way they had. Why had such a kind, loving incredible person been taken away from this earth? What had she done to deserve such an unfair end? And what had he done to justify having his whole world ripped out from under him?

The pain of losing Julie and the relentless self-pity he felt had been inescapable for the first year. Only after a lot of soul searching and many lonely drunken nights had he finally been able to get himself halfway back on track. And it was still a fragile situation indeed.

He heard the phone ring and ran inside. He noted the caller ID and pressed the talk button.

"Hey Charlie, thanks for getting back to me."

"I was out late last night and let my damn Blackberry go dead. So what's up?"

"I need you to trace a an IP address for me if you could. I have a feeling that this site is blocked since I couldn't get anywhere using conventional means. I also need an e-mail address ID'd."

"Sure, no problem. Are you getting back into the investigating game again?"

"Nah, I've given that up for good. I'm sticking with website design for a living—much better hours and certainly a lot safer."

"Alan, I've known you for over ten years now—you aren't paying me big bucks for a hack job on account of some client you're designing a website for! This is Charlie you're talking to here, not some cracked-out cyber-punk!"

Alan grinned. Charlie Ling's dry sense of humor was just one of the reasons he liked the nerdy guy so much. "Okay, I confess I might be doing a little snooping around but it's just a favor for an old friend I happen to know. No big deal."

"I hear you. And this old friend doesn't happen to be female, does she?"

Jesus, Alan thought. Either the guy is psychic or just plain annoying. "Actually, she does happen to be female. So what difference does that make?"

"Come on, Alan, we just had this same conversation a few weeks ago! Ever since you lost Julie, you've been a nut job—we both agreed to that. And like I said before, what you need is to move on with your life and find some babe so you can be normal again. I guess I was just sort of hoping you'd finally decided to listen to my advice. I mean, it's not my business of course, I just get tired of hearing you bitch all the time about how boring your life is to be real honest."

Alan laughed. "Jesus, Charlie, you sound like my mother! I appreciate the concern but I'm doing just fine, thank you. If I really felt I needed to 'find some babe,'

I'd just by god go out and do it—I wouldn't need to be coaxed. I just don't feel that vibe right now, as I've said before. Besides, I've never really had any luck looking for girls. They always seem to find me—and usually when I least expect it."

"Alright, I'll get off your case. But I really am tired of hearing you bitch about your boring life."

This from a man who does nothing but sit in front of his computer playing video games and hacking 24/7? Alan thought. "I'd rather be bored in real time than live my life in virtual non-existence like someone I know, thank you."

"One hour of Halo and you wouldn't be saying that," Charlie challenged.

"Yeah, right, whatever. Anyway, I'll shoot you the URL and e-mail address in a few minutes or so. How long you think it'll take to track 'em down?"

"Depends. The technology for blocking online sites and network data is getting more and more sophisticated every day. It took me nearly a week to trace one site a while back, and that was only after purchasing some rather expensive software I'd heard about. People and corporations are finally wising up and taking ultra-serious measures to protect their identities and sensitive data. Good for them but bad for folks like me just trying to make an honest living."

Alan wondered how computer hacking could be considered an honest living. "Well, just give this an honest attempt and get back to me once you've figured it out. Are your rates still the same or have they also grown along with the technology?" he asked.

"For you my friend, same price," Charlie replied in his finest Asian accent.

"I'm indeed blessed. Thanks, Charlie."

"No problem. Take it easy, my man."

Alan headed upstairs to his study. He waited for the iMac to boot up and checked his e-mail before sending Charlie the webpage link and e-mail address from Beth's forwarded message. Fortunately, Charlie hadn't grilled him on why he was tracing the sources and for that Alan was grateful. It wasn't that he was trying to keep anything from the computer whiz—he just knew that the less details Charlie Ling was aware of about a case the less likely there would be any repercussions from the authorities in the event that something sensitive was found as a result of his tracings. The last thing Alan wanted was a run-in with the feds.

He'd seen some of Charlie's shady-looking clients on occasion and suspected that not all of the services rendered for them were legal. In fact, Charlie had once boasted that if he wanted to, he could clean out an entire savings bank via his computer with just one evening of work. Ever since he told him that, Alan had adopted a sort of "need to know" relationship with Charlie Ling.

Alan read the mysterious e-mail from Beth again. Having had time to sleep on it, he was now convinced that there had to be some validity to this Ellen woman's plea. He wasn't exactly sure why he felt that way but common sense told him that the message was genuine. First of all, why would some woman write such a vague, disjointed message unless her intentions were sincere? Someone bored out of his tree or just looking for kicks on Beth's website would most likely write something much more direct or outrageous—like "My sister has been kidnapped, raped and tortured by some sicko pervert! You've go to save her before she's dead meat!"

Secondly, why in the world would a prankster include a link to a web page that was a virtual dead-end street for all intent and purposes? The page depicting the pseudo-paintings in which the sister/victim may be pictured hardly seems like the work of some joker looking for a good time. The sheer strangeness and innocuous nature of the webpage only served to support the likelihood of validity.

He deduced that there had been mitigating circumstances prompting Ellen to send such a cryptic message to Beth Lindsay. It was more than apparent by the scarcity of content that the woman had had very little time to type it. Like maybe she had slipped away from somebody just long enough to type these few words and the link before she got caught. And who could that somebody have been?

Her request for Beth not to reply to the e-mail was even more telling. For some reason, Ellen did not want to risk being found out that she had sent the correspondence. This implied that the e-mail address she had sent the message from was not her own; otherwise, what difference would a reply have made? Unless she shared an account with someone, which seemed very unlikely.

But the link to the odd webpage was the most baffling aspect of all. Why had Ellen pointed Beth to this particular page in the first place? Thinking that she could show Beth what her sister looked like seemed like an exercise in futility. There were no less than four different girls shown in the photos on the page and what good would it have done even if she was able to figure out which girl was her sister? The site gives absolutely no clue as to where or when the pictures were taken or by whom.

All of these questions taunted him and Alan now felt that all too familiar impulse to get some answers. One of the biggest reasons he had decided to become a private investigator was to satisfy his innate curiosity. As a child, he was constantly wondering what made things work and why things were the way they are. He could often be found in his bedroom taking things apart and putting them back together again in an effort to find out what made them tick.

He also had a voracious appetite for research—gathering information had always been one of his favorite pastimes. His most beloved Christmas gift had been his very first camera. Being able to wander around and document things pictorially fascinated him. Nothing thrilled him more than shooting a roll of film, developing it and then poring over the photos. His love for photography had in fact inspired him to major in art in college then specialize in surveillance photography as a private investigator.

But there had been another reason for his decision to become a PI: Julie. Not long after they had begun dating, Julie confided to him that someone was stalking her. She told Alan that it had been going on for nearly six months and that she was clueless who the man was except that he might be a student at the university. She had reported the matter to the police but was told that since she didn't know the identity of the stalker there wasn't much they could do.

This had infuriated Alan. He couldn't believe the cops hadn't offered to put surveillance on her apartment or at least made an effort to investigate the matter further. His first impulse was to call the cops and give them a piece of his mind but he suddenly had an epiphany: he would take on the case himself.

Despite Julie's protests, Alan started tailing her covertly everywhere she went and hiding out across the street from her apartment at night in an attempt to catch the stalker. He had also rigged up a recorder on her telephone in case the man called so he could get his voice on tape. After two weeks of this, Alan had finally conceded that none of these attempts to nail down the stalker were working—it was as though the guy knew that he was on to him so had decided to back off for the time being.

Alan eventually realized that he was going about everything all wrong. Instead of waiting around for the stalker to show up or make some kind of move, he needed to approach the matter in a more intelligent way—to think like an investigator. So one evening he sat Julie down and asked her a battery of questions relevant to the case: when exactly was the first time the stalker had approached her and where had she been? What did he look like and what exactly had he said? What was he wearing and what kind of car did he drive? How long after the first incident did she see him again and where had it been? How many times had she seen him all told and where had she been all of those times? How many times had he called her at home and what time of day had it been? And so on and so on . . .

Alan had gone home later that night and analyzed all of the information Julie had given him. Then he made his move. The next morning, he headed down to the university and paid a visit to the office of admissions. Afterwards, he tracked down one of the professors in the math building and asked him a couple of questions. Then he traversed the college green to Talbot hall and located the bulletin board located on the first floor. It took him only a couple of minutes to spot the ad for a used Dell computer among all of the handbills.

The owner of the computer for sale was Julie's stalker. All Alan had to do at that point was trace the phone number and ID the guy, which he did.

It had seemed almost too easy. Alan nevertheless was ecstatic that he had solved his first case but wasn't sure where to go from there. What could he do, legally speaking, to nail this guy? He contacted a lawyer friend to get some answers and received unsettling news: the state of Ohio considered stalking a punishable offense only if the person being stalked believed that the offender would cause serious physical harm or mental distress to the victim or a member of the victim's immediate family. The man hadn't actually threatened Julie—he'd only hit on her several times basically—and since mental distress was defined as _any mental illness or condition that involved temporary substantial incapacity that would require psychiatric treatment_ , none of the criteria for stalking was met. And even if they had been met, Alan learned that stalking was only considered a first-degree misdemeanor.

So in a nutshell, the guy had only been _harassing_ Julie and there wasn't a damn thing on God's green earth she could do about it legally.

Alan was appalled by the ineptness of the law. So he did the only thing he could think of: he called the guy, whose name was Paul Shraft, and told him that if he ever came within 100 yards of Julie Turner again, he would be dead meat.

The guy had simply laughed hysterically and hung up on him.

Alan knew it was indeed a laughable situation because the guy was a six-foot-eight-inch jock that could pulverize him if given half a chance.

But the good news was that Paul Shraft never harassed Julie again.

Although justice may not have been served in a legal sense, this experience had a lasting effect on Alan and planted a seed in his mind to become a private investigator. Besides feeling a natural affinity for investigation, he thought he could be doing something good for society by aiding people in need of his services. As he had already learned, folks couldn't always rely on law enforcement to resolve an injustice. By using his skills and analytical mind, he could help those victims of criminal activity that law enforcement either wouldn't or couldn't get involved with for one reason or another.

Not long after the stalking incident, he researched the requirements for a private investigator's license online and enrolled at a highly accredited school specializing in PI training. He quickly discovered that most PI's were retired cops with a lot of experience in crime investigation but that didn't stop him from pursuing his goal. Two years later he opened up his office downtown. And although the phone didn't exactly ring off the hook the first year, he pursued his new career with a passion and eventually became fairly adept at it. Once he started turning a profit, he and Julie were married and lived in absolute marital bliss. Julie became a certified teacher and taught English at a suburban high school while earning her masters degree. When she was only two months from getting her PhD, they got the devastating news: Julie was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer.

Three months later, she was dead.

CHAPTER 5

Nine months earlier, Luka Rusakov stood before a concrete statue and observed his surroundings, thinking of how much he absolutely despised Americans. Unlike so many of his countrymen, Luka wanted nothing to do with their spoiled western ways. They had no idea what it was like to wake up in the morning and wonder where your next bite to eat was going to come from. Or whether you would be able to survive another paralyzing Russian winter. The kinds of struggles Americans faced were much less worrisome—like deciding how much longer to lease their car before considering it a piece of shit and replacing it with a brand new one. Or what new model of cell phone they should purchase once their wireless contract expired.

There was only one thing Luka liked about Americans: they had plenty of money. They had more money than they knew what to do with, which was why the wasteful creatures were the way they were. There seemed to be no end to how much money there was for the spending.

And for the taking. The only thing Luka liked more than Americans' money was the opportunity to take it away from them. Somebody had to do it, he smiled, and whom better than Luka Rusakov?

Until recently, Luka had made the bulk of his income dealing with eastern Europeans. They were simple people much like himself with simple needs. If they needed street whores for their brothels, he acquired the women and delivered them in good time for a fair price. On a few occasions, he had supplied Israeli or Arab clients with sex slaves for their personal pleasures. His profession had made him fairly well off considering the horrible economic state of present day Russia—which was to say that he earned enough money to keep food on the table, fuel for his home in the winter and an adequate supply of Vodka in the cupboard.

But all of that could change if this meeting went well. Martin Fowler was a far cry from any of his eastern European clients and was in fact the epitome of American materialism and capitalism. Yuri had joked that the man was so rich he could wipe his ass with hundred dollar bills and not give it a second thought. He was that stinking rich.

Which is precisely why Luka was standing here in this cold damp park waiting for his first face-to-face meeting with Martin Fowler. To help separate the rich American swine from his money.

After arranging this meeting with Fowler, Yuri had forewarned Luka that Martin Fowler was as odd as he was wealthy. And unlike most of the Americans he had dealt with in the past, Fowler wasn't looking for a whore or a sex slave. Luka personally couldn't give two shits what Fowler wanted girls for; he was only interested in the vast amount of money he stood to make out of the deal. And if this panned out, as he felt confident it would, there would most likely be other opportunities in America for him to make big money.

Luka suddenly spotted someone walking toward him. The man was carrying an umbrella and a newspaper, just as he said he would. Luka looked away, trying his best to appear calm and collected, which couldn't be further from the truth.

"Mr. Rusakov, I assume?" the man spoke from behind him.

Luka turned around and was surprised to see how elderly Fowler was. He had to be at least seventy years old.

"Yes, I am Rusakov. You must be Mr. Fowler," Luka said, offering his hand.

The man chuckled. "Oh no, I am Mr. Fowler's assistant. My name is Branson."

Luka suddenly felt very foolish. Of course Fowler wouldn't meet him in person out in the open like this. The man was too rich and powerful to risk meeting a total stranger dealing in an unlawful trade.

"I am uh, sorry," Luke stammered. "I assumed that Mr. Fowler would meet me personally but I now realize how crazy that was."

"Russian, yes?" Branson said.

"Yes, Moscow born and bred."

"I know that accent. Very hard to miss."

Luka smiled like an idiot. "Still working on the English."

"At any rate, Mr. Rusakov, I am meeting you on behalf of Mr. Fowler and hope that my presence will suffice for these negotiations. Mr. Fowler is feeling a bit under the weather but has entrusted me to represent him and his interests."

"That is fine," Luka replied.

Although he was a little miffed that Fowler hadn't shown up in person, he was also somewhat relieved. Dealing with this elderly gentleman would be much easier and less nerve wracking. He already felt like a fish out of water just by being here in this strange country. Dealing with some eccentric multi-millionaire could possibly put him over the edge. And the last thing he wanted after traveling over five thousand miles was to blow his first American deal.

"Shall we go, then?" Branson said, gesturing toward the trail leading to the parking lot.

Luka nodded as the two men began walking.

"I know of a nice restaurant that is quiet and has excellent food. Unless you have another suggestion?"

"No, that would be fine."

Luka immediately noticed how Branson seemed to have already taken over their meeting right from the start. This was a bad sign. He was going to have to learn how to be more assertive around the Americans if he had any hope of landing the big bucks.

They reached the parking lot and Branson led them over to an immaculate black Mercedes parked nearby. He held the door open for Luka before taking the wheel and pulling out onto the main road. Luka had never been in a Mercedes before. He ran his fingers along the fine black leather upholstery and marveled at how quiet the ride was. Much quieter and smoother than his old Volga, and that was an understatement.

They spoke very little during the short drive to the restaurant. Luka followed Branson inside and the two were led to a table in the rear area of the main dining room. Both men ordered coffees before settling down to business.

"I must tell you now that Mr. Fowler has very particular tastes. He also does not like to waste time with negotiations. I will tell you what he is looking for and offer you a price. You can either accept his offer or decline. Martin's primary interest is in the merchandise, so to speak. He must be assured that you can deliver it safely and in a timely manner while being totally discreet in the process. Once the goods have been delivered, you must never make any attempt to contact either Mr. Fowler or myself. If we need to speak with you again, we will contact you. Is that clear?"

Luka was flabbergasted by the elderly man's directness. It took him a moment to compose himself before replying.

"I understand. But I must tell you that my services do not come cheap. The risks involved and the expense of delivering merchandise overseas to this country will be, what is it you would say? Appreciable. The fee for such a transaction will be very considerable, I must warn you."

Branson's eyes narrowed as he smiled. "I can assure you, Mr. Rusakov, that the amount Mr. Fowler is willing to pay you will be quite acceptable. As you may or may not already know, money is of little concern to Mr. Fowler. That is why I have told you that he is not interested in petty negotiation of price. He is quite confident that you will accept his terms so you needn't worry about that matter. What you should be more concerned with is your ability to deliver what it is he seeks."

Luka watched as Branson reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope. He reached inside and produced several photographs and then placed them face down in a small stack on the table.

"Before I show you these photographs, I want to explain what specifically Mr. Fowler is looking for. You see, Mr. Rusakov, my employer is an artist. He is seeking young women to model for him. I must emphasize that this is _all_ that Mr. Fowler wants these women for."

Luka shrugged. "Excuse me, but it makes no difference what his purpose is for. The price will be the same no matter what."

Branson grinned at Luka in a patronizing way. "I am not, Mr. Rusakov, attempting to negotiate a lower price by telling you this. I am simply making it clear up front what it is that Mr. Fowler wants these girls for. What I am driving at, quite frankly, is that Martin does not want common whores or diseased street girls. On the contrary, he is seeking girls that are healthy and in peak physical shape. Do I make myself clear?"

Again, Luka realized that the old man was making mincemeat of him. So much to learn! He needed to start showing some backbone or this deal would be off before it ever began.

"Yes, I see. But let me just say that I deal with all kinds of women every day. Short ones, tall ones, ugly ones, beautiful ones with large breasts, small breasts, some with fat asses, and so on. I am quite confident that I can deliver whatever it is that Mr. Fowler desires."

"That is very good to hear, Mr. Rusakov. You came to us highly recommended so I have little doubt that you will give this your best effort. Here, take a look at these."

He handed the photos over to Luka. Luka looked at the first one and nearly gasped out loud. It was a painting of a young ballerina by one of those impressionist painters. The style looked familiar but he had no idea who the artist was—he had had no formal art training. He shuffled through the remaining pictures—all paintings of young ballerinas in various poses.

"These are photocopies of paintings. I don't understand—"

"That is what Mr. Fowler wants the girls for. To model for him exactly as you see in these paintings."

"But they look so very young."

"I would suspect that they are around thirteen or so—young adolescents. Are you telling me that you can't acquire girls of this age?" Branson challenged.

Luka replied, "Oh no, as I told you before, I can get anything Mr. Fowler wants. It's just that—the price is going to be very high for one like this."

Branson reached over and took back the photos from Luka. "Mr. Fowler is not wanting just one young girl, Mr. Rusakov. He wants as many as you can get him up to a half dozen."

Luka's heart skipped a beat. Six girls! He would be able to retire after this! But—but was it even possible to do?

"Are you, uh serious? I mean, surely he must know that this is going to be very difficult and expensive. Six girls, so young, will not be easy to find."

"So you are telling me that you are unable to do this?"

"I can do it. I just don't—how soon does he want them? I mean, it would take a very long time just to get two or three girls this age all the way to America."

Branson took a deep breath and stared directly into Luka's eyes. "Mr. Rusakov, perhaps we should call this off immediately. It is obvious that you do not have the resources available to fulfill Mr. Fowler's wishes. I am sorry, but you have apparently wasted my time—"

"I can do it!" Luka shouted. Both men looked around to see if anyone heard. Then Luka managed to pull himself together.

"I am sorry for my outburst. I have not wasted your time, Mr. Branson, for I can assure you that I indeed have the resources, as you say, to deliver what Mr. Fowler seeks. It is just that it will take time, perhaps a very long time, to make this all come together."

Branson sipped his coffee. "How much time are we talking about?"

Luka thought. It would take several weeks just to round up a couple of girls this age and start the paperwork if he were lucky. A thought suddenly occurred to him.

"You mentioned that the girls had to be young, healthy and not whores. Will it be sufficient if they are just that? I mean, the girls look small and very pretty in these paintings. Do the girls I get have to look like that?"

Branson laughed heartily. "I am going to try and forget you even asked that! Of course they have to be slim, petite and pretty, Mr. Rusakov! Have you ever seen a fat, ugly ballerina? No, of course you haven't. Your question is absolutely absurd!"

Luka strained to laugh but it wasn't easy. "I guess I wasn't thinking, Mr. Branson. It must be the long flight over here—I'm still tired and am not thinking straight."

"Listen, Rusakov, let me present you with an alternative proposal. Considering all of the specifications I have given you, how long, approximately, would it take you to deliver half of the order?"

Luka thought this over for a moment before replying. Three young and pretty girls would be easier than six for certain. If he played his cards right and recruited all of his contacts, he just may be able to acquire three girls, obtain the paperwork and smuggle them out as far as Germany in a couple of months. Then it would another week to get them into the States. This was assuming that he could find the appropriate types Fowler was wanting and that there were not setbacks along the way. It wouldn't be easy but with a lot of luck, it was doable.

"Two months, give or take a couple of weeks."

"Very well. If all goes well and Mr. Fowler is satisfied with his purchase, you can then fulfill the remainder of the order, yes?"

Now it was time to be assertive. "Certainly. And I have no doubt that Mr. Fowler will be pleased with his purchase."

"That is what I like to hear! I must say, Mr. Rusakov, you had me a little nervous there for a moment. This is not a job for an amateur and I needn't remind you how much is at stake here. Mr. Fowler will be placing his trust in you to not only deliver your end of the transaction but to keep his good name out of the picture should something go wrong, god forbid. You have shown me that you are realistic about Mr. Fowler's request, and that makes me feel confident that you are aware of not only the risks involved but the absolutely necessity that your merchandise will be up to the high standards he is demanding. Now, on to the matter of price."

Ah, this is the part he had been waiting for! How much would the filthy rich Yank be willing to part with for six lovely young girls?

"What is your offer, Mr. Branson?"

"Before I tell you the price, there is one component of this deal that I think you will find quite desirable. Mr. Fowler only wants to _borrow_ the girls, not keep them. You may have them back after six months or so to do with as you see fit."

Luka couldn't believe what he was hearing!

"Are you telling me that Mr. Fowler is willing to pay me for six girls then turn around and give them back to me to sell after six months?"

Branson nodded. "That is correct. Mr. Fowler has a project he is working on and only needs the models long enough to complete his project. Then he will no longer have any use for them. You may have them back in six months time to do with as you please. I would suspect that you could make quite a bit more money with such a commodity."

Luka was dumbfounded. He stood to be paid twice for the same merchandise! He could easily find pimps who would pay very well for girls as young as this. Virgins, no less! This was almost too good to be true. But he had to make it appear to Branson that this prospect was not as sweet as it was.

"I see. So how much is Mr. Fowler willing to pay for six girls for six months?"

Branson smiled. "Ninety thousand. That's fifteen thousand apiece."

Ninety thousand dollars! _Just for renting them!_ He had died and gone to heaven.

"Is that his final offer?"

"It is his _only_ offer, Mr. Rusakov. Take it or leave it."

"I would have to demand payment up front, of course," Luka said, testing the waters.

"Surely you will be paid a retainer in advance, Rusakov. You will be given ten thousand today in good faith and then receive the balance when the goods are delivered."

Sweet.

Luka said, "I must admit that this is an offer too good to refuse. I must ask, though. In the event that something happens and I can't deliver the girls for some reason, as unlikely as that would be, what would become of the down payment?"

Branson stared coldly into Luka's eyes. "That isn't an option, Rusakov. You will deliver and you will be paid for your services. If you are foolish enough to fail, I'm afraid you don't want to know the consequences."

"What do you mean?" Luka asked, realizing that his voice was quivering.

"Let's just say that Mr. Fowler doesn't like to be let down and leave it at that."

Luka suddenly realized that there would be no turning back if he committed to this transaction. He knew what Branson was getting at and had not doubt that he would be killed if he failed to complete his end of the bargain. Yuri had told him that Fowler had a lot of connections, and that probably included hired assassins.

"You have yourself a deal, Mr. Branson," he declared as firmly as he could.

Branson pulled another envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it over to Luka. "Ten thousand dollars cash. I expect to hear back from you in two weeks with your progress report. Agreed?"

Luka stole a peek into the envelope and saw a neat wad of crisp green American dollar bills. He had no doubt that it was all there before he replied.

"Agreed."

CHAPTER 6

Alan spent Saturday afternoon watching the Ohio State Buckeyes crush Illinois then ordered a pizza for dinner. After wolfing down all but two slices of a medium pepperoni with mushrooms, he decided to spend the rest of the evening working on Chris Hammond's website. He had three more websites waiting in the wings and the sooner he wrapped this one up, the sooner he could get started on the others.

He was very pleased with how well his website design business had grown and flourished the past year. It was great to see his visual arts major finally starting to pay off since his decision to give up private investigation. The transition to web design had been a natural fit for him since he had always been fairly computer savvy and had spent much of his free time designing websites as favors for friends through the years. Now that he was designing sites for a living, he sometimes found the work tedious and monotonous but still managed to feel a sense of pride whenever one of his sites went live. He always strove to do his very best no matter how banal the material for a site may be. In fact, he realized that his greatest source for inspiration was the challenge of trying to make the ordinary look extraordinary through his design. This was what helped keep his ideas fresh and helped account for his success.

The biggest perk of his profession was the ability to work at home. Besides being a homebody by nature, working at home kept his overhead minimal since he didn't have to pay rent for an office. The only tools he needed were a fast computer, internet access, software, a few peripherals and his Nikon DSLR. The only other requirement was his time.

Alan checked his e-mail, opened iTunes, chose a classic rock playlist to listen to then began work in Dreamweaver. After about a half hour or so he realized that his heart wasn't into working tonight—something else was on his mind. He switched over to Safari, placed the cursor into the Google search field and typed in _Edgar Degas_. A second later a page loaded up and he began his research.

It had been years since his art history classes and he realized how little he had retained while reading Degas' biography. He had never been a huge fan of impressionism and he held only rudimentary knowledge of the style and movement. He recalled that his professor had spent the bulk of his lecture on the more popular impressionists Renoir and Monet and very little on Degas.

As he surfed through the various websites, Alan learned that Edgar Degas was the son of a well-to-do banker who lived comfortably most of his long life due to the success of his art. The artist actually despised the term _impressionism_ even though historians consider him an impressionist. What made Degas' style unique was his attention to composition while capturing the essence of his subjects with quick strokes of his brush. In addition to being a painter, Degas was a draftsman, printmaker, sculptor, photographer and collector.

Throughout his career, the artist was constantly experimenting with new techniques and seemed determined not to conform to the practices of his contemporaries. In addition to portraiture, landscapes and racetrack scenes, ballet was a favorite theme of his. Besides his penchant for capturing the transitory moves of dance, he often showed the ordinary side of the ballerinas, depicting them in off-guard positions and at awkward moments. It was as though he wanted to downplay the glamour of the dancers in favor of showing them as ordinary human beings.

Another favorite theme of Degas' was the depiction of nude women bathers in various stages of everyday routines such as combing out their hair or drying themselves off. None of Degas' paintings of women were erotic or exploitive in nature. He simply showed women as they appeared in ordinary everyday settings.

Degas also created more than a hundred wax sculptures of ballerinas and bathing women in addition to horses and jockeys. Yet the only sculpture he ever exhibited publicly in his lifetime was entitled The Little Dancer of Fourteen Years. Alan examined the unique bronze and cloth sculpture of a thin adolescent girl and read an excerpt from the listing for the sculpture, currently held by Britain's Tate Collection:

The model for this sculpture was a ballet student at the Paris Opéra, where Degas often drew and painted. Degas first made a reddish-brown wax sculpture of her in the nude. Then, aiming for a naturalistic effect, he dressed a three-quarter life-size wax sculpture of her in clothing made of real fabrics - cream-coloured silk for the bodice, tulle and gauze for the tutu, and fabric slippers. He also gave it real hair tied with a ribbon. When the wax sculpture was first exhibited, contemporaries were shocked by the unprecedented realism of the piece. But they were also moved by the work's representation of the pain and stress of ballet training endured by a barely adolescent girl. After Degas' death, his heirs decided in the early 1920s to make bronze casts - nearly thirty of them - of the wax original. In these versions, all is bronze except for the dancer's gauze tutu and silk ribbon. Recent investigation into the casting of this piece has shown how the founders attempted to match the colours and aged appearance of the original wax sculpture, which, by this point, had spent forty years in the artist's studio. Pigmented waxes, ranging in colour from pale orange through pink and brown, were rubbed into the flesh areas. The bodice was painted a cream colour, but a pigmented wax was applied to darken the lower part. The skirt was dipped in a mixture of animal glue and pigment in order to created an aged effect.

Something about the story behind the famous sculpture intrigued him.

It also elicited a question that had been in the back of his mind ever since he had received the e-mail from Beth Lindsay the night before—

Was it be possible that the photographer who had digitally re-created Degas' style of painting was some kind of fanatic obsessed with the famous artist? Obsessed enough that he felt a desire to emulate the artist's style and subject matter for some sort of personal gratification?

As farfetched as it seemed, it was a possibility. After all, why else would somebody take the time and effort to copy someone else's art so blatantly and shamelessly post it on a website without so much as a credit to the original artwork or even a mention of the original artist? Unless he had some kind of ulterior motive.

Which might also help explain why Ellen felt her sister was in danger.

Alan suddenly had an idea. He located a site featuring reproductions of many of Degas' paintings and bookmarked the page. He then went to his e-mail and clicked on the link to the site posted by the impressionist photographer. He opened the bookmarked site in a new window and began searching for any of Degas' works that looked similar to the photographer's images. It didn't take him very long to locate a painting with four ballerinas wearing blue tutus.

He resized the window and dragged the image next to the photographed version. It was uncanny. The photograph was a virtual carbon copy of the original painting—right down to the body positions of the girls! Yet, the photograph was clearly just that: a photo that had been manipulated to look impressionistic in a digital imaging program such as Photoshop. Alan could even make an educated guess on what filters and techniques the photographer had used to achieve the final effect. But the genius lay not in the post image effects but in the actual scene that had been shot. The tutus were all the same powder blue, the ribbons around the dancers waists were the exact hues seen in the original and each individual girl's hairstyle was meticulously duplicated in the photo. Even the components of the scene: the textured yellow/brown floor and walls, the dance bar running along the wall, the wooden doorway and the pillar-type structure looked virtually identical to the original painting!

But why?

Why in the world had the photographer taken such pains to recreate this painting?

Alan continued his search. He eventually found another painting that looked similar: the one of the ballerina sitting on a wooden bench, crouched down fiddling with her slipper. Alan positioned the photo next to the painting and made a startling discovery. The images were virtually identical except that the painting also included a woman in black sitting beside the ballerina. The woman was wearing a hat that hid her eyes and holding a black umbrella in her hand with its tip resting on the floor. The woman seemed oblivious to the dancer and was in fact simply sitting on the bench staring at the floor.

The photograph however showed only the ballerina on the bench and a barren area where the woman was seated in the painting.

Whoa—

Alan ran his hands through his hair and stared at the empty space of the bench in the photo. Why had the photographer omitted the woman? He had been so meticulous recreating all the details in the other painting yet for some reason had entirely omitted a key component in this one. One possible reason was that the he hadn't had anyone to portray the woman in black so he went ahead and shot the image anyway.

But that didn't make any sense.

Why bother shooting the scene in the first place?

Who is this guy, anyway? And what the hell is he up to?

Alan thought about the mysterious Ellen and her sister who had to be saved. Could her sister be the missing older woman and not one of the dancers?

No, that was preposterous. Therefore—

One of these girls had to be Ellen's sister, period.

Alan searched for paintings resembling the other two photographs but had no luck on this particular site. He returned to the Google results page and clicked on another site that sold Degas reproductions. A moment later he immediately recognized the painting of the ballerina with her back to the viewer staring down at her feet. He dragged the photo and the painting side by side on his screen.

Another perfect match! In fact, if he didn't know better he would swear that they were one in the same. The photographer had done that good a job.

Apparently his skills were improving with time.

What was amazing in this particular copied work was the fact that it perfectly mirrored the painting, which had a rough unfinished sketched look to it. All four girls wore tutus that were an almost transparent off-white accented with random strokes of powder blue within the folds. Only the rendering of the girl in the foreground had any clear detailing but it still maintained a swiftly sketched look to it. The highlights in the young dancer's auburn hair were crisp yet the large blue ribbon around her waist was haphazardly colored within a more than obvious pencil sketched outline. The shadow on the floor created by her form was also roughly sketched, not clear.

The background of the image had an even more unfinished sketched look to it with the stroked lines on the wall and nearly imperceptible details of the other four dancing girls. Alan studied the photo and painting for several minutes, wondering if the photographer had simply copied the original background and pasted it into the photo. But that hadn't been the case. There was just enough photographic quality and subtle differences that eliminated that possibility.

Okay, so the guy was very good at what he did. But that didn't explain his motive. Why would someone hire kids to reenact poses in carbon-copied scenes of a long gone master painter? No one would ever want to buy these copies. Hell, they weren't even forgeries of paintings but photographed clones of the originals.

Didn't make sense.

And that was driving him crazy.

Alan took a long look at the final photo and began scouring the site for the original artwork. The photo showed a young ballerina on a dance floor in an arabesque position. He had already noticed several of Degas' works showing this position in his search but they had all been close-ups of the dancers for the most part. This photo showed the dancer in the middle of a large dancing studio, nearly dwarfed by her placement in the background of the composition. The remainder of the scene consisted of a rather intrusive spiral staircase in the foreground to the left and three floor-to-ceiling windows spaced evenly in the background along the wall of the studio. The ballerina was positioned in front of the center window, facing to the right, standing on her left leg with her right arm outstretched in front of her and her left leg extended straight backward.

Having no luck on this site, Alan checked out a couple more sites but still couldn't locate anything that resembled this image. He was about to give up when something suddenly caught his attention. He noticed a spiral staircase on the left side of a painting but the scene was filled with several dancers instead of only one. In addition to the troupe of dancers in the scene there was an elderly woman standing behind one of the dancers in the foreground and an older gentleman standing well off in the background behind her—

Alan spotted the girl in the arabesque position in the center of the background—looking exactly like the one in the photo right down to the auburn hair and pink ribbon she wore around her waist.

But she wasn't alone in the original. There had to be close to a dozen other figures in the painted scene.

Like the photo with the woman omitted from the bench, this one had practically everything omitted from the original except for the solitary dancer, the three windows and the spiral staircase.

Was this yet another unfinished project? Or had the photographer opted to eliminate the additional human components of the original in favor of focusing on just this particular dancer?

Alan studied the original painting carefully, looking for similarities to the photo. The dance studio seen in the photo including the spiral staircase, tall windows, wall color and trim, and wood floor was an exact duplicate of the original painting. Omitted from the original were the old man and lady and a total of ten dancers. At least it appeared to be ten—the details were a bit mottled in the left background of the scene and it was difficult to tell if there were two or three dancers standing there. There were also the legs of a dancer barely visible descending the spiral staircase from the top of the scene.

Suddenly it dawned on him: How in the hell had the guy recreated this scene so closely? He had to have built the dance studio set from scratch unless he had actually been in the same studio where Degas had created the original painting. That seemed very unlikely. Alan checked the date of the painting: 1873-78. The studio had to have been located somewhere in France too, no doubt. There was a slim chance that the photographer had done his work in France and somehow used the original scene for the shot. But it was highly unlikely.

So, assuming that he had built the entire set for the scene and then hired girls to model for him just so he could get everything just right, it was more than clear that this guy was a whole lot more than simply obsessed with recreating works by Degas.

He was totally immersed in it.

Alan decided to get a beer. After fetching an ice cold Michelob from the fridge he returned to his office and took a long slug. He stared at the images sitting side by side on his monitor and realized that he would never be satisfied until he knew what this guy was up to and if he was indeed keeping Ellen's sister captive. He had a strange yet almost certain feeling that this was the case. _Why_ he felt that way, he wasn't sure. Something to do with the sinister nature of the whole situation—the apparent sincerity of the Ellen woman and her desperate, cryptic plea for saving her sister from what appeared to be some sort of madman. The intriguing yet troubling idea that this man was so fanatical about Degas that he would stop at nothing to recreate his art. Someone like that could be very dangerous.

The problem was that he couldn't do anything until he heard back from Charlie. If the computer whiz could trace down the URL of the site to a specific locale, it would at least be a start. In the meantime there wasn't much else to do but sit tight.

He was about to shut everything down when he suddenly had an idea. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He hurriedly returned to the photographer's site and placed his cursor at the end of the site's address in the browser. He then dragged backward until he had selected all but the main site page and hit the delete button, resulting in the address: http://kadanskl.com

Then he hit the return button, expecting to be taken to the parent/index page of kandanskl.com.

All he got was a window that read, _We are sorry, http://kadanskl.com/ cannot be found._

Which was really odd because virtually every working website had an index page—the very first page you came to when entering a particular website. Yet this one apparently didn't have one. The only accessible page appeared to be the photographer's gallery sub-page.

What's up with that? he thought.

_Shit._ He would just have to wait for Charlie.

CHAPTER 7

Feeling Master's sweaty hand totally engulf her own made Polina want to let go but she thought better of it. He definitely didn't like for any of the girls to defy him in any way and she knew that would be a mistake. She could still remember the day that Daniela had resisted him when he had leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. His face had turned as red as a beet! After a moment of silence that seemed like an eternity, he had told her in a calm voice (he was clearly forcing himself to be calm when in fact he was furious) that it was very rude of her not to accept a kiss from him. Daniela had blushed and then willingly offered her cheek to him. Master had smiled and kissed it for a little too long.

They walked across the hall through the foyer and down another hall before entering one of the smaller studios. Polina had only been in this room once before and that had been with Sveta. Master had instructed them to simply practice some dance moves together while he snapped away with his camera from all kinds of different angles.

Now that she was inside the room, Polina realized that she felt nervous. She had never been in a room alone with Master and this frightened her a little. She had heard stories of him touching some of the girls improperly and she wondered if that was going to happen to her now. She had pondered what she would do if the man ever tried to make any sexual advances on her and the answer had been simple. Nothing. She would do nothing because she knew that she had no choice but to let him do as he wished with her. Period.

But Polina felt her fears allay as he motioned for her to sit down on a wooden chair placed in the middle of the room. She had never once heard any of the girls say that he had actually tried to have sex with them and she wondered if the inappropriate touching had perhaps been exaggerated or even imagined. Master had always been gentle with the girls, patiently working with them to get into their positions for the photo sessions, touching up their hair and makeup with a skill and tenderness she had never known before. It was even rumored that he may be a homosexual, and she considered this a strong possibility.

"My dear girl, you look wonderful sitting there! What we are going to do today is really very simple. After we get your hair dampened up a bit and the makeup just right, you are to remove all of your clothes and simply sit there until I give you further instructions. Have you any questions before we begin?"

Polina forced herself to look up at him and offer a wan smile. "No, Master."

Surely, she thought, he was not going to do anything inappropriate.

Not that she could do anything about it.

She sat as still as possible and watched Master pick up some eye shadow before going to work on her.

CHAPTER 8

Alan felt his stomach rumble as he pulled into the parking lot of the Beechwald Panera. It had been a fairly busy Sunday putting the finishing touches on the Hammond website, grocery shopping and getting a bunch of chores done around the house that he had been putting off. The last time he'd eaten was in the early morning and he was absolutely famished now.

It had been an unseasonably cool day—chilly enough that Panera's management had decided to fire up the gas log fireplace centrally located in the coffee shop. There were a several patrons seated near the fireplace drinking coffee and fiddling with their laptops. Alan ordered a soup and sandwich combo, went over to the counter and poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down at a table near the fire until his order was called up.

Halfway through his sandwich he noticed a familiar face enter the shop. Libby Thorsen spotted him at the same time and headed straight over to his table, her four-year-old daughter Joanie in tow.

Alan stood up and gave her a hug.

"Libby, how are you?" he said.

"Wonderful, I haven't seen you in months! How are you doing, Alan?"

"Great! Wow, I can't believe how big you've gotten!" he said to Joanie.

The little girl smiled broadly. "I'm gonna be five years old next birthday!"

"Whoa, you are getting big!"

"Would you mind some company?" Libby said. "Brad's with his buddies watching football so I decided to get out of the house and come here for a bite."

"Of course—why don't you guys go order and I'll hold down the fort."

Libby removed her jacket, slung it over a chair and took Joanie by the hand. "Thanks, we'll be right back."

Alan watched as his wife's best friend and her daughter walked over to the counter. Seeing Libby after all this time stirred up his emotions in a big way. It was impossible not to recall all of the times he and Julie had hung out with Libby and Brad, playing cards, going to the Buckeye games and taking day trips to nearby towns. He had always liked the couple and he now felt a pang of sorrow knowing that those days were gone forever. Since Julie had died, he had spent very little time with the Thorsens despite the frequent calls he had gotten from Libby the first several months after her passing. Libby had always encouraged him to join them for this or that and he had always politely declined. This had been just one of the many adjustments he had been forced to make over the last couple of years. And it never got any easier.

After she brought their food over, Libby sat down across from Alan and gave him a sympathetic smile.

"So what have you been up to?" she asked.

"Oh, not a whole lot. Still designing websites and trying to keep this gut under control. I've actually been working out a little," he added, grabbing his midsection with both hands.

"That's good, although I don't think you're in that desperate of a situation. You should see Brad now—he's probably put on fifteen pounds since you last saw him! And he, unlike you, can't really afford the extra baggage."

Alan tried to visualize Brad Thorsen fifteen pounds heavier and it was hard to do. The guy was already two-ninety-five if he was a pound and built like a sumo wrestler. He was also a few inches shorter than himself, making his huge girth even more pronounced.

"Sounds like he needs to cut down on those milkshakes!"

Libby laughed. "That, he will never do! Anyway, you look pretty good, my friend. Although you look sort of tired. How are you uh, getting along in that big house?"

"Fine. I've thought about moving out and getting something smaller every now and then but I always figure what the hell? I love the place even though it's a drag keeping it maintained and the mortgage payments are so reasonable. If we hadn't gotten such a great deal on that house, it could be a bit challenging making ends meet otherwise."

"So your business is doing well?"

Alan nodded. "Not bad at all, really. I've kept pretty damn busy, I must admit. And how are you, Libby? Have you gone back to work or are you still a stay at home mom?"

"Eat your soup, Joanie," Libby said to her daughter. "Still at home. We were actually thinking about making another one of these little people, but it's up in the air. It's great having kids and Brad doesn't think one is enough. I'm pretty much all for it but I'm not sure it's the wise thing to do right now. Brad's job has been a little shaky lately, for lack of a better word."

"Sorry to hear that. It's definitely not a great time now, economically speaking, that's for sure. But at least we're finally on the mend," Alan added, referring to the recent presidential election.

"May I ask you something, Alan?"

"Sure."

"You have to promise you won't get mad at me."

"Hmm. This sounds scary. But I could never get mad at you, Libby, so go for it."

Libby took a sip of her water and looked him straight in the eye. "Have you been out with anyone? I mean, have you dated anyone since Julie passed on?"

Alan looked at this round-faced, easygoing woman sitting across from him and saw the compassion in her eyes. He sensed that asking him this had taken about all she could muster up and he hated to have to disappoint her.

"Not really."

"What do you mean, 'not really?'"

"I've hung out with a few women on occasion but not in a, you know, serious way."

"And why is that, Alan? I mean, I don't want to sound like a nag but don't you think it's time to move on? I know for a fact that Julie would want it that way."

Alan thought a moment before replying. "I know, but I just can't do it. Not now, anyway."

"If not now, after two years, then when? I mean—none of us are getting any younger. Don't you want to get married someday and start a family?"

"Used to want that—that's why I married Julie. But now she's gone. I'm just not into that concept anymore. Doubt if I ever will be, actually. Sorry, but I guess I'm just a one-woman man. I had my woman and now she's gone. It's like, well, that's just the way it is."

"Mom, can I have another cookie?" Joanie said.

Libby glanced at the child's nearly full soup bowl and said, "If you finish your soup, you can have another cookie. You need to do a better job on that sandwich, too. You know the rules, Joanie—no dinner, no snacks."

"Okay," she replied with a scowl, taking a small bite out of her sandwich.

Libby's eyes turned to Alan. "I'm worried about you, Alan. I have been worried ever since all of this happened. You just don't seem like the same person I used to know. Listen, I miss Julie too. More than you could ever know. I mean—I'd known her practically my whole life! But I also know that life goes on—that bad things like this happen and even though it's horrible we still have to keep on living. You just seem so, I don't know, down, for lack of a better word. I want to see you happy again, Alan. For your sake, for Julie's sake."

"I'm happy, damn it!" he insisted. "I wish everyone would believe that. I'm tired of everyone ganging up on me, saying I'm so miserable and all. That's really not the way it is. I've got my work, my health and all is good. I don't need to be with someone to be happy, Libby. I appreciate what you're saying, but don't worry about me. Please. I'm going to be just fine."

Libby shook her head. "Okay, I'll back off. Will you promise me something, though?"

Alan cast her a doubtful look. "What would that be?"

"That if you ever decide that you want to date someone, that you will let me know?"

Now he was suspicious. "Why would you want me to do that?"

Libby smiled mysteriously. "I've got my reasons, let's just say."

"Let me guess. You know some beautiful chick that has a crush on me and you want me to go out with her."

"I'll never say," she sang.

"Hmm. Whatever. That's all I'm gonna say."

"Okay, Mister Stubborn. Let's change the subject. What would you say to coming over for a barbecue and a Browns game before the warm weather is total history? We're planning on having a few folks over next weekend and I'd love to see you come."

"No strings?"

Libby narrowed her eyes. "Don't worry, I'm not trying to set you up on a blind date or anything like that. Just the Browns and brats on the grill. What do you say?"

"Okay, I'll be there."

"Great—next Sunday it is, then!"

Afterwards, Alan walked Libby and Joanie to their car, promising her for the third time that he would see them the following weekend. As he headed over to his own car, Alan was already feeling regret for having agreed to attend the barbecue. It wasn't that he wanted to be a hermit or anything, he just felt awkward hanging out with the Thorsens' without Julie there at his side. After all, she had been the common denominator in the relationship with them and it just seemed pointless to continue the friendship now that Julie was gone forever.

After opening his car door, he lost grip of his keys and they fell to the pavement. As he stooped down to retrieve them, Alan felt something brush past him from behind. He whipped his head around just in time to see a small black and white dog leap from the driver's seat onto the passenger seat and sit down. It was panting and staring at him excitedly, appearing to be quite comfortable sitting there.

"Well now, where in the hell did you come from, dog?" he exclaimed. Alan sat down on the seat and reached over to pet the dog, which looked like a border collie/terrier mix of some kind. The dog responded by licking his hand.

"You are certainly a cute one, and I'm sure that someone is looking for you right this minute, pooch."

Alan leaned over and looked for a collar but the dog wasn't wearing one.

Not sure exactly what to do, he got out and went around to the passenger side and opened the door. "Come on, let's go see if we can find your owner."

The dog remained planted there on the seat, refusing to get out. Alan tried to pick it up but the dog refused to budge.

"Come on now, don't be stubborn. We have got to try and find your owner before it gets any darker."

Twilight had fallen and the parking lot lights were already turned on. Feeling desperate now, Alan shut the car door and headed toward High Street. He looked up and down the busy street but didn't see anyone who appeared to have lost a dog. He walked a block or so in either direction from the Panera, keeping his eyes peeled for the dog's owner but with no luck. With a sigh, he returned to his car.

He got back inside and noticed that the dog was lying down on the seat now, his head resting on his paws, his eyes looking over at Alan as if to say "surely you're not going to turn me away now, are you? Look how cute I am!"

Alan decided that he couldn't simply force the dog out and leave him there, so he started the engine, glanced over at it and said, "I guess we'd better go find you some food and put you up for the night, pooch. But tomorrow, we're going to have to find your home."

The dog, which didn't appear to be more than a couple years old, smiled over at him.

Alan drove to the neighborhood Kroger and bought a small bag of dry dog food along with a food and water bowl. When he returned to the car, he saw the dog sitting up in the driver's seat with its paws resting on the steering wheel anxiously awaiting him. Grinning to himself, Alan got in and the dog immediately gave him a big lick on the cheek.

"Yeah, and hearty hello to you, too!" he chuckled.

After Alan pulled into his driveway and parked, the dog jumped out of the car and followed him to the door, apparently confident that it would now be staying the night with its adopted master. Once inside the house, Alan took it into the kitchen for a good look-over before feeding it. The dog was a female, apparently well fed and cared for and didn't appear to have any fleas or ticks. She was clearly not a stray and the fact that she didn't have a collar or any tags was puzzling. Alan wondered how he would go about finding her owner and figured that he would cross that bridge when he got to it tomorrow.

The dog ate ravenously and drained the whole bowl of water. Alan took her out to the backyard so she could relieve herself then went into the family room to try Charlie Ling again. He had gotten his voice mail earlier that day.

"Hey Charlie, any luck with those traces?" he asked when Charlie answered.

"Hey Alan. Well, I'm making some progress but no results for you yet. The e-mail has been a dead-end and is going to be a real ball-buster I can tell you already. There is clearly some heavy duty security software involved with the server. The website URL, however, is looking a little more promising. I mean, I can't give you any specifics yet but I'm making some headway on that. May have something for you in the next couple of days."

"Great, that's good to hear. I tried to find a homepage for it last night and as you no doubt have already discovered, there isn't one. Thought that was odd."

"Yeah, it is odd but not unusual. My experience has been that either the web site is still in development or the ISP is some small potatoes outfit that hardly anybody ever uses. Could be that the ISP owner and website owner is one in the same. I'll know more tomorrow probably."

The dog suddenly barked loudly and Alan's heart nearly gave out.

"Did you get a dog?" Charlie asked.

Alan recovered and said, "Not really. The dog has gotten me, it appears. She jumped into my car down at Panera and won't leave me alone. Gonna have to try and track down her owner tomorrow I guess."

"I see what you mean now about the girls always coming to you," Charlie joked.

"Hilarious. Anyway, I'm struck with her for the night and she seems to be telling me that I'm ignoring her too much by talking to you."

"Just like a woman! I wish you all the happiness in the world with your new love."

"Jesus, Charlie, you are one demented son of a bitch," Alan said, laughing.

"Hmm, takes one to know one. I'll give you a shout tomorrow if I have anything for you, Alan. I gotta get going now."

"Okay Charlie. Have a good one."

Alan spent the evening watching television and kicking back a few beers. He turned in fairly early, his faithful companion snuggled up to him in the king size bed. They both fell fast asleep in less than a minute.

CHAPTER 9

Viktor took a warm beer from out of the case and pulled out a pack of saltines from a drawer. Feeding time, he thought to himself.

He pulled the cheap faded green curtain aside and scaled the dark stairway, the boards creaking miserably under his weight. When he reached the hallway, he turned right and entered the first door on the left.

"Here's your supper," he said to the young woman sitting on the side of the bed. She was pretty but haggard with dirty blonde hair. She was wearing a cream-colored camisole, pink panties and black stiletto heels. He walked over and handed her the beer and saltines. Viktor stared down at her pathetically as she took a huge gulp of Bud Light, tore open the saltine wrapper and wolfed down the contents in two bites.

"You know, you look like you might have gained some weight, Natasha. Maybe this beer isn't such a good idea," he said, grabbing the bottle out of her hand. He took a long swig and gargled then smacked her hard on the face.

"That's for getting fat! And if you get any fatter, I'll give you a lot more than that, bitch!"

Elena winced from the blow.

"I'm sorry, Viktor. But I don't think I've gained any weight," she said weakly, realizing immediately what she had just done.

Viktor slapped her again even harder, pushed her back onto the bed and straddled her. His face was only inches from hers and his breath reeked of cigarettes and beer.

"Listen you little bitch, don't you fucking _dare_ talk back to me! If I say you're getting fat, you're getting fat. Do I fucking make myself clear?"

Elena could barely breathe. Viktor was horribly obese and his fat ass was crushing her abdomen.

"Yes, I am sorry."

Viktor grabbed her breasts and squeezed hard. "I think it may be time for another training session, Natasha. You seem to be forgetting the chain of command here. Besides, I'm feeling horny now. Nothing like smacking a slut around some to get the old cock up!"

He rolled off of her and stood up, leering at her. "Take that shit off."

Elena stood up long enough to slip out of her clothing then waited for Viktor's next command.

Later, after he was finished with her, Viktor handed the tepid beer to Elena. "Here, drink this. I see now that you actually may have _lost_ weight, Natasha! I don't want to be able to see your ribs like that—makes you look sick like you've got AIDS or something. This is not good for business at all. Straighten that hair up—you look like shit! You've got three fellows coming up in about ten minutes and I want you to look your very best for them. They are going to all fuck you at the same time so I want you to show them what all you can do. And don't you dare whine this time! You do what they want you to do and keep a smile on that pretty face of yours. If I hear that you didn't comply, you will be very, very sorry. I will personally beat the mortal shit out of you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Viktor."

He took a long look at her as he fastened his pants.

"Fucking slut," he said on his way to the door.

CHAPTER 10

The following morning, Alan ate breakfast then managed to coax the dog into the backseat of his SUV. It was more than obvious she could sense that he was going to take her somewhere and leave her by the way she whined all the way back to the neighborhood where he had found her. The whining made Alan feel guilty and he realized that deep down inside he was sort of hoping he wouldn't be able to find her owner. He wouldn't mind keeping the dog, really. It sure wouldn't hurt to have a companion in that big house.

He decided to begin his search at Panera and find out if any of the neighbors had ever seen the dog before. His first choice was the house next door to Panera. He went up to the front porch and rang the doorbell. An elderly woman peeked through the window before opening up the door.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, I was wondering if you have any idea who owns this pooch here."

Alan had fashioned a leash out of an old belt and held the dog at his side.

The woman shook her head. "No, I have never seen it before. Cute, though."

Alan said, "Yes, she is. Very friendly, too. Well, sorry to have bothered you."

"No problem. You may want to ask the people a few doors down in the big yellow two-story. They own a couple of dogs and might be able to help you."

"Thanks, I'll do that. Have a nice day and thanks for your help."

"Good luck."

Alan turned and led the dog down the stairs. He saw the house the woman was referring to and walked up to the front door. He could hear barking from inside after he knocked and the moment the door opened, a brown and black terrier appeared at the door along with its owner. The dog was barking its head off so the man shooed it away. All this time, Alan's canine companion simply sat there quietly and observed the scene.

"Sorry about that—that little mutt never knows when to quit barking," the man said.

"No problem. I was wondering if you by any chance know who owns this dog," Alan said.

"Hmm. Nope, I've never seen it around. Where did you find it?"

"In Panera's parking lot. I opened my car door and she hopped in like she owned the place."

The man chuckled. "Sure is a cute one. Let me ask my son—he has a lot of friends that live around here who might know something."

"That would be great."

The man left for a moment then returned with a boy of around eleven or twelve. He came out onto the porch and looked first at the dog and then at Alan.

"I saw just this dog yesterday! A mini van pulled up in front of Danny's house and someone let it out through the sliding door. I saw them push the dog out then pull away. Danny and me chased after the dog but she got away—she can run really fast! I couldn't believe they just dumped her there like that."

Alan said, "So you think they abandoned her?"

"Yeah, for sure. The way they pushed her out was like they wanted to get rid of her."

"Wow, how cruel can you get? And you're absolutely sure it was this dog?"

The boy nodded. "This dog is the same size and has the exact same coloring."

"Well, I guess that settles that. Thanks a lot for your help. I really appreciate it."

The boy's father said, "So what are going to do with her? Take her to the pound?"

Alan's reply came immediately. "No way—I think I'm going to keep her."

"That would be a good thing to do. It's really sad how many dogs at the pound don't find homes and get put to sleep. I think you've got yourself a nice pet, there."

"Yeah, I do too. Thanks again, both of you."

"Have a nice day."

Alan had a broad grin on his face as he left the house. He looked down at the dog and saw that she seemed to be smiling, too. Or was he just imagining that?

"Looks like you've got me, dog," he said. "Let's go to the pet store and see if we can find you a collar and a leash. Maybe some tastier food, too."

After the trip to the pet store, Alan headed home and was surprised at how much he had enjoyed shopping for his new pet. He hadn't owned a dog since he was in grade school and had almost forgotten how fun it could be playing fetch and taking them on walks. He realized that he was already attached to the dog to the extent that he was now actually stressing over a name for it, much like a new parent thinking of a name for his newborn child. While he cleaned up the kitchen he ran names through his head, glancing down at the dog from time to time and wondering what name would suit her. Finally, it hit him. Panera! What could be more fitting?

"What do you think, Panera? You like that name or should we try something else?"

The dog barked on cue and Alan knew he had a winner.

"Panera it is, then. Maybe Pan for short?"

Another bark as Pan jumped up and licked his cheek.

"Tomorrow we'll take you to the vet for a check up. Get you some tags, too. Then you'll be official.

His iPhone suddenly rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. It was Charlie Ling.

"Hey, what's up?"

Charlie said, "I've got something for you."

"Let's hear it," Alan said.

"Well, I was wrong about the e-mail source—it's not out of the country after all. Apparently this company, Meigs Enterprises, has paid someone a lot of money to make its employees' e-mail addresses super-secure. Not unusual, really, but sure makes you wonder what it is they do that's so secret, right? But as you know, it would take an awful lot of layers to keep yours truly from slicing through all of them."

Charlie's gloating was typical. He always started out like everything was so difficult to execute but once he was successful, he never failed to let you know how great he was.

"Okay, Charlie, don't keep me in suspense any longer. Whose e-mail address is it?"

"I've got more than a name for you, my friend. I've got a location, too."

"Jesus, already? That's awesome!" Usually narrowing down the identity of an e-mail account owner was just the tip of the iceberg. Finding out the actually name and geographical address of the person was a hurdle that usually took much longer. Charlie was indeed an amazing hacker.

"Well, don't get too excited just yet. I have the address of the parent company of the addressee but not the actual person. Yet. But I thought you might want to know what I have so far and that I should be able to get you a name by this evening at the latest. Just have to get inside the company database, that's all."

He said this as if it were like jumping off a log, which was scary. To think that Charlie could hack his way into a company's records at will reminded Alan of the potential power his computer genius friend had; not to mention how illegal all of this was.

"I can live with that. So where is this Meigs Enterprises located?"

"New York City. They have branches in all five boroughs, posing a minor setback to nailing down which one of them our mystery person works out of."

"So you've got to hack into no less than five separate data bases?"

"Not necessarily. Once I nail down the corporate headquarters, I can immediately begin the scouring process of its data. They should have all of the data we need in the company's core computers."

"Excellent. You're a good man, Charlie Brown."

"I know. I'll give you a call when I have the identity—I'm working on it as we speak. By the way, how's the pooch doing? Did you find its owner?"

"Nope. Some asshole dumped her out on the street and drove away. So I've basically adopted her."

"Awesome. Maybe she can help raise you out of your funk."

"Didn't know I was in a funk. At any rate, it will be nice to have someone guarding the house whenever I'm out."

"Yeah, they are good for that. Wait a minute—bingo! I've just located the core computer."

"Great! So how much longer?"

"Just gotta nail down the e-mail directory. Let's see here . . . this looks like the employee base, no. Hmm. Give me a few minutes and I'll call you back. This isn't gonna take much longer."

"Okay. I'll stand by."

"Ciao."

Alan disconnected the call and went to the fridge for a can of Coke. He popped the top and realized that he was feeling very antsy all of a sudden. Finally, he would have something to act upon in this strange case—finding out the ID of the person whose e-mail account was used for Ellen's plea to Beth could be the break he'd been waiting for. From the beginning, the thought of simply shooting an e-mail back to the owner of the e-mail account had been tempting but Alan had resisted it. Although he wasn't sure why the mysterious Ellen had insisted that no reply be sent, she apparently had her reasons and it would be too risky not to comply.

Now perhaps he could at last get to the bottom of all of this.

He sat down on the recliner chair in the family room and Pan jumped onto his lap. As he petted her, he considered what his next move would be once Charlie gave him the identity of the e-mail account owner. He would have to somehow contact the person and then get a quick feel for the person's situation before going any further. He had to try to determine under what conditions Ellen had used the person's e-mail address to reply to Beth's website form. This could be really tricky—calling someone out of the clear blue and pumping them with questions about this situation. Now that he thought about it, he may not be any better off than he had been before getting the person's identity.

He would just have to wing it. One thing at a time.

His cell suddenly rang and Alan checked the caller ID. It was Charlie again.

"Hey Charlie, did you find it out?"

"Yup, I got it. I was actually a little surprised how easy it was to scour their database once I was inside. Apparently this firm has spent most of its security resources on the initial protection of their ID data and left everything else to chance. Big mistake. Extracting this info was a piece of cake."

"So what did you get?"

"Everything but this guy's shoe size, basically. The holder of that e-mail address is one Jonathon Banner. His residential address is 25-97 Newport Street in Long Island City, New York. He works out of the Queens branch of Meigs Enterprises on Steinway Street. How much more you need?"

Alan was elated. "Does he have a wife or any family living with him?"

"Let me see . . . Nope, apparently he lives all by his lonesome."

"Hmm. How about his work address, the phone number and his home and cell phone numbers?"

"Got a pen? Probably not a good idea emailing any of this, considering the means of procurement."

Alan stood up and found a pad and pencil. "Yeah, give me all you've got there."

Charlie repeated the addresses and read off all of the phone numbers where Jonathon Banner could be reached. After he jotted it down, Alan said, "Great. This is a huge help, Charlie—you are amazing."

"I know. Sorry I haven't gotten very far on that URL you're waiting on but I'll keep chipping away at it and let you know when I get something."

"Sounds good. Thanks again, Charlie."

Alan sat down and read over the info Charlie had just given him. He checked the time and decided that now was as good a time as any to give Jonathon Bannon a call. He was most likely working on a Monday so he would try his cell phone first. Alan mentally rehearsed what he was going to say and after taking a deep breath, punched in the phone number.

"Bannon," a voice said after a couple of rings.

"Er, hello. Is this Jonathon Bannon?" Alan said.

"Yes, may I ask who is calling?"

"This is Alan Swansea. I'm a private investigator in Columbus, Ohio. I hate to bother you but I'm hoping you can help me on a case I've been working on."

"A case involving what? How did you get my phone number?" Bannon snapped.

"I got your number from the New York Department of Motor Vehicles. I'm investigating an auto accident."

"Oh, I see," he said, his relief evident. "How can I help you, Mr. Swansea?"

"Well, my client was the victim of a hit and run in New York last week. He was visiting relatives up three and somebody smacked his car while it was parked on Steinway Street."

"That's where I work."

"Exactly. And that's why I'm canvassing people who live or work in the area that might have some information relevant to the accident. My client didn't notice the damage to his car until he returned to Ohio, believe it or not. There was only a dent in his bumper but the impact was enough to damage his transmission. It's going to cost him a small fortune to repair and his insurance won't cover it without a comprehensive accident report."

"I see. Well I can tell you right now that I didn't seen any accidents like that. Sorry."

"Listen Mr. Bannon, I'm going to be up front with you. There is another reason why I am contacting you personally in reference to this incident. Someone using your e-mail account e-mailed the New York DMV claiming to have witnessed the accident. The e-mail was anonymous, however. Any thoughts on how that could have happened?"

There, he'd thrown him the bait. Alan crossed his fingers and awaited Bannon's reaction.

"Whoa, now wait a minute! I never emailed anybody at the DMV. I—uh . . . Well I'll be goddamned! That bitch in the coffee shop must have done it!"

"Excuse me?" Alan said.

"I just remembered that I caught some woman using my laptop at a wifi enabled Starbucks last Thursday after I went to take a leak at lunch. I ran back to my table but she tore out of the place before I could catch up to her. She must have been the one who e-mailed the DMV."

Yes! Alan thought. Now we're getting somewhere! He recalled that that the original email Beth had forwarded to him had been dated Oct. 5, last Thursday. "I see. Had you ever seen this woman before?"

"Actually, yes. One other time. I think she's a hooker."

"Why do you say that?"

"The clothes she was wearing for one thing—very sluttish. Also, I saw her hanging out in front of a neighborhood bar one day like she was hooking. Not sure of course, but why else would a young woman wearing clothes like that stand out in front of a bar in broad daylight?"

"I see your point. Can you give me a description of the woman?"

"Let me see. Blonde hair, long and straight, thin body—almost anorexic—nice face, though. Early twenties, average height. Almost looked Scandanavian, or Russian. You know, she had that sort of foreign look to her."

Alan jotted down the info. "Great, that's a big help, Mr. Bannon. Just a couple more questions if you don't mind. Could you tell me the name of the bar where you saw her hanging around?"

"Uh, let's see, what's the name of that place? Stoke, Stokes—no, Stokleys. That's the name. Stokley's Pub. It's a few blocks north of the Starbucks on Steinway."

"Excellent. And would you mind it if I contact you again in case I need a positive ID of this woman?"

"You mean off the record? I mean, I wouldn't want to go to court or anything."

"Of course it would be off the record. It would just be for my own use in the investigation."

"In that case, yeah. I can do that."

"That's very kind of you. Well, thank you for all your help, Mr. Bannon and I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Hey, no problem. I hope you catch the perp. I've had my car hit a half dozen times and know how your client feels. You just want to track down the bastard and beat him to a pulp!"

"No doubt. Thanks again and have a nice day."

Alan was elated—now he had a lead on the mysterious Ellen.

It had been a huge gamble alluding to Bannon that someone had used his e-mail address, but it was the only way he could think of to get to the truth without potentially putting Ellen in danger. Alan figured that if Ellen stood to get into any kind of trouble with Bannon for having used his e-mail account, the DMV ruse would effectively flush out the information he needed without posing any real threat to her. After all, she had only theoretically contacted the DMV to report an auto accident—innocuous enough. But he'd had a gut feeling all along that Bannon wasn't involved with Ellen personally—that she was indeed a total stranger—and his hope had been that Bannon would recall a stranger being in a position to use his computer without his authorization.

And as it turned out, that had exactly been the case.

So now the big question now was why? Why had Ellen used Bannon's laptop to go to Beth's website in the first place? And why had she been so afraid of being caught doing so? Granted, she was not doubt afraid of Bannon catching her sneaking onto his laptop at the Starbucks but there had to be more to it then that. It just didn't make any sense, now that he knew the circumstances. If Bannon wasn't a personal threat to her, then who or what was?

He needed to call Beth Lindsey. Maybe she could offer some insight into this.

Alan clicked on his contacts, found Beth's number and hit _CALL_.

When she answered, Alan said, "Beth, it's Alan—how are you?"

"I can't believe this, I was just thinking of you!"

"Good thoughts, I hope."

"Mostly," she laughed. "Actually, I was wondering if you'd had a chance to give that weird e-mail message I forwarded to you any thought. What did you think?"

"Funny you'd ask—that's exactly why I'm calling you. At first I figured it was some kind of hoax. I mean, it was just so crazy and random. But after giving it some thought, I started thinking that there might actually be some validity to it. Like you had mentioned, it was so brief and desperate-sounding that it just didn't seem like something a prankster would do."

"And what about that website? What did you make of those paintings?"

"There's something fishy about that, too. They aren't paintings but actually manipulated photographs."

"You're kidding! I would never have thought that. They looked too, uh, painterly to have been photos. How can you tell?"

"Didn't take much to figure it out once I magnified them. This guy is apparently obsessed with re-creating works by Edgar Degas with a camera and then manipulating the images in Photoshop to look like impressionist paintings. He's pretty damn good at it, too I might add."

"That seems kind of crazy. Why do you suppose he's doing it?" Beth said.

"I have no idea. All I can say is that if the mysterious Ellen's sister is indeed one of the girls in his photos, she could be in trouble."

"Why do you say that?"

"I just have a feeling about this guy. Like he's some kind of fanatic who is not all there, if you know what I mean. Those types can be dangerous."

"No doubt. Is there anything we can do to find this girl?"

"I'm working on it. Of course, it would be nice to know which one of the girls in the photos is her sister—it's real big plus knowing what the person looks like that you're trying to save. At any rate, I _have_ found out something about this Ellen woman, though—I think I have, anyway."

"You're kidding! How did you do that?"

"It's hard to explain exactly but let's just say I have a source who has been able to track down the guy whose e-mail address was used by her on your website. In fact, I just spoke to this guy a few moments ago. He thinks he knows who this Ellen is, or at least what she is."

"What do you mean, 'what she is?'"

"He thinks she's a prostitute—in Queens, New York."

Beth let out a gasp. "Tell me everything."

"Well, apparently Ellen visited your website is short order while this guy was taking a bathroom break at a Starbucks. The place was wifi enabled and he had left his laptop unattended at his table just long enough to take a leak. When he came back, he spotted Ellen using his laptop and she immediately flew out of the place like a bat out of hell when she saw him coming. He couldn't catch her but he told me he had seen her around the neighborhood once before in hooker mode. He gave me a general description of her and the name of the bar where she may be soliciting. That's about all I have now."

"Alan, that's so amazing! And this is so typical."

"What do you mean by so typical?"

"If this Ellen is indeed a prostitute, it would explain why she was being so secretive and didn't want anybody to find out that she had been on my website."

"Now you've lost me," Alan said. "Why would a prostitute be secretive like that?"

"Because, my dear, most prostitutes have pimps who keep a very close eye on them. Ellen was probably taking a huge risk by running into the coffee shop and getting online like that. If her pimp found out what she had been doing, she would most likely have to pay dearly for it."

"Jesus, why would a pimp care about her going online in a coffee shop?"

"Alan, it appears that you don't know so much about the oldest profession."

"Whoa, now wait a minute—it's not like I've been living under a rock! I know all about pimps and how they dominate their girls— I just didn't realize that they watched them that vigilantly."

"You'd be surprised. Since my website is geared toward women's rights and female repression, I get quite a bit of mail from prostitutes. Women who are physically and sexually abused by their husbands and boyfriends are not the only victims of these deplorable crimes. In fact, prostitutes are probably the most abused victims of all statistically, not just by their clients but their pimps as well."

"I guess I never thought of that. So why in the hell do women get into prostitution in the first place if it's that bad? I know there's a lot of money in it, but it hardly seems worth it."

"Most women aren't prostitutes by choice, Alan. They are often either tricked into it or so desperate for money to pay off their drug habits that they see no other options. Or all of the above. Unfortunately, society as a whole thinks that prostitutes sell themselves for the big money or because they are nymphomaniacs or sex addicts. Statistics have proven this simply isn't the case. Most women are forced into prostitution and can't get out because they are afraid to."

"Afraid of what? Having to work a real job to pay the bills?" Alan asked cynically.

"God, no Alan—they are scared to death of their pimps! Pimps have control over virtually every aspect of their lives. They get them hooked on drugs and then force them to prostitute themselves in order to feed their habit. The pimps end up with all the money and the girls are left with nothing but diseases and serious drug problems. It's a horrible vicious circle for a lot of these poor women."

"I guess I didn't realize it was that bad and so prevalent. So it's safe to assume that if this Ellen woman is indeed a hooker and that she visited your website on the sly, it increases the odds that her plea for her sister is valid. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, by all means," Beth replied. "Listen, Alan. Now that we know all of this, is there any chance you will take this case? I know that you've given up your practice but could you please make an exception just this once? I will pay you personally if I can't get the money from one of the foundations. What do you say?"

Alan paused a moment before he replied. On one hand, he had already decided to get involved in this case even before he had called Beth. Not only was he curious but also intrigued by the very nature of the case.

On the other hand, he had not considered doing this as a paid private investigator. Although he still had his license, he had made a vow to himself (and to Julie) that he would not go back to investigative work in any size shape or form. Not only was it potentially dangerous, web designing is a much safer and profitable line of work to pursue.

He finally said, "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll take on the case but only as a favor to you— _pro bono_ , so to speak."

"No, Alan—I insist on paying you! I have a vested interest in this from both a humanitarian aspect and as a writer. You will be doing both Ellen and myself a big favor and deserve to be paid for your time."

"Okay, I'll let you cover my expenses. But the rest is on me. Take it or leave it."

"Alright, if you insist. I just want you to know how much this means to me. If you could hear some of the awful stories these poor souls tell me you would know what a desperate situation they're in. Prostitutes come from all walks of life but did you know that human trafficking for the sex trade is one of the fastest growing crimes in the world right now? The victims are literally modern day slaves who have been bought and sold just for sex—it's a horrible reality that very few people are even aware of."

Alan was beginning to see just how dedicated his old friend had become to her cause. "I didn't realize that. You've already enlightened me on prostitution, Beth, and I'll never look at a hooker quite the same way now."

"If more people knew the facts about this exploitation, they would quit encouraging the practice all together," she said bitterly.

"I'm afraid that that will never happen, Beth. Sex for sale will be around until the end of time and you're fooling yourself if you think that it's going to suddenly disappear."

"I know that I'm being overly idealistic. But it's just not right to encourage the large scale sex trade that is happening right now like so many countries are doing. These are countries that not only allow prostitution but actually encourage it! It's big money for the criminals and brings in huge revenues for the countries that tax it. I'm not talking third-world countries here, either. I'm talking Canada, Germany, England, Brazil, the Netherlands—even the state of Nevada! My argument against prostitution isn't a moral one—I am in fact all for the decriminalization of prostitutes that have been arrested who were forced into the trade. It is the slimy, brutal gang of thugs that exploit these women by robbing them of their freedom and dignity for huge profits that need to be crushed!"

"Wow, Beth—you have obviously done your homework on this. And I'm beginning to get a feel for why Ellen may have chosen your website in particular to post her plea after hearing what you've just told me. It is in fact looking like she may have pre-planned the whole thing out from the beginning. After all, she couldn't have had more than a few minutes to case this guy out at the Starbucks on the off chance that he would abandon his computer long enough for her to get on it, locate your website, post her message as well as either type out or paste in the URL for the photographer's website. Not to mention doing all of this with a pimp possibly outside somewhere waiting to pounce on her. This clearly wasn't something that was done randomly. Nor lightheartedly."

"Now you can see why I felt her message could have been sincere. Her utter fear and desperation was hiding somewhere between the lines. You just don't do what she did and take all of those risks unless you are really desperate," Beth said. "Which is why I hope we can act on this before something really horrible happens. What do we do now, Alan?"

"Well, I'm going to have to make a trip to the Big Apple, it appears. Track down Ellen and see if I can talk to her—find out all I can about her sister. Then take it from there."

"How do you plan on talking to her, if you're lucky enough to find her?"

"I'll have to play that by ear. And it could be dicey finding her in the first place. The guy with the laptop works in the area yet he said he'd only seen her once before in front of a neighborhood bar. No law says she will still be in the area now."

"Well if anyone can find her, you can."

Alan chuckled. "I'm glad you have all of this confidence in me! Do you realize how long it's been since I've played Columbo, Beth? And when I was looking for something or someone, it wasn't in a city of eight million people over five hundred miles away."

"You'll find her. And you'll find her sister, too. I just know it."

"Hmm, we'll see. At any rate I'd better get going. I will keep you up to speed as soon as I learn something."

"Great. Thanks so much, Alan. I owe you big time, now!"

"No problem. I'll give you a call soon."

"Thanks again."

CHAPTER 11

After hanging up from Beth, Alan sat back down and petted Pan, staring blankly at his phone. He realized that he had just actually committed to taking on a case, any way you sliced or diced it. Had he made a mistake? Was he _really_ in a position to simply stop what he was doing now and throw fate to the wind to track down some woman with hopes of eventually saving her sister?

What in the hell was he doing? Julie must be turning over in her grave!

Yet, he really did want to take the case—couldn't wait to get cracking on it in fact. Why was this? Was it his interest in this particular situation or the urge to get back into private investigation in general. Or was it something else: the obvious fact that his life had become so predictable and unsatisfying that he wanted to do something challenging and exciting for a change?

Hmm. The answer was all of the above. He wasn't conscious of it most of the time but he had been looking for something like this case to pop up for quite awhile. While pursuing his web designing business, he had been loathing the monotony of sitting in front of a computer screen laying out web pages, typing out code like some kind of complacent nerd processor with no real life to speak of.

Sorta like Charlie Ling.

Is that really what he wanted to do for the rest of his life? Become another Charlie Ling?

He smiled. It wasn't that he didn't like Charlie or admire his special skills. Nor was Charlie's line of work really comparable to his own. But he and Charlie both shared one common thread that was rather unsettling: spending the bulk of their waking hours alone planted in front of a computer.

There was a bit more to life than that, eh?

Certainly. And perhaps it was time to move on from his complacent station in life and do something that really matters for a change.

Having worked all of this out in his head, Alan now felt a certain sense of liberation. He could easily afford to take a few days off and fly up to New York, at least. He had just finished Chris Hammond's website and didn't need to tear into another one right away. He was free for a while with no commitments and a change of scenery just might do him some good. He was tired of Columbus and he was tired of being cooped up in this house. In fact, he couldn't wait to get away from both for a little while. It might give him a fresh outlook on life if nothing else.

Tomorrow he would get up early, take a shower, eat and pack up his camera. Then he would— _Shit!_ What about Pan? He couldn't just blast off and leave the dog all alone with out anyone to care for her. He couldn't take her with him either.

He would just have to find a place to board her. He clicked on an app on this iPhone and searched for animal boarders in the vicinity. He was just ready to call one of them when he suddenly stopped himself. He couldn't just dump off Pan at some boarder to be stuck in a cage for two or three days. Especially after what she had been through and the fact that she was just now trying to adjust to a new environment here.

He would have to get a dog sitter, and he knew just the person who could do it. He recalled an old acquaintance of Julie's who owned a dog day care center. Marie Schiff. Alan hit his yellow pages app, looked up her number and gave her a ring. After filling her in about his life since Julie passed, he was told by Marie that she would be more than happy to keep Pan at her awesome home-away-from-home pet facility. She informed Alan of the rates and assured him that Pan would be pampered and well looked after during her stay. Alan copied down the directions to her place and told her that we would bring his new dog in early in the morning.

He arose and decided to begin preparing for his trip to the city since there was little else to do. After booking his hotel and flight reservations, he charged the batteries for his Nikon and packed up a couple of lenses. By the time he had collected all of his gear for the trip, Alan realized that he was getting excited, if not absolutely euphoric at the prospect of getting back into the game again.

CHAPTER 12

Elena's life was one of absolute despair and misery—every day and every night a slave to Viktor with absolutely no end in sight. After months of torture, abuse, drugs and total loss of self respect, Elena thought she had hit the lowest of lows.

Until last week when Viktor had told her about Polina. Nothing could have hurt her more than that.

Shortly after the last trick for the night had left—an old man with hideous warts all over his face—Viktor had come up with a smug grin on his face. He was carrying a letter-sized printout of a picture, which he waved briefly in front of her eyes then held it behind his back like a child.

"Guess what I have here, Natasha!"

"What?" she had replied, forever weary of the name he had chosen for her.

"Ha, wouldn't you like to know!"

"Why should I care what you have behind your back?" she said, no doubt a little too boldly, but she was totally exhausted and not in the mood for playing petty games with her pimp.

He replied in a singsong voice, "Oh, believe me—you will want to see this! I'll give you a little hint: it has something to do with someone very dear to you."

Polina, she thought! "My sister! What do you have, Viktor? Please!"

Viktor affected a frown. "I'm afraid the news of your little sister isn't so good."

Without thinking, Elena sprung up from the bed and tried to reach around Viktor's back to get at the paper. He promptly pushed her back onto the bed.

"Sit back down, slut—you know better than that! Just for that, I'm not going to tell you about your sister after all."

He turned around and headed toward the door.

"Stop, please Viktor! I'm sorry. Please tell me about Polina!"

He reached the door and placed his hand on the doorknob as though he was going to leave. Then he turned around and came back toward her.

"Okay, Natasha. I guess you have a right to know. Which do you want first, the good news or the bad news about your little sister?"

Elena's heart was nearly thumping out of her chest now. "God, Viktor, I don't care! Just tell me what you know!"

He handed the piece of paper to her. "The good news is that your sister has not been harmed in all this time and in fact has been posing for pictures. You might say that she has become a model!"

Elena stared at the picture and let out a gasp. What she saw was what looked like a painting of four ballerinas wearing blue tutus in a dance studio. The second girl from the left in the background was Polina! She was facing forward, head tilted slightly with her right hand resting on a dance bar. She wore a rather blank expression on her sweet face.

Elena thought: She looks healthy and calm, thank God! Even more importantly, she is still alive!

"Where is she, Viktor? Please, I beg of you—tell me!"

"Of course I can't tell you that, Natasha. But I will tell you that she has not been mistreated in any way and that she is safe. For now, that is."

"What do mean, _for now?_ Please Viktor, tell me what you mean by that!"

"Let's just say that her comfortable existence is about to come to a crashing end. It seems as though her modeling days will soon be over and time for her to move on."

"Jesus, Viktor, what are you _saying?"_

Viktor was absolutely incapable of any compassion—he was such a hateful man. He smiled his hideous evil smile and said, "Her present owner is nearly through with her and will be handing her back to her original owner. Soon she will be up sale and you can't begin to imagine what kind of price a sweet, innocent young girl like this is going to bring from the highest bidder!"

_"No!_ You can't let this happen, Viktor, please!" Elena cried.

"I'm afraid it's out of my hands, Natasha. I sure as hell can't afford her—even if I wanted her in the first place. But I'm not interested in young, inexperienced whores. Too risky and too much bother. But that little sister of yours is going to make some ambitious whorehouse owner very happy—I can assure you of that!"

Elena took another look at Polina in the picture and absolutely broke down. It isn't fair! she thought. Why did this have to happen? It was all her fault she had gotten Polina into this horrible mess in the first place. If only she had left her at home that day, like she should have! Then, she would still be there, safe and sound. But now—

"Please Viktor, I beg of you! Don't let anybody hurt Polina! I will do anything you want if you can just make her safe!"

Viktor laughed heartily. "You have got to be kidding! You are already doing anything I want, whore! I'm afraid that you have absolutely no bargaining power!"

"But I can do _more,_ Viktor! I'll work twice as hard, twice as long for you! You can make more money that way! Please, just find a way to send my little sister back home!"

"Sorry, Natasha. Like I said, it's out of my hands. I thought I was doing you a big favor by giving you that picture to remember her by. And for that you will have to give me something in return, of course . . . You've just given me an idea, in fact."

He thought for a moment before continuing. "We're going to try something out that could make us both a little happier, Natasha. We're going to put you out on the street! See if we can pick up some more business. Now what would you say to that?"

Elena was numb—virtually paralyzed by the explosive emotions in her heart. She stared at Polina as a tear fell onto the picture, causing the ink to smear in the corner. She brushed it off with a finger and felt her heart ache for her sister. What a fool she had been, dragging her into all of this! She was willing to pay for her own folly but she couldn't let Polina pay, too. She had to save her somehow—but how? She knew that she was totally powerless as long as she was in Viktor's possession and she had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she would be stuck here until she had outlived her usefulness to him. Then she would most likely be thrown out onto the street or murdered.

This was her fate—her punishment for what she had done to her sister. But up until now, she had had no idea where her sister was or what she had been doing since they had been separated in Germany. Or if she was even alive. Now she at least knew that she was safe and in fact might still have a chance for a normal life.

And Elena was going to do anything she could to see that Polina had a chance at a normal life.

She glanced at the picture again before something caught her attention. Her eyes moved down to the bottom of the page. There she saw some small faint gray text in the corner that she recognized as a website address. Most likely it was the same address that this picture had been downloaded from.

Was it possible that Viktor was unaware of the address? Or did he think it was of no consequence? After all, what good would it do for her to see it? He may even think she didn't even know what those numbers and letters stood for.

But she did.

Elena's head began to clear as she realized that there just might be something she could do to help out her sister after all. It would be risky, of course, if not altogether impossible. But at least it was worth a try if she could just get out of this hellhole long enough to do it.

"Well, Natasha, are you going to say anything or just sit there and brood about it?"

She forced herself a little smile. "Thank you, Viktor, for this picture and for letting me go out on the street. I am very grateful to you."

"You should be grateful, Natasha! But let me remind you that this will only be an experiment. If you do one little thing that I don't like out there, you will be right back here stuck in this tiny room. And you will pay dearly for it. Not only will I have your family tracked down and killed, I'll make _certain_ that your beloved little sister gets some _special treatment_ in her new work and it won't be the good kind. Do I make myself clear?"

Elena knew that Viktor wouldn't like what she planned on doing one little bit. She also knew that her entire family would be in jeopardy if she got caught—he'd been making that same threat since the day she had been sold to him. But Elena wasn't worried because she wasn't going to let herself get caught. She was just going to have to be smarter than him.

Now she actually had a reason to live again.

She was somehow going to save Polina.

As she nodded her assent to Viktor, the wheels were turning like crazy in Elena's head.

CHAPTER 13

"You be a good girl, Pan," Alan said, handing the leash over to Marie Schiff.

Pan jumped up onto his leg and started whining. Alan winked at Marie and said "she's afraid I won't come back to get her."

Marie said, "Separation anxiety is very stressful for a pet—especially under these unique circumstances."

"I know—I feel horrible leaving her in a lurch just after giving her a new home. But I'm afraid I don't have much choice."

Marie's compassion for his situation showed in her eyes. "Don't worry about her, Alan, she'll be just fine. Not only do dogs have short memory spans but they also have very little concept of time. When you come back to pick Pan up, she will immediately forget that you ever left her and will be ready to resume her unconditional love for her master."

"Really? That's good to know."

"It's a fact. Now when do you plan on picking her up?"

"Well, I'm not exactly sure. No later than a couple of days. I'll phone you in advance if I can't be back on Thursday to get her if that's okay with you."

"No problem. As long as you give me some notice we'll be more than happy to keep her as long as necessary."

"Great. Well, Pan, I'll see you in a few days, girl," he said, kneeling down to give her a last pat on the head. Pan stopped whining long enough to lick his face before Marie pulled back gently on the leash.

"Thanks, Marie."

"You're welcome. Have a good trip."

Alan turned and headed out the door. Checking his watch, he realized that he would have to step on it to get out to the airport in time to go through security and board before his flight departed. His clock radio hadn't gone off for some reason, forcing him to rush getting showered, dressed, and Pan to the day care place on time. And Alan hated rushing.

On the way to the airport, he wondered if New York had changed much since he'd last been there. He and Julie had spent a long weekend in Manhattan five years ago and Alan had noticed even then a lot of changes since the tragedy of 9-11. The Big Apple had always been one of his favorite places to visit ever since he'd taken a high school social studies trip there decades ago and it was amazing how much he'd seen it evolve in a relatively short time. And not all of those changes had been good.

Alan tried to put the painful memories of Julie out of his mind as he pulled onto I-670 east to Port Columbus. As excited as he was at leaving town to work on a case, he was also feeling an equal amount of anxiety. Here he was, flitting off to New York City on a whim, basically, to pursue a missing persons case that could only be classified as _shaky_ _at best_. It was one thing to have a client meet with him at his office and ask for his help to spy on an unfaithful spouse or track down a car thief. But this case was nothing like that—it was just plain _crazy._ What he was doing was on a lark for the most part and although Beth Lindsey could be considered a _surrogate client_ of sorts, he was yet to meet the person he actually working for— _Ellen Whomever_ — in order to find the person she was looking for— _Sister Whomever!_

All of this stemming from a strange e-mail from a mysterious woman linking to a strange website. An experienced investigator wouldn't touch this case with a ten-foot pole, he now realized. So why was he?

Because of a gut feeling he had?

Not to mention the thrill of the hunt?

Because it was just what he needed right now in his humdrum, empty life?

Hmm.

He reached the airport and headed for the long term parking garage. After checking in and a thankfully brief wait in the security line, Alan bought a cup of coffee and boarded his plane. Once seated, he plugged his headphones into his iPhone, found his favorite play list and settled back in the seat for the hour and a half flight to New York City.

After landing at LaGuardia Airport, Alan hailed a cab and was taken to the Radisson Hotel on 32nd and Broadway. He checked into his room and decided to do a little sightseeing and have lunch before returning to his room to plan out the rest of the day.

Since it would be getting dark fairly early, he didn't plan on accomplishing much more than locating and casing out the Queens neighborhood where Jonathon Bannon worked. He wanted to visit the Starbucks where Ellen had "borrowed" Bannon's laptop and take a look at Stokley's Pub, the bar that Bannon had seen her standing outside of, allegedly hooking. Basically, he just wanted to get a feel for the place in order to map out his next course of action.

He got out his iPhone, went to the Google Maps app and clicked on the bookmark he had made for Steinway Street. Bannon's business was located on Steinway near a subway station so he switched over to the NYC subway map app he'd downloaded and located the stop near the vicinity of his destination. He backtracked the path of the R train and saw that he could get on the train at the Herald Square station, just a couple of blocks from the Radisson.

He threw on his leather jacket and picked up his camera bag before leaving the room. A cold wave was coming into the city from the north and a nor'easter wind was picking up. It felt as though the temp had fallen ten degrees since he'd first touched down at the airport. Alan zipped up his jacket and braced himself against the wind as he strode across Broadway toward the subway station.

He had almost forgotten how loud the subways were as he descended the stairs to the platform and cringed at the deafening clamor of an express train tearing through the station. His train appeared in a couple of minutes and Alan was impressed with the cleanliness of the car when he stepped inside. As the recorded voice cheerfully announced the next stop, Alan recalled the old days when the trains were riddled with graffiti and a bored conductor did the talking, usually unintelligibly.

Twenty minutes later, he reached the Steinway Street stop and go out. When he reached the street he was surprised at the throngs of pedestrians and seemingly endless storefronts and businesses lining either side of the street. Once he got his bearings he headed north and began looking for the Starbucks that would be coming up on his left within a few blocks.

He reached the Starbucks and went inside. The place was busy with several patrons sitting at tables working on their laptops. He gazed around the place and spotted the restrooms located in the southwest corner of the shop. He tried to approximate where Bannon may have been sitting the day that Ellen had posted the email—most likely somewhere close to the entrance since she would have needed enough time to enter the place unnoticed by Bannon, case him out, take over his laptop while he was en route to the restroom, and then send the email via Beth's site. There was a table sitting no less than eight feet from the door and another one a few feet further in. Ellen would have had just enough time to accomplish her task at one of those tables, provided that she knew exactly what she had set out to do.

Alan considered this scenario and now knew without a doubt that Ellen _had_ to have planned out her actions in advance. And she had planned them out meticulously—in fact, she had damn near pulled it all off without Bannon even catching her. Thus leading to the next obvious question: _why?_ Why had she planned out all of this just to send an anonymous email to Beth Lindsey? He recalled Beth's reasoning for this but he still had trouble buying it. If she was truly being held against her will by a pimp, _why didn't she just call the police for chrissakes!_ Why would she waste precious time screwing around with a computer and not just get on a phone and make a call. Or at least contact the cops by email if she had to use a computer.

Alan realized that there must have been some legitimate reason for Ellen's strange behavior and he was determined to find out what it was. After taking one last quick look around, he went over and ordered a tall medium roast coffee then headed back out to the street.

He continued walking north and began looking for Stokley's Pub, which Google Maps indicated would be within another three blocks on the east side of the street. He noted the plethora of storefronts along the way: restaurants, a travel agency, several law offices, a pharmacy, a couple of laundromats, and about every other conceivable business you could think of. Almost a microcosm of Manhattan, he thought. The people consisted of about every ethnicity imaginable, which was no real surprise considering this virtual melting pot of a place.

He started thinking he may have passed by Stokley's after a few blocks but then he suddenly spotted it directly across the street from a diner. The bar was located in a nondescript three-story brownstone with dark tinted glass windows, a faded and tattered blue and white canopy jutting out over the sidewalk from the entrance and a neon Molson Beer sign hanging in a window. A meat market stood next to the pub on the north side and a travel agency on the south.

Alan wanted to observe the pub unnoticed so he pitched his half empty coffee cup into a trash bin and entered the diner. He asked for a booth near the street and was taken to one right next to the window. He ordered another coffee and a bagel then settled back in his seat.

He wondered if he would see Ellen come out from the bar or suddenly show up from somewhere out on the street. Considering the nippy weather and the time of day, he thought the former unlikely, although Bannon indicated seeing her in the daytime in front of the bar. He thought of what he had just seen of Steinway Street thus far and couldn't envision a hooker hanging out anywhere on the street in broad daylight. It just didn't seem plausible.

Then he thought of Columbus and how he at one time or another seen what could have been prostitutes in just about any area you could think of. He thought back to what Beth had said about his not being very knowledgeable of the "oldest profession" and realized that she was right on the mark. He _didn't_ know much about prostitution, other than the basic aspects of it. It was one of those things that existed but one didn't give much thought to unless one was a regular partaker of the trade, he surmised. It was sort of an "out of sight, out of mind" thing.

A man suddenly came out of the bar. Alan watched him as he headed south on Steinway. Alan wanted to go inside the bar in the worst way but knew that he would have to wait for that. Right now, all he wanted to do was case the place out and see what he could find out.

It was starting to get dark out and Alan gazed up at the two stories above the bar, wondering if the space above Stokley's was being used for apartments or perhaps something else, like a place for Ellen to take her tricks. He was banking on this being the case—otherwise his search for her would most likely be over before it ever began. As if on cue, a light suddenly came on in one of the windows on the second floor. The blind was drawn but he thought he could see some movement behind it. Could it be Ellen? Or was he letting his imagination get the best of him?

The waiter brought his order and Alan took a sip of coffee and a bite of bagel. Two men entered the bar just as another pair of men came out. The men appeared to be drunk and were really hooting it up. They stopped for a moment long enough for the shorter man to light up a cigarette then proceeded walking north on Steinway.

Alan spent another half hour watching Stokley's Pub before finally deciding to call it quits. Nothing looked particularly unusual about the place and it appeared to be nothing more than your garden-variety watering hole from what he could tell. He started wondering if he was on a wild goose chase after all. It dawned on him just how little he had to go on in this case. What exactly did he expect to come from all of this, now that he had dropped everything he'd been doing to come six hundred miles on a fucking lark? Did he really expect to find Ellen just by simply showing up at the only two places she had ever been seen by anybody?

_He was second-guessing himself already!_ This moment reminded Alan of the insecurity he'd felt the first few jobs he'd taken as a private investigator. He had felt so incredibly motivated to succeed yet had been so goddamn _green_ at the same time. He needed to shake this feeling off, and do so quickly. He _wasn't_ green—it had just been a while since he'd been in the game. He had to stick to his guns and follow through with this, period. There was no turning back until he was absolutely sure there was nothing here but a big fat goose egg.

He left a two-dollar tip, paid his check in cash and left the diner. He glanced across the street at Stokley's Pub one more time before heading back toward the subway station. Tomorrow was another day, he thought. He'd cased the place out as planned, and his next move would be to do some serious investigation.

CHAPTER 14

The next morning, Alan went down to the lobby for a continental breakfast then returned to his room to make a few calls. First on his list was Marie's Doggy Day Care Center.

"How's my mutt doing?" he said to Marie.

"She's doing fine, Alan. I just fed her a few minutes ago and she seems as happy as a clam."

"Great, I was hoping you'd say that. Funny thing is, I miss the girl already."

"Oh, and she misses you, too! When I walked back there, you could tell that she was expecting you to be there with me. But like I told you, they are very resilient. She will wait for you patiently until you come back to pick her up."

"Okay. Well thanks, Marie. I still don't know when I'll be back but I'll let you know as soon as I do."

"No problem, Alan. How was your flight?"

"Fine. It's getting really cold here, though. How's the weather there?"

"Cold and rainy. I think you chose a good time to go because they're predicting one to two inches of rain by tonight."

"Hmm, sorry I'm missing that. Probably heading this way with my luck. Well, thanks again Marie for looking after Pan. See you later."

Alan ended the call, located Charlie Ling in his contacts and hit the send button.

"What's going on my man?" Charlie said after picking up.

"Just thought I'd see how you're doing with that website trace. Any luck?"

"Afraid not. I've been sort of delayed by something that came up so I haven't had a lot of time to work on that, to be quite honest. But I'm still hacking away at it, no pun intended.

"Okay. I'm in New York, believe it or not. Following up on the e-mail lead you gave me. Your superb work actually made a case for me, and for that I am grateful."

"Pleased to hear that—always happy to be of service."

"Anyway, let me know if you have any luck on that website. I'll be here for at least another day."

"Will do, buddy. Hey, give my regards to Broadway!"

Alan grinned. "Right. Later, dude."

He wasn't sure why, but he was in an excellent mood today. He realized that his negativity yesterday had been the culmination of fatigue and his doubts about this case, which was to be expected given the circumstances. But today was another day and he couldn't wait to get started.

He had thought out how he would go about locating Ellen if she were indeed anywhere to be found in the vicinity of Steinway Street. He would first canvas some of the nearby shops, businesses to see if anyone could recall seeing a woman fitting the description of her that Bannon had given him. If that didn't pan out or give him any leads, he would simply go into Stokley's Pub just like any other patron might do and order a beer. He would bend the ear of the bartender and try to learn something that way. Chat it up with some of the customers as well. Hopefully something would break.

Alan had one more call to make before he shoved off. He located Jonathon Bannon's cell phone number in his saved messages and gave him a ring.

"Bannon," he answered.

"Hello Mr. Bannon, it's Alan Swansea. How are you doing?"

"Swansea? Oh, yeah, the detective from Ohio. I'm fine Mr. Swansea. What can I do for you?"

"Actually, I'm just calling to see if by any chance you've seen the woman we were talking about on Monday. I'm in New York now following up on the insurance claim and thought I'd check in with you before I began my search."

"Oh, I see. No, I'm afraid I haven't seen her again. Of course, I've been working Brooklyn all week and haven't been in the office much more than to check in. The rest of my days have been spent in Park Slope."

"Oh, I see. Well, it was worth a shot. I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Bannon."

"No problem. Like I told you before, I'll help any way I can to help you catch that hit-and-run s.o.b."

"That's good to know—I appreciate it. Thanks again and have a nice day, sir."

"Same to you."

Alan wasn't surprised Bannon hadn't seen her again but he'd learned long ago that once in a while you got lucky with these things. Not to be the case here, though unfortunately.

He got up and put on his coat, stuck his iPhone into a pocket and eyed his camera bag on the dressing bureau, recalling that he had failed to get any shots the day before. He went over, slung the bag over his shoulder and would make sure not to make the same mistake today. He always liked to chronicle any pertinent locales and progress he made on a case, if for no other reason because doing so had come in quite handy in the past. Alan was a visual person by nature and relied more on seeing things than anything else in his work.

When he stepped out onto the street and looked up at the Empire State Building, he recalled the time he had taken Julie to the observatory. It had been at night and he'd brought his camera along to get some shots of the city. It had been windier than hell—much like it was now—and he could remember trying to steady his camera on the ledge in the gale-like conditions, Julie laughing at him all the while for his insistence on getting some decent shots. She always had a way of making him feel comfortable laughing at himself—something he had always had a problem doing in the past. He had always taken life too seriously, he felt, until he met Julie. The girl had somehow managed to lighten him up and bring out the best in him.

Alan shook off the memories the best he could, wishing to stay focused on the case. It was at rare times like this he could think about Julie in a more positive light and view it as a blessing to have had her in his life for what little time he had. He thought of the saying, _it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all_ and knew exactly what those words meant whenever he thought about Julie. It didn't make "moving on" any easier, however, and that was a cold hard fact.

He reached the subway station and checked his watch—it was 11:30. He knew that Stokley's Pub opened at noon so he would have ample time to wander around Steinway Street and ask around about Ellen. He wanted to go to the bar fairly early since there would most likely be a different crowd earlier in the day than at night. He needed to squeeze all of the information he could out of the patrons and help at the bar in order have a better shot at finding Ellen. Maybe she just worked the mornings for all he knew. He couldn't afford to waste time on this and he had a feeling that the longer waited, the least likely it would be to track her down.

After he got out at the Steinway street station, Alan took his camera out of the bag while ascending the stairs to the street. He crossed the street and turned around long enough to get a quick shot of the subway stop then continued walking north. He hadn't walked this side of the street the day before so he would begin his canvassing here. After taking a wide-angle shot of the street, he put his camera away and headed into Mayne's Deli. The place wasn't very crowded so he walked up to the counter and waited his turn then ordered a black coffee. A stocky guy in his mid-forties took his money and a moment later handed Alan his beverage.

Alan said, "I'm wondering if you've ever seen a blonde woman around, early to mid-twenties, decent looking but pretty thin."

The guy deadpanned, "Every day."

Alan laughed. "I guess I should add that she looks like a hooker."

"Oh, I see—so you're looking for a blonde _hooker!"_ he said, a little too loud. Alan turned around and smiled weakly at the elderly woman standing behind him in line.

"I'm not looking for her for that reason. This woman is involved in an insurance investigation and her name is Ellen. She has recently been spotted in this neighborhood," Alan said, not much louder than a whisper.

"Can't say that I have seen anyone fitting that description. Sorry. Next."

"Thanks," Alan said before turning around to leave. _New Yorkers,_ he thought. _Why do they always have to be such wise guys?_

He passed by a medical supply store and a restaurant before coming up to a Hookah Bar. Maybe his odds would be better here. He went through the door and was immediately assaulted with pungent smoke so thick you cut it with a knife. He saw a couple of patrons sitting at a table sharing a water pipe and went over to them.

"Say, I'm looking for a young lady, blonde hair in her twenties wearing skimpy clothes who hangs out in the neighborhood. Either of you ever seen her by any chance?"

The kid with a beard who looked like a young Al Pacino said, "Nope, I don't think so."

"How about you?" he asked the other one.

"Is she skinny with long hair?"

"Yeah, almost anorexic-looking" Alan replied.

"Sounds like this hooker I saw last week. She was hanging around some bar further up Steinway. Had this really short mini-skirt on—I mean, _really_ short! Stiletto heels, too."

"That's her—have you seen her any other times?"

"Nah, just that one time. The only reason I remember is because she stood out like a sore thumb. You know, there's not usually whores hanging around here like that—at least, not so obviously, anyway."

"Hmm. Well, thanks a lot for your help," Alan said.

The Pacino clone took a long hit of what smelled exactly like pot and said, "No problem, dude."

As he left the bar, Alan was all but convinced that Ellen was anything but a fixture in the neighborhood. So far, she had only been spotted on two different occasions by Bannon and one of those times had probably been the same day that the Hookah Bar guy had seen her outside Stokley's Pub.

He decided to try one more place before giving it up. He went into the Starbucks where Ellen had used Bannon's laptop and looked around to see if any of the people looked familiar from the day before. He figured if he recognized somebody, they could probably be a regular customer who may have seen Ellen around at one time or another. Discovering nobody fitting that criterion, he decided to cut to the chase and approached a man in a suit who was busy eating a sandwich while keyboarding on his Dell notebook.

"Excuse me, I'm wondering if you come here often. The reason I'm asking is that I'm from out of town and trying to locate an old acquaintance that lives in the area. I've lost her phone number."

The man looked at Alan skeptically before replying. "I work across the street at the furniture store and come here practically every day. What does this person look like?"

"She has long blonde hair and is quite thin but pretty. She's around twenty or so. I'll be honest with you—she may actually look sort of like a hooker because she has always worn really, uh, rather racy clothes. Sound like anyone you've seen around here?"

The man's eyes widened. "I think I know _exactly_ who you're talking about. And you're right, she does look like a hooker. I've only seen her once, though. Last week— must have been Wednesday or Thursday—I saw her leaving this Starbucks as a matter of fact. I was crossing the street at lunch and noticed her come out the door almost at a run. I got the feeling they had ran her off, to be quite honest."

"And you're sure that's the only time you've seen her?"

The man nodded his head. "Yeah, I'm afraid so. Sorry I couldn't be any more help to you."

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

Alan felt his optimism dwindling away. This sighting all but confirmed that Ellen was not a regular in the neighborhood after all and his odds of finding her seemed slim to none. His only shot would be to get lucky at the pub. Hopefully, somebody there might be able to point him in some direction. Maybe someone knew of another area she was working in the city.

He checked the time and saw that it was 12:16. He left the Starbucks and headed north toward Stokley's Pub. He reached the intersection a block south of the place and crossed Steinway again. As he approached the faded blue and white canopy, he kept his eyes peeled for anyone coming or going. A minute later, he went up to the door and entered.

The place was incredibly dark considering the time of day. The heavily tinted front windows blocked out most of the ambient daylight while the lights inside were turned down very low. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes nearly gagged him as he stood there for a moment to get his bearings.

To his left was a long bar running along the wall with about a dozen bar stools, two of which occupied by a couple of patrons. To his right and beyond the end of the bar were several wooden tables scattered about, all unoccupied except for one. At the far end of the pub he saw a pinball machine and a jukebox set up against the wall. The place was dead quiet except for the feint chatter of the two men sitting at the table.

The eyes of the bartender and the pair at the bar were on him. Alan could feel that vibe you get whenever you enter a roomful of strangers—sort of like they're thinking, "who the hell are you and what the hell do you want here?"

In an effort to quell their staring eyes, Alan headed directly to the bar and sat down beside the closest man. He could feel the tension as he smiled at the bartender, who came over and looked at him with steely blue eyes.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Um, a Michelob—bottle, if you've got it," Alan replied. The bartender looked so inhospitable and sinister that Alan almost expected him to pull a gun out from somewhere and shoot him.

The bartender nodded with a grunt, then headed toward the cooler. Alan stole a glance at his neighbors at the bar: both men who appeared to be in their fifties. Although it was hard to see what they were wearing, Alan thought their clothes made them look out of time for lack of a better descriptor. Like they had just jumped off the boat from some Slavic country.

"Here," the bartender said, handing the beer to Alan. "Four bucks."

Alan pulled out his wallet and slapped a five on the bar. "Thanks."

The bartender carried the cash over to the register. Alan sipped his Michelob, cringing at the taste of beer this early in the day. He had never been much of a day drinker. He stared straight ahead as he sipped, observing the liquor selection and praying that somebody would start speaking to break the silence.

Moments later, the men beside him finally started talking. They spoke in a foreign language that Alan thought sounded like Russian or a similar dialect. He had the feeling that they weren't speaking in English on purpose, just so he wouldn't be privy to what they were saying. He could be wrong, but he didn't think so.

Just a vibe.

He grabbed his beer, stood up and headed toward the back of the bar. The still silence of the place was so excruciating that he felt the need to liven it up a bit. He walked past the pair of men sitting at the table on the way to the jukebox. They looked a little friendlier than the ones at the bar and cast him a cursory glance as he passed by.

The jukebox was an older model, probably one of the very first ones to play CD's in fact. The thing was all beat up and Alan wondered if it even worked as he searched the titles, which ranged from Glen Miller to the Oak Ridge Boys to Abba. There was more country than rock so he felt thankful to settle on _China Grove_ by the Doobies. After digging a couple of quarters out of his pocket, he deposited them into the slot and punched E-47. Miraculously, the thing fired up, fetched his disk and played Tom Johnston's opening chords with a half decent fidelity.

Alan hoped that things would liven up to a level that he could comfortably strike up a conversation with somebody here. He hadn't planned on the place being this foreboding and that had put him off for the moment. It was difficult enough asking strangers a bunch of questions anyway but this crew had made it seem out of the question thus far.

He strode over to the pinball machine and fished out his last quarter. The thing took fifty cents so he decided to go to the bar for change. As soon as he reached the bar, the entrance door opened and a man came in, carrying a newspaper. He was well-dressed, forty-ish and looked like he belonged on Wall Street. He walked past Alan, nodded at the bartender then took a seat at the far end of the bar.

Alan stood by until the bartender went over to the newcomer to take his order. He heard the man say something softly under his breath in English to the bartender, just above a whisper. A moment later, he ordered a gin and tonic in a normal voice. Alan waited until he served the man his drink then summoned the bartender.

"Change, please," he said, laying a dollar bill on the bar. The bartender took the dollar over to the register and returned with four quarters.

"Thanks."

As he made his way back to the pinball machine, Alan saw someone emerge from the rear corner of the bar where the restrooms were located. The man passed by him and was grinning to himself as he proceeded toward the front of the bar. But instead of sitting down at a table or going over to the bar, the guy kept walking toward the entrance and left the place.

Alan didn't think much of it at the time as he stood at the pinball machine and deposited his fifty cents. He watched as the lights of the machine flashed and the electronic beeps and rings clashed with the chorus of _China Grove_. The appearance of the well-dressed man lightened things up somewhat and he was beginning to feel more comfortable about asking some questions. He pulled back the ball shooter knob and let go. As he worked the flippers, he noticed one of the men from the table go over to the bar. After his ball was sucked into the hole, he cued up the next ball and let it go.

Alan chocked up over fifteen thousand points on his second ball. The man returned from the bar and headed toward the restroom as Alan cued up the next ball. He took a good-sized swig from his Michelob before shooting again. He was actually enjoying the pinball game—it had been years since he'd played one.

His third ball was basically a gutter ball and Alan could feel his frustration. He had always been the competitive type and didn't like losing, even to himself. He took a gulp of Mich and sent the fourth ball flying, flipping the flippers like crazy and nearly tilting the machine. He picked up another forty thousand points before the ball finally rolled down the hole.

He was on a roll.

He played the last ball too hard and tilted the machine. For a moment he just stood there staring blankly at the frozen score and the TILT icon all lit up in red. _Shit!_

He drained the last of his beer easily. He realized that he needed to take a leak so he headed for the restroom. He noticed that the other man who had been sitting at the table with his friend was gone. Alan glanced up toward the front of the bar but didn't see him. He must have left without him noticing in the excitement of the pinball game.

Alan rounded the corner into the restroom area and entered the men's room. The moment he stepped inside, he realized that there wasn't a soul inside the tiny place. He had expected to see the other man here.

_So where the hell is he?_ he thought. Had he left the bar without him noticing? No, that wasn't possible. There was no way he could have missed him returning from the restroom because he had been facing that direction while playing pinball.

The women's restroom? Surely not. Alan took a look at how filthy the men's room was and reconsidered. Maybe the guy had opted for a cleaner restroom. Alan relieved himself, keeping his ear cocked for any noises outside. Then he washed his hands and went out the door.

He glanced around then tried the doorknob of the women's restroom. It turned so he went ahead and pushed the door open. He stooped down and saw that there wasn't anyone in the single stall then closed the door.

Alan turned around and stared at a third door that was located in the adjacent wall—he'd noticed it earlier and assumed that it led to the remainder of the first floor. Perhaps there might be a kitchen on the other side, although he didn't recall seeing a menu of any sort at the bar.

Kitchen or not, something seemed very fishy. First, one guy leaves the bar after having been in the restroom without so much as a glance or goodbye to the bartender. Not particularly unusual but a little suspicious. Then the guy who was sitting with his friend evidently goes to the restroom but never returns. And in the meantime, his friend has disappeared as well.

Deduction: at least one of the men, possibly two of them, went through this door instead of to the bathroom.

So what was behind Door Number Three: could it possibly lead to Ellen?

Alan stepped over and held his ear to the door. He couldn't hear a thing. Gently, he turned the knob and cracked the door open. He still didn't hear anything so he opened the door a foot or so and peered around it. He saw a small kitchen and a storage area. Beyond that he saw an open area continuing to the right but was unable to see any further. It apparently led to the remainder of the ground floor space with perhaps an access way to the upper floors of the building.

He swung the door open another few inches and stepped over the threshold. In an instant, he ran to the back of the space and took a quick look around the corner. All he saw was more storage area and a doorway covered by a piece of heavy green fabric that acted as a curtain. He ran over quickly to pull the curtain aside and saw a stairway leading upstairs shrouded in darkness except for a tiny wall lamp glowing weakly at the top of the landing. He strained his ears but couldn't hear a thing. He closed the curtain, turned around and ran back to the door and out into the foyer.

Alan went back into the restroom, realizing that he was going to have to change his game plan. He had seen enough to know that he didn't need to ask any questions—in fact, doing so would only make the bartender even more suspicious than he probably already was of him.

Something covert was definitely going on here and he had a good hunch what it was: Stokley's Pub was a front for a flophouse—

A flophouse in which Ellen, hopefully, was the star attraction.

Now he had to figure out a way to meet her, and that wasn't going to be easy. Not with the way the place seemed to be operating.

Somehow he needed to find out if there was a shift change in the evening. He also needed to allay any suspicions the barkeeper had of him in order to follow through with his plan.

He removed his camera bag and opened up one of the side compartments. He fished out an electronic device that was actually a small voice recorder no bigger than a bottle cap with an adhesive strip attached to one side of it.

He took out his wallet and removed a dollar bill and a business card. He stuck the business card into his jacket breast pocket and then pressed one of the tiny buttons on the recorder. Cupping the recorder in his left palm, he left the restroom.

He headed directly over to the bar where the well-dressed man was still sitting conversing with the bartender while grasping the dollar bill between his thumb and forefinger.

"Can I have some more change?" he asked the bartender.

The man looked annoyed as he took the dollar from Alan and went over to the register.

"Getting chilly out there, eh?" he said to the well-dressed guy, gesturing toward the street. He slipped his hand in under the bar and stuck the recorder to the underside of the counter.

"Indeed, they are predicting a cold rainy night tonight," the man replied.

The bartender returned and handed the change to Alan.

"Thanks."

He nodded at them both, turned and headed toward the jukebox. He spotted Daydream Believer by the Monkees, selected it then went over to the pinball machine. As he resumed playing another game, he glanced back toward the bar to see if the bartender and the man had resumed chatting. They had. There had been an almost conspiratorial nature to the way the men had chatted and occasionally eyed Alan ever since the man had shown up. He had to find out what the big mystery was.

A few minutes later, Alan finished the pinball game and smiled to himself. A hundred and thirty thousand points—not bad for a rusty dude.

He decided it was time to make his spiel.

He went back over to where the bartender and men were conversing and pulled out the business card from his pocket. He handed it over to the bartender.

"Have you by any chance considered getting some new games for your pub, sir? I've noticed that all you have is that old pinball machine. Adding a couple of more current, contemporary video arcade game may be just the thing you need to increase your business. Something like _Mortal Kombat, Tetris_ or _The Simpsons_. They're all three hot games now."

The bartender looked at him with a mixture of surprise and contempt. Alan knew the man was now probably relieved to find out that he wasn't an undercover cop but at the same time dreaded a sales pitch from a traveling salesman.

"No and I'm not interested," he replied flatly.

Alan smiled. "Are you the owner by any chance? If not, perhaps the owner would be interested in some new machines. Oh, by the way. My name is Aaron Weldman. And you would be?"

"Not interested. And the owner isn't interested either."

He handed the card back to Alan.

"Very well, sorry to have troubled you," Alan said, forcing a smile and pulling the recorder off from under the counter at the same time.

The two men sitting at the other end of the bar were chuckling to themselves as Alan headed for the door.

Once Alan was outside, he walked toward the intersection and waited for the light to change then crossed Steinway. He stood at the corner long enough to take out his Nikon and fire off a couple quick shots of Stokley's pub in wide-angle and telephoto mode. Then he returned to the same diner he had gone to the evening before when he noticed that the window booth was vacant. He ordered a black coffee and a hamburger, keeping a close eye on the bar across the street.

While waiting for his hamburger, he plugged his iPhone earbuds into the voice recorder, clicked the tiny rewind button and pressed PLAY. He heard the crackling sounds of the device as he carried it over to the bar and then his own voice asking for some change. There was more crackling as he attached the recorder to the bar and he made his comment about the weather and heard the man's reply. Then there was a moment of silence before the well-dressed guy spoke again.

"You sure he isn't a cop? Why else would he come here and stay this long, Tommy?"

"I never said there wasn't any chance of it—I just doubt it. Maybe he's just some guy who's heard about Natasha but doesn't know how to go about lining up some time with her. It's happened before."

"Yeah, I guess that's possible. I still wouldn't trust him, though. He seems a little too nosey if you ask me."

"What the fuck do you care, Mike? It won't be your ass if we get busted."

"You're forgetting the whore, Tommy—I don't want to lose out on such a great piece of ass!"

Both men laughed then there were a few moments of silence. The well-dressed guy named Mike spoke again.

"How much longer till that little shit comes down? I've got to get back to work before 2:00."

"He's got about ten more minutes."

"Fuck it. Go ahead and take this now, Tommy. I'm going up the second I see him."

Alan could hear a rustling sound and assumed that the guy was taking cash out of his pocket and handing it over to Tommy.

"It's going up to sixty bucks starting next week, by the way," he heard Tommy say.

"No fucking way!"

"Yes fucking way. Viktor is raising rates because he wants to expand the business. I'm just telling you what he told me—and he's the boss."

"That fucking Ruskie is a goddamn crook! Can't trust those bastards any further than you can throw 'em."

"I'll be sure to tell him you said that when he relieves me tonight."

"Christ, I'm just kidding, Tommy! The last thing I want is the goddamn Russian Mafia going after my family!"

"Shut-up, here he comes again," Tommy hissed.

"Have you by any chance ever considered getting some new games for your pub, sir? I've noticed . . ."

Alan listened to the rest of his arcade game pitch then put the voice recorder away.

He was absolutely elated. He had gotten even more than he had hoped for on the recording. Not only did it confirm his suspicions about the place being a flophouse but there was compelling evidence that could be used to _prove_ it to the authorities. The actual payment for prostitution services was clearly evident and documented beyond a reasonable doubt.

But who was _Natasha?_ Could that be the street name for Ellen? Or did this mean that Ellen had been replaced with another girl? The answer was moot—even if Ellen wasn't up there, this Natasha girl possibly knew where he could find her.

He now was certain what his next move was going to be.

His hamburger arrived at the same moment he spotted the man coming out of Stokley's Pub—

CHAPTER 15

Alan pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the waiter. "Sorry, gotta go—this should cover it!"

Grabbing his camera bag, he stood up and raced out the door. The man he had seen go to the "restroom" while he was playing pinball must have just finished his session with Natasha and was now walking briskly down Steinway. Alan raced over to the crosswalk, sped across the street and hustled to catch up with him. Within another half block, he came up beside the guy.

"Excuse me," he said, nearly out of breath.

The man looked over at Alan and said, "Yo, what's up? Hey, aren't you the same guy that was just in Stokley's earlier?"

"Yeah, and that's why I want to talk to you. And don't worry, I'm not a cop or anything."

"Why should I care if you're a cop or not?" he asked, feigning surprise at the statement.

Alan grinned. "Well, let's just say I know what you've been up to for the last half hour."

The man tried to look passive but he wasn't a very good actor. "And what the hell do you think I've been doing, other than having a couple of beers at a bar?"

They had come to a crosswalk and stopped. "I know about Natasha. In fact, that's why I was at the pub, too. I'd heard about the place but wasn't sure how to get hooked up with her. The bartender seemed a little, uh, inhospitable and I was afraid to say anything to him."

The man grinned. "Tommy? Shit, he's a fucking _putz!_ But he's been trained to act that way around strangers that come in. They've got to keep a low profile there, if you know what I mean."

Alan felt he had finally broken the ice. "Yeah, I see what you mean. So how do I go about getting laid?"

"Well, you seem legit so let me give you the lowdown about Stokley's. All of their business is by word of mouth, which I would guess is how they keep from getting busted. Only guys who have been referred by somebody that already knows the score there get a crack at Natasha, pardon the pun. I've heard that Vik has made some "special arrangements" with a couple of the local cops but he still plays it close to the cuff when it comes to new clients. He is a very shrewd, cautious businessman. Tommy is just his lacky"

"I see. So how do I get someone to refer me. I mean, could _you_ be my reference?"

"Sure, no problem. It's really not that complicated. All you have to do is say the right thing to either Vik or Tommy and you're in. That's how they'll know that you've been referred by someone who's already in the loop."

"I really appreciate it, man. So what is the 'right thing' to say?"

The walk sign came on and the two crossed the street. "Just go up to which ever one is working the bar and ask if Natasha is around. Tommy or Vik will in turn ask you why you're looking for her. You then reply that you borrowed seventeen dollars from her the other day and want to pay her back. You _have_ to say _seventeen,_ not any other amount. Then Tommy or Vik will tell you that she'll be back at the pub in x amount of time—like say, an hour or two—and that's how they let you know when she will be available for you. You then ask if they would mind giving her the money for you since you can't wait around that long. They say sure, they would be happy to and then you give them a wad of cash that amounts to fifty bucks—that's the going rate, pre-counted of course. Then you sort of walk away from the bar and hang out until your time comes up. Then when it's your turn, you act like you're going to the bathroom but go through the unmarked door back there instead. There's a stairway around the corner that takes you upstairs to the chick's room."

"Wow, they have it down to a science," Alan said, impressed with the unusual security measures Vik had put into place to avoid being entrapped by the law.

The man grinned. "Yeah, that they do. Thank god that once you become a regular, you don't have to go through all of that bullshit. But you still have to pay cash in advance and do it discreetly or they'll give you a really hard time."

"I see."

"Hey, I've got to get moving here—just do what I said and you'll be fine. But I'll give you some friendly advice: if you go there on a weekend night, plan on a long wait. They really come in out of the woodwork then."

"Got it. Thanks, man!"

"Later, dude," he said and then picked up his pace.

Alan slowed down and looked at his watch. It was 1:10. He wondered when Vik took over for Tommy. There was no way he could go back while Tommy was there after his traveling salesman farce. His plan was to go back after Tommy left and basically start fresh, using the secret procedure he had just become privy to.

He hoped he didn't have to wait too long—the place probably got a lot busier at night. He wanted to get moving on this as quickly as possible.

He figured that Tommy would probably be there for around eight hours or so. Since the place opened at noon, Viktor would hopefully be there to take over by around nine o'clock if his hunch was right.

With that much time to kill, Alan decided he would go back into the city to change, ditch his camera and basically do some sightseeing until it was time to come back out to Queens.

He headed for the subway station, wondering what this night was going to bring.

CHAPTER 16

At 8:00 PM, Alan hopped off the subway and ascended the stairway to the street. After a full afternoon exploring Manhattan and shopping for a couple of dog toys for Pan, he had eaten a light supper then gotten prepared for his return to Stokley's Pub. He had decided to dress a little more casually than before—replacing the khaki Dockers, loafers and button down shirt with jeans, sneakers and an OSU sweatshirt. He wanted to blend into the scene as inconspicuously as possible.

He had purchased a couple of items at Radio Shack plus stopped off at an ATM to withdraw a hundred dollars cash before boarding the train to Queens. He had brought along the tiny voice recorder, his iPhone and a Swiss army knife. Alan had never owned a gun in his life except for the .22 single shot rifle he'd had as a kid. He had since become more liberal in his views and didn't believe in handguns, period. He was pretty certain that he was the only PI in the country that didn't own one. His pocketknife was the only weapon he ever carried and it had in fact come in quite handy on occasion.

It was still blustery and there was a threat of showers as he made his way up Steinway Street. There was nevertheless quite a bit of pedestrian traffic on the busy thoroughfare in spite of the darkness. He hoped he wouldn't have to wait long before he could go into Stokley's since the place would no doubt be livelier than it had been earlier. If luck was on his side, Tommy will have left by the time he got there.

He approached the pub at a tentative pace, just in case Tommy suddenly came out of the bar and recognized him. His plan was to hang around near the front of the place and peek through the door when someone entered from the street. With luck, he might be able to see who was working the bar in that brief moment the door was open. If that idea didn't pan out, he would have to either simply wait it out until he actually saw Tommy leave or take a chance and go inside just long enough to confirm that Tommy was gone and Vik had taken his place.

He reached the travel agency next door to Stokley's and pretended to be looking at the travel posters. He didn't have to wait long before somebody came from the other direction and walked right up to the entrance of the bar. Seizing the moment, Alan sidestepped the travel agency storefront and stood directly behind the man as he opened the door. He had just enough time to glance back to the bar and see someone other than Tommy working behind it. Tommy was nowhere in sight.

The infamous Vik had apparently begun his shift in relief of Tommy.

Alan caught the door before it closed and stepped inside. It was immediately apparent that the place was much more crowded with no less than a dozen patrons scattered around the place. To his surprise, there were even a couple of women hanging around. They didn't appear to be prostitutes and were simply chatting and drinking like everybody else.

Before heading back toward the bar, Alan made sure he didn't see Tommy or any of the other men he'd seen earlier. The coast looked clear so he walked over to a stool at the bar and sat down. He observed the man who he assumed to be Vik as he chatted to a couple of patrons sitting near the end of the bar. The man was incredibly fat, to the point of being mortally obese. He was totally bald, wore a dirty white sleeveless T-shirt and looked to be around forty-five or so. To say that Stokley's owner looked intimidating was a gross understatement.

Vik suddenly glanced over at Alan and did a double-take. _Shit!_ Alan thought. Tommy had tipped him off about his earlier visit! This would screw up everything . . .

The man turned and said something to one of the men at the bar then walked directly toward Alan.

"Help you?" he said.

"Yeah, a Rolling Rock if you got one."

"No problem," he replied.

Alan breathed a sigh. Maybe he was safe after all.

Vik returned with a Rock and set it down in front of him. "Four bucks."

"Okay," Alan replied. Before he reached into his pocket, he looked Vik directly in the eyes.

"Have you seen Natasha around?"

Vik held Alan's eyes and seemed to be in thought for a moment before he glanced around the bar. He finally replied after what seemed like an eternity.

"Why are you looking for her?"

"I borrowed seventeen bucks from her and want to pay her back."

As soon as it came out, Alan realized that he'd forgotten to say "the other day." Would that minor slip blow the whole thing?

Vik glanced across the room at a neon wall clock. "She'll be back in a few hours—at least that's what she told me."

"Damn, I don't have that long to wait. Would you mind giving the money to her when she gets back?"

Alan reached into his pocket for the wad of cash. He realized that his hands were clammy.

Vik's eyes bored into Alan's as if he was contemplating whether or not to follow through with this charade. Finally he said, "Sure, no problem."

Alan smiled and pulled out the cash. Then he handed it over to Vik.

"Thanks a lot."

"My pleasure," Vik replied. He took the money and stuffed it into his pocket then lumbered along the bar to wait on another customer.

Alan took a monumental gulp of ice cold Rolling Rock. _He'd done it!_ Another swig later, he stood up and headed over to the jukebox.

As he flipped through the selections, he glanced around the place wondering who else was waiting in line for Natasha. _Which of these guys look like they're paying for sex tonight?_ It suddenly dawned on him just how surreal the whole situation seemed—to be killing time in this Queens dive until his number came up in order to spend some quality time with a bona fide _slut,_ for lack of a better word. On one hand it was ludicrous while on the other it was downright depressing. To think that this woman spent her days and nights having sex with scores of strangers was not only difficult to conceive but a bit disgusting. And to think of the potential for the spread of diseases—AIDS, the clap, syphilis, etc, etc. Why on god's green earth would any woman subject herself to such an existence? And why would anyone be willing to pay for something so—risky and impersonal?

Alan shook his head and decided to cease pondering the concept of prostitution and to focus instead on what he was there for: to meet with and question the mysterious Ellen in order to try and save her little sister. The reality of the situation loomed large—that the woman he was about to meet might not even be Ellen. This was his greatest fear at this stage, for if she wasn't Ellen, he would have to cling to the hope that the woman knew of Ellen and would be able to tell him where he might find her. Very weak odds of that, he knew, and if that fell through he would be right back to square one on this case.

Alan selected a couple of moldy oldies then went over to an empty table and sat down at it. As he sipped his beer, he observed the customers and began wondering how many were aware that they were in a whorehouse. He began studying the two women he'd seen earlier. They appeared to have all come together and were now sitting at a table with a couple of guys that were around their own age. Were these guys former tricks of Natasha or did they just happen to blow into this place to hang out with these girls?

He watched Vik as he tended the bar, wondering if he would get some kind of cue that it was his turn to go upstairs. Everyone had seemed to know the pecking order earlier and he wondered now if the guy who had tipped him off had forgotten that little detail. If so, he might be screwed.

His concern mounting, he decided to keep a very close eye on the restroom area in order to figure out what prompted the next person in line to make his move. In order to do that, he had to know when the guy before him was finished.

He checked the time and saw that it was nearly 8:30. If the scheduling was done on a half-hour basis, then it may be close to time for the next john to go up. He realized that he needed to be able to see the third door, so he went over to a table that afforded him an angle of view. He didn't have to wait long before a man came out through the door. Instead of coming out to the bar, he went into the men's restroom. A minute or so later, he came out and walked toward the bar. Alan noticed the guy wait around long enough to get Vik's attention then he gave him a nod that was barely perceptible. Vik acted like he never saw it. It was at this time that Alan took out his iPhone and pretended to be making a call but actually was taking a quick shot of Vik with the built-in camera for future reference.

A few minutes later, Vik went over to a table across the room to clear off the bottles. On his way back to the bar, he stopped at one of the tables and said something to a man sitting there. Then Vik returned to the bar.

Alan noted the time and waited. Sure enough, exactly ten minutes later, the man got up and headed toward the restroom area. He glanced behind him on the way into the foyer before stepping over to the third door and opening it just long enough to pass through it.

So that was how it went down. Vik would come over and give him his cue and tell him when to go plus what to do when he came back down. Simple enough.

Alan finished his beer and ordered another one. He found himself getting antsy as the next hour seemed to crawl by. Finally, at 9:45, Vik came out from behind the bar again and headed straight over to him.

"Ten minutes, you go. Don't let anyone see you go through the door. If anyone asks where you've been, tell them there's a private back room poker game going on. You have 30 minutes—no more. Come to the bar and nod when you're done."

"Okay."

He was in.

Ten minutes later, Alan stood up and headed toward the restroom. No one was behind him so he went over to the third door and entered the storage room area. He walked determinedly back to the doorway leading upstairs and pulled the curtain aside. As he ascended the stairs, he could hear his heart thumping hard in his chest. The moment he had been waiting for had finally come.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he looked in either direction, unsure which way to go. To his left he saw nothing but a table against the wall where the landing ended. To his right were two doors. The furthest one was wide open and led to a room shrouded in darkness. The first door was closed but there was light coming out from under it.

He stepped over to the door and started to open it but decided to knock instead.

"Come in," he heard a woman's voice say. She had a thick accent that he couldn't immediately place.

Alan turned the knob and opened the door. The first thing he noticed was how bright the room was, which surprised him. Then he observed a small unoccupied room devoid of any windows or furnishings other than a chair, a beat-up wooden nightstand and a queen size bed covered by a sheet and a rumpled cheap bedspread.

"Just a minute," he heard the woman's voice say from behind what he assumed was the bathroom door. A moment later, the door opened and she came out.

"Hello," she greeted with a weak smile. Alan's heart sank at what he saw.

Natasha had shoulder-length blonde hair and wore a sheer pink teddy, garter stockings with high heels. Both of her eyes were puffy and swollen; the left one was black and blue. Her frail arms had several bruises on them as did her thighs. There was a scab forming in the corner of her mouth where who ever had ravaged the rest of her body had decided to smack her face around as well.

In a word, she looked pathetic—a poster child for abused women.

"What's your name?" she said, continuing to stand before him, straining hard to appear upbeat.

"Alan," he replied absently. "And you're Natasha?"

"That's what they call me."

She came over and placed her hands lightly on his shoulders. "So what can I do for you today, Alan?"

Her delivery sounded more like an automated message than a question. Like reaching Customer Service at the phone company.

Alan looked into her vacant eyes, unable to answer for a moment. In them he could almost see the pain and suffering the poor woman had endured. She seemed an empty shell—a torn and tattered body without a soul and without hope. These things were so obvious that Alan wondered how anyone could even think of touching this fragile creature for fear that she might break—

He swallowed hard and nearly lost it altogether. He thought back to what Beth had told him and he now saw her words in a different light: _"Most women aren't prostitutes by choice, Alan. They are often either tricked into it or so desperate for money to pay off their drug habits that they have no other choice."_

This woman clearly wasn't doing this by choice.

Alan pulled himself together. "I just want to talk to you."

She looked at him suspiciously. "The last man who told me that had something else in mind."

Alan had no idea what she meant by that. He said, "Seriously, that's all I want to do. Surely you don't have a problem with it."

She removed her hands from his shoulders. "No, I don't. You're paying so why should I care?"

"Exactly. First of all, I wonder if you could tell me your name. I mean, you said that Natasha is what people call you. But what is your real name?"

She looked at him strangely. It was a mixture of suspicion and apathy. "What difference does it make? Natasha, Kathy, the woman of your dreams—it can be whatever you want it to be."

"You don't understand—I'm not here to play games with you. I am here to find somebody in particular. Whose name happens to be Ellen. Is your name Ellen?"

She suddenly looked fearful. "Are you the police?"

"No, I'm not. I'm a private investigator. My name is Alan Swansea. I'm trying to find a woman named Ellen who has a little sister that may be in some kind of trouble."

Her eyes came alive instantly. "This can't be so! You got my message?"

Alan was elated— _he had found her!_

"Yes, I got it! Or rather my friend got it and forwarded it to me. So you really are Ellen?"

"No, my name is Elena—Elena Nazarova," she replied. "Have your found Polina?"

Alan realized what must have happened: instead of dropping the _l_ in her haste to sign her name in the email to Beth, she had apparently ran out of time to add the _a_ at the end. _Elena,_ not _Ellen._

"I'm afraid not. Not yet, anyway. I need to talk to you about her. You say her name is Polina?"

"Yes, she is only a little girl, thirteen years old. I am so afraid for her—I don't know where they took her. We were separated and—"

"Whoa, slow it down a little! Before we talk about your sister, let's talk about you. For starters, tell me about yourself and why you are working in this place."

Like flipping on a switch, Elena's demeanor immediately hardened. "I don't want to talk about me. I just want you to find Polina and make her safe. Please, I—"

Alan raised a hand in protest. "Elena, I will be frank with you. As much as I am determined to find your little sister, I am not going to move forward with it until you first explain how you came to be here . . . and why you are doing what you are doing. I also would like to know why you have bruises all over your body. Who did this to you?"

She spun around and froze where she stood. She said nothing. Her shoulders began to heave. Alan approached her and gently touched her shoulder.

"Take your time, Elena. I can wait."

She slowly turned back around, a tear running down her cheek. She looked past him, focused somewhere over his shoulder as she began to speak in a dull monotone.

"Viktor did this to me. But it is not the first time. He has hit me over and over for as long as I've been here. Sometimes I have deserved it. Sometimes I haven't."

"What could you have possibly done to warrant these beatings?"

"Not following directions, disobeying him. But I don't always mean to—sometimes it is just so hard to—to cope."

Alan couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You are making it sound like Viktor _owns_ you—like you are his slave. Surely that isn't the case here."

She nodded. "But yes, it _is_ that way. He bought me. Now he owns me."

She said it so matter-of-factly. Alan was reeling.

"He _what? Bought you?_ That can't be possible!"

"Oh, but it is true. Viktor has a lot of money and paid $5,000 dollars for me. Please, can we talk about Polina now?"

_Jesus!_ he thought. Was he really hearing this? Beth had told him how pimps ran their hookers' lives but this was _way_ over the top! This woman was standing here telling him that she had been bought and paid for by this Viktor character, like a head of cattle at market—

Then he recalled something else Beth had said, something he hadn't given much thought to at the time _: "Did you know that human trafficking for the sex trade is one of the fastest growing crimes in the world right now? The victims are literally modern day slaves who have been bought and sold just for sex—it's a horrible reality that very few people are even aware of."_

Before he could say anything, Elena sighed deeply. "I am very tired. Can we please sit down?"

"Sure," Alan replied. She went over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Alan brought the chair over and sat down in it.

"I will tell you how this all happened if you promise me that we will talk about Polina when I'm finished. You only have twenty minutes left. If Viktor comes up here, we will both be in much trouble."

"Don't worry about Viktor, I'll take care of him." He spoke it like a tough guy, not really thinking it through.

"Please, we can't take any chances. We do not want Viktor to find out we are talking like this!"

"Okay. . . you've got a deal."

"I am from Russia—St. Petersburg. A year ago I was living at home with my parents and Polina. I was a student at university taking law courses and Polina was in school, too. Everything was fine, although we had little money. And then one day my father lost his job. There are such few jobs in Russia now and the economy is very bad. Mother has a nerve disorder and unable to work. My father spent every day looking for work until he had a heart attack and died a month later. I quit school and searched for a job to support my family but had no luck.

"Polina wanted to quit school and look for work too so she could help bring some money in. I wouldn't let her. I told her to stay in school and somehow I would find some work and handle everything. Two months passed and I started roaming the streets looking for discarded food and clothes for the three of us. It was so horrible! I finally let Polina go along with me, but there was little to be found. There were hundreds of people just like us looking for food all over the city.

"Then one day I read that some job recruiters from Moscow were looking for young women interested in getting employment in the West as waitresses, models and so on. There were even jobs available in America. I'd heard about these so called job recruiters before and knew that most of them were not legitimate. But the ad insisted that this was not a hoax and guaranteed to find you work. I met with them and they sold me on what ended up being nothing but false promises. That's when I made the two greatest mistakes of my life.

"Not only did I allow myself to get taken in by this, but I let Polina talk me into letting her go with me! She pleaded and pleaded with me, promising to go to school when we got settled in wherever we ended up. She wanted to leave Russia so badly, but I told her that mother needed her at home. Mother however insisted that we both go. She said that she could stay with her brother's family in Moscow and that she would be fine. So after I was sure that mother was settled into place at my uncle's, Polina and I joined the other girls bound for a new a life.

"It didn't take us long to realize what a mistake we had made. We were crammed into trucks then smuggled across the border into Ukraine and eventually all the way to Germany. That's where I got separated from Polina—they took all of the younger girls somewhere else. We were handed over to a different group of men who took us to a house and threw us into a tiny room. They raped us repeatedly for a week and beat us if we refused to comply. They gave us very little food and we weren't even allowed to take a bath.

"One day we were led to a large room and told to take off all our clothes. Then a man came into the room and walked around looking us over and touching us, telling us to do this or that. He did this in order to make his choices of where we were to be sent to. The man was a Russian-American named Yuri from New York and he promised me a great job at his restaurant if I would be his sex partner. As if I had a choice? He arranged to get a fake passport for me then took me with him to New York City. He had a very big house on Long Island. He treated me not bad from the start and never let me out of the house. It didn't take very long to see that I wasn't there to work in his restaurant but to clean his house and give him sex. I resisted and he beat me often. After a while things got very bad and he started beating me up all of the time for no reason. I think he hated me. He eventually grew tired of me and sold me to a business partner of his. That person was Viktor. And that is how I got here."

Alan was appalled by her story. What Beth Lindsey had told him was apparently as real as real could be. Elena was living proof of it.

"So how long have you been here?"

"Nearly five months."

"And you live in this room?"

"Yes, most of the time. Twice a week he lets me stay in the other room down the hall. There is a shower there and a more comfortable bed."

Alan looked around this tiny drab room and thought, _what a rare privilege that must be . . ._

"Do you ever go out?"

She shook her head.

"No. In all of the time I've been here, I've only been out two times. And that was last week."

"What about food? I mean, you look much too thin, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I get very little to eat. Viktor or Tommy bring me up crackers and cheese twice a day. And beer. Sometimes I get a hamburger when Viktor's in a good mood, which isn't very often."

"Are you addicted to any drugs?"

"Not any more. I was forced to use drugs for a while but Viktor decided he didn't like the way I acted on them. He said I was not as good at giving sex, so he quit giving them to me."

Alan almost was afraid to ask the next question.

"How often does he beat you, Elena?"

"As I told you before, whenever I do something wrong. He beat me much the first few weeks. He told me that he needed to break me in. He showed me how to act with the men and I was not very good at it. So he would beat me until I got it right."

"You said that you were outside last week. That must be when you sent the email from Starbucks."

"That is right. Viktor let me go out to get more business so I took a chance to get on the internet and try to save Polina. He caught me . . ."

"Is that when he last beat you?"

"Yes. And I am very afraid for Polina and my mother now. He threatened to harm them both if I did anything wrong while on the street. I thought I could get away with it because Tommy was working that day and doesn't pay as much attention as Viktor. When I saw him standing there in front of the bar after I ran back from the coffee shop, I knew I was going to pay for it."

"How can he harm your sister and mother? Does he know where they are?"

"You must understand this. Yuri has a lot of friends here and back in Russia. If Viktor wanted to find out where mother lives, he would ask Yuri to have somebody search for them— and he probably will do that now. I think both men know where Polina now is because Viktor told me last week that she is being sold again soon from the man who has her now. You must find her before it's too late!"

"I'll find her, Elena. I promise. I'll get the authorities in here and bust up this whole goddamn operation!"

"No! You can't do that!"

Alan was surprised by her protest. "What do you mean? I have enough evidence to put this Viktor prick away for the rest of his life! All I have to do is blow the whistle on him!"

Elena shot up off the bed, knelt down before Alan and put her hands on his knees. Her eyes were pleading.

"You mustn't do that! The others will find out and murder my family!"

"What do you mean—'the others?'"

"Viktor's business partners. This is how they are able to do what they do. They are all part of a gang and look out for each other. How else do you think they could have taken me and the others all the way out of my country to America? They have connections. There are even policemen who come here!"

_Shit!_ Alan thought. _This is getting worse by the minute._

Alan said, "I'm not so sure about all of this. Maybe these gangsters aren't as powerful as you think they are. And a couple of local cops on the take can't stop the feds from busting this joint."

"Alan, you must believe me. They are powerful. I've seen them operate. Please promise me you won't go to the police!"

He shook his head. "I can't promise you that, Elena. I'm sorry."

"Then you will be the reason my family gets murdered."

Alan was having trouble wrapping his head around all of this. Could her family be threatened if they busted this place? He doubted it seriously. On the other hand, he couldn't be sure. The best way to treat this, he decided, was to take it one step at a time. He needed to find out more about the Russian Mafia or whatever this gang was and how long their arms truly were.

"Listen, Elena. What you're asking me to do is impossible. But I can promise you this: I won't do anything until I've had a chance to sort all of this out. In the meantime, why don't we just get you out of this place and let Viktor figure out how he's going to find your replacement?"

"No! I cannot leave! That would be as bad as you going to the police."

"But don't you want to get out of here? Wouldn't it be worth the risk? That bastard may kill you anyway if you stick around much longer—if one of your johns doesn't kill you first."

"You don't understand. It is not so bad for me. All I want is for my family to be safe. Please find Polina. That is all I ask."

It took all Alan had to refrain from pushing the issue any further. He looked at his watch and realized that they only had precious few minutes before his time was up.

"Okay. So what can you tell me about Polina? Do you have a photo of her?"

She nodded, stood up and went over to the nightstand. She opened the drawer, took out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. Alan unfolded the paper and took a look at it. He immediately recognized the painterly photo of the four ballerinas that had been displayed on the Degas clone's website.

"Which one is she?"

Elena pointed at the girl in profile in the foreground.

"There she is."

"She is very pretty."

He noticed the URL at the bottom of the paper and recognized it to be the same one that was linked in the email.

"How did you get this?"

"Viktor gave it to me last week. He told me that Polina has been modeling for the man who took this picture. But he said that soon the man will not need her anymore so he is letting her go. I am so afraid that she will be sold into prostitution, Alan! Viktor told me he was certain that she would be since she is so young. And now that I have messed up, he said he would see to it that she would be!"

"We aren't going to let that happen, Elena," Alan assured her. "What about the other girls pictured here? Were they sold to this man, too?"

"I think so. One of them looks just like a girl who was with us when we were smuggled out of Russia."

_Is it possible that all of these girls were sold as slaves?_ Alan wondered. If so, than this case was becoming much bigger than he could ever have imagined. And the implications were staggering . . .

He had to find out where Polina was being held. But he was no closer than he had been before.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about Polina, Elena? Do you know if she's in the States or somewhere else?"

"I don't know. She could be anywhere! There were many rooms with women in them at the house in Germany. The women were split into groups and each group was to be taken to a different place. Some to other parts of Europe and some to the States. But since Polina and I were separated, I don't know where her group was sent."

"The man from Long Island—the guy who sold you to Viktor? You said his name was Yuri. What is his last name?'"

"Popov."

"Do you remember the name of the town where he lived on Long Island?"

"No, not exactly. It was Hampton something—no, I think it was East Hampton."

"And what is Viktor's last name?"

" Skipetroff"

"And Tommy?"

"I think it's something like Greidner—Greidner or Greiner."

"Do you have any idea where Viktor lives?"

"Near the ocean, I remember that. Not very far from the city. Brooklyn, maybe."

"What about the men that smuggled you and Polina out of Russia? Do you remember any of their names?"

"No last names—they were all very careful about that. I remember the first name of the recruiter I talked to in Moscow. It was Luka. And there was another man in Germany whose name was Sergei. That is all I can remember right now."

"Okay. Is there anything else you can tell me that may help me locate Polina?"

She thought a moment then shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Do you know if there is a computer anywhere in this place? One that Viktor uses for the bar business?"

"There used to be one, but not any more. He had a computer downstairs in the kitchen when he first brought me here. That is how I found the website I posted the e-mail to. One night I went downstairs and got online while Tommy was working the bar. I searched abused women websites and tried to post something on one of them but it wouldn't work. All of a sudden Tommy came in and caught me. He told Viktor about it and he took the computer away after that. Then when he gave me this picture of Polina last week, I memorized the website address written at the bottom and had also memorized the abused women website I was on before. I barely had time to write the email before the man at the coffee shop spotted me on his computer— I am so happy that your friend sent it to you!"

With this, she threw her arms around Alan and gave him a hug. All he felt was skin and bones as he embraced the emaciated woman. It broke his heart to think that there was nothing he could do about getting her out of this godforsaken hellhole of a place.

At least for right now, that is. But later on . . .

He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and said, "Can you tell me your uncle's address in Moscow?"

She looked at him, confused. "But why?"

"Maybe someone can keep an eye on your mother. I can't promise anything, but there's a possibility."

She beamed. "Yes, of course! Thank you."

Alan opened his contacts and touched the plus sign. "What is it?"

She started to recite the address but the words were impossible for him to spell out, much less understand.

"You know how to use one of these?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so."

Alan handed his phone to her. "Type it out."

She took the phone as if it were a precious stone and stared at the screen. Once she got the hang of the tiny virtual keyboard she started pecking out her uncle's address. A moment later, she handed the phone back to Alan.

He glanced at it then closed the app, pocketed his phone. He pulled another cell phone out of his other pocket and handed it to Elena.

"I want you to keep this. I've turned off the ring tone so it won't make a sound whenever you get a call. All incoming messages will go straight to voicemail so you can listen to them whenever it's safe to. I will call you as soon as I have any news about your sister. You may also hear from Beth Lindsey, my friend whose website you sent the email to. I've also programmed my cell phone number into the phone. All you have to do is turn on the phone and click the "send" button twice. I want you to call me if you ever need me or just want to talk. Do you think you can do that, Elena?"

She opened the phone and studied the keypad. She had an odd expression on her face when she looked up at Alan. He couldn't read it, but he hoped to hell it meant that she would comply.

"Why are you doing this, Alan? Nobody in this country has ever cared about me. It makes me feel . . . very happy."

Alan smiled. "I am doing it because I genuinely care about you, Elena. And since you refuse to let me get you out of this dump, this phone is the next best thing. Do you know of a good place to hide it?"

She nodded and stood up. She went over to the nightstand and opened the top drawer, then glanced over and gestured for him to join her. There was a sly grin on her face.

Alan went over and looked inside the drawer. He saw an unopened box of Trojan condoms and a few individual packs scattered around, a vibrator, a jar of Vaseline and some other sort of lubricant.

"This doesn't look like a very safe place," he said.

"Oh, but it is—watch this."

Elena pulled out the drawer as far as it would go. Then after she removed all of the items away from the back, she stuck her hand inside. Alan watched as she dug one of her fingernails in under the wooden board backing the drawer near the middle and pulled up and out on it at the same time. The wooden board swiveled outward on hidden hinges located on either side of the drawer, revealing an area that was large enough to store the cell phone.

"Wow, that's very cool. How did you find out about the secret compartment?" Alan said.

"By accident the other day. I was looking around for my fingernail file and noticed that it had gotten stuck in under the wood. I discovered that the wood moved up a little when I tried to pull the file out. I pulled up and it opened."

"Do you think Viktor knows about it?"

"No, I doubt it. Besides, he is probably too fat to get his hand all the way back in there!"

Alan laughed; and then Elena laughed too. It was a strange and wonderful sight to see her laugh, and it was at that moment that Alan got a glimpse of a girl who had once had a happy normal life until her freedom had been brutally stripped away from her. Only to be subjected to an existence that could only be described as a horrible living nightmare—

He had to get her out of here . . .

"Only turn this on when you need to. You don't have a charger for it." Alan said.

"Okay," Elena said. She carefully stuck the phone into the hidden compartment and moved the board back into place. She closed the drawer and looked over at him.

"Thank you so much for this. Please find Polina, Alan. It is all I ask of you."

"I'll find her, Elena. I promise." An unlikely promise he could keep, but his heart was in it.

He took his iPhone out of his pocket again.

"Do you mind if I get a picture of you? I will need it."

She hesitated a moment, then said, "I look so horrible! Is this necessary?"

"Afraid so. I'll make is quick and painless."

She nodded regretfully and stood by while Alan pressed the camera mode icon. He quickly composed a shot and touched the button. He viewed the image, re-composed and shot again before putting the phone back into his pocket.

"See, that wasn't so bad."

Just then they heard the door open. Alan spun around and saw a man enter the room—

It was Viktor!

"Your time is up!" he shouted angrily. He gaped at Alan and Elena, then glanced over at the bed, which was still for the most part made up.

"What is happening here? It doesn't look like there has been anything going on," he said suspiciously.

"I am sorry, Viktor. We both lost track of the time."

"Doing what?"

"What do you think? I gave him a blowjob!"

Viktor lightened up a little but remained leery. "You know better than going past a half hour. You're five minutes late!"

"I am sorry, I won't let it happen again," Elena said.

"You'd better not. And don't let me ever see you back here again!" he snapped, glaring at Alan. "I'm not sure I trust you, either."

Alan wasn't sure what to say. All he knew for certain is that he didn't want to rile up Viktor any more than he already was.

"I'm sorry, Vik. It's all my fault—I was having a hell of a time getting it up and got carried away, I guess."

"Tough shit! You can scram now and don't ever let me see you again. Natasha, you need to hurry up for your next appointment. You've got five minutes!"

Viktor continued standing there as Alan realized that he was going to stay put until he left the room. He cast Elena a brief glance that said, "I'll keep in touch," then nodded at Viktor as he passed by him and left the room.

Returning to the main floor of the pub, Alan's thoughts were on Elena as he silently prayed that Viktor didn't beat her to a pulp after what had happened. He blamed himself for letting the time slip away and his guilt was palpable.

He glanced over toward the bar on his way out, wondering who was covering for Vik while he was upstairs. He saw that one of the men he'd been chatting with earlier was now behind the bar taking drink orders. Alan decided that the man was either a relative of Vik's or owed him a pint of blood to earn that kind of trust in the prick's well-oiled flophouse.

Alan stepped out onto Steinway Street and breathed in a lungful of fresh air. He had a lot of work to do and very little time to do it. He glanced back at Stokleys' Pub on his way to the corner and made a vow that he would see that Elena was freed and Viktor, his cronies and his godforsaken brothel go down before this was all over.

He took the tiny voice recorder out of his pocket and switched it off, not missing a step as he continued walking south toward the subway station.

CHAPTER 17

When Alan returned to his hotel room, he reviewed the recording he had made of his encounter with Elena to make sure it was audible and complete. It was crisp, clear and included the unexpected appearance of Viktor into her room.

The next thing he did was to call Beth Lindsey.

"Hey Beth, it' s Alan."

"Alan! How is it going?"

"Pretty good. I'm in New York and was finally able to track down the infamous Ellen, whose actual name is Elena."

"That's excellent! What have you found out?"

"First of all, you were right: she is a hooker and her pimp owns her. Literally. She was lured out of her native Russia by human traffickers, smuggled into the U.S. and has been totally exploited by her pimp/owner for months. She is a frigging _slave,_ Beth!"

Even as he spoke those words, Alan could still hardly believe them himself.

"Oh my God, you're kidding!" Beth cried.

"I kid you not. And I think we've stumbled onto something really big. I mean, not only has Elena been exploited by some gang that could be part of the Russian mafia, but her sister has, too. Both girls were abducted by traffickers in Russia. Then they were separated in Germany. Elena hasn't seen or heard from her sister in months and she fears that she will be sold into prostitution, too."

"That's horrible! But how does she know that her sister hasn't already been sexually exploited? Or did I not hear you right?"

"You heard me right. Elena was told by her pimp that Polina—that's her sister's name—has been modeling all this time for the guy who purchased her—the guy who posted the Degas-like photos on his website. But this artist guy is apparently finished uisng her for modeling purposes and is about to sell her again. Now hold on to your seat for what I'm about to tell you. I think there's a pretty good chance that _all_ of those young girls in those photos were trafficked, Beth!"

"Why do you say that?" the dread clear in her voice.

"Elena recognized one of the girls in the photos as being in the same group of victims that had been smuggled out of Russia to Germany."

"Oh, shit! You're right, Alan, this sounds really big. We are definitely going to have to get some help on this."

"But the big problem is that all Elena seems to care about is saving her sister. She wouldn't even consider letting me get the cops or the feds involved so they can bust the brothel she's working at. She said that if anything like that happens, her pimp's 'business partners' will track down her their mother—back in Russia, no less—and murder her. I can't understand why she doesn't give a damn about saving her own ass from that miserable existence."

"That's very typical of victims like her, Alan. They are so used to being beaten into submission and constantly being told what to do that they lose all sense of self-worth. Elena probably feels like she is already doomed and no longer has a chance at having any sort of normal life. And, she is probably thinking that if they bust the place, she'll have to face criminal charges for prostitution, which is most likely what would happen. The law doesn't really care _why_ these girls prostitute themselves; it just wants to punish them for their offenses. That's why I'm an advocate for decriminalizing prostitution."

"But she has been _forced_ into doing this! She's a goddamn slave, for chrissakes! How can they charge her for being forced into doing something she doesn't want to do?"

"Welcome to my world, Alan. As I told you the other day, this sort of thing goes on all the time all over the globe. Yet very little is being done about it. Even though there are an estimated 17,500 foreigners including children that have been trafficked into the U.S. this year, there are only a handful of organizations actively fighting to do anything about it. Most of these are non-profit organizations such as the Polaris Project, CAST and CATW. Federal and State governments are also involved but not nearly as much as they should be. It's heartbreaking to think that so little is being done while so many continue to suffer."

"I don't get it. Why isn't anything being done? It doesn't make sense."

"Lots of reasons, none of them good ones. The biggest reason is ignorance. Most people aren't even aware of how huge human trafficking has become and that it is already happening on a large scale in our very own communities. Another reason is greed. There is a lot of money to be made in the sex industry and a lot of people go to great measures to keep it that way. There is a lot of apathy, too. How many people you think give a damn about whether or not a whore is being forced to sell her body? Or that she is nothing more than a slave to her pimp? Many think these women deserve what they're getting because they figure that if they don't like what they're doing they can simply quit. They don't realize that getting out is much harder than they think. Elena's situation is a perfect example."

"So what do these organizations do? What can they do to help Elena get out of that place and lead a normal life?"

"A lot of their energy goes into awareness, prevention and advocacy. They also give victims counseling, medical assistance, food and shelter until they can get back on their feet. These women are usually in horrible physical and emotional shape after having endured this kind of demoralizing abuse and neglect. They often feel useless and out of touch with reality. Many victims require extensive therapy in order to re-discover themselves and to get over the guilt and shame they feel. They need reaffirmation that they are not worthless human beings and that they deserve a life that is worth living."

"That's all very commendable, but what about arrests and prosecution? Do these organizations work with law enforcement to see that the guilty parties are put in jail?"

"In all honesty, I'm not exactly sure what all they can do in that regard. I do know that it depends a lot on the state or region where the crimes are occurring since some states are more proactive than others and have actually created task forces specifically to combat these crimes. I also know that many of the organizations offer twenty-four hour hotlines for people to report suspected cases of physical and sexual abuse, trafficking, and so forth. But how closely they work with law enforcement is something I'm going to look into as soon as I get off the phone. I have a close acquaintance in New York City who should be able to enlighten me on the situation there."

"That would certainly help. This is so frustrating because we know that a serious crime is being committed yet we can't really do anything about it at this stage—because Elena is so worried about the ramifications with regard to her family. Since you've had experience with this sort of thing, what do you think the chances are of this Russian gang actually tracking down her mother in Russia and doing her harm?"

"God, Alan, I don't have a clue. I've never really dealt directly with a situation quite like this—it's new territory for me. I need to get with Maddie Fulton and see what she says. She's done a lot of work with The Human Connection in the New York and should be knowledgeable with cases like this."

"In the meantime, there's something I'd like you to do for me Beth. I gave Elena a pre-paid cell phone in order to keep in touch with her. Could you give her a call and offer her some counseling or whatever you would call it?"

"Of course I will. And I have to admit, Alan, I'm impressed that you thought of that. I mean, most men probably don't realize how important it is that this poor girl receives support right now. I commend you on your foresight in giving her that outlet."

"Believe me, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that this girl is on the brink of disaster. Not only does she look severely weak and undernourished, she is like a frigging zombie! You can tell that she has lost any sense of self-respect and is simply living for the moment in order to survive. She has nothing to look forward to but an endlessly dark and lonely existence. I'll be honest, it took everything I had to not just take her by the hand and drag her out of that godforsaken place!"

"That is so sweet, Alan! I can see that Elena has hit a chord with you and it's no wonder. I've read about so many cases like hers but unfortunately they almost always end tragically. I didn't want to tell you that but there's no sense in sugar coating this. Elena is in for a really rough time no matter what happens. Even if she gets freed she may be so damaged that she can never recover from her experience."

This was not what Alan wanted to hear. "Jesus, that's depressing. You mean even if she gets out of there she may not be able to be 'normal' again?"

"Afraid so. But let's be cautiously optimistic. There's also a decent chance that she can be rehabilitated, especially since she has been incarcerated for such a relatively short time. Her chances of recovery are exponential to how long she has been exploited. Six months is much better than say, a couple of years."

"That's good to know. One thing I am definitely going to make sure of is that her pimp, Viktor, pays dearly for what he has done to her. I've gathered quite a bit of evidence already that should help hang his ass and I've only just begun. If I can track down all of the other bastards that are in on this _enterprise_ , I'll see to it that they join Viktor."

"So you have some other parties to investigate?"

"Yeah, Elena gave me a few names to work with—one of them in particular may actually be one of the kingpins of the whole outfit here in the States. I'm going to check him out and see if I can find some leads to Polina's whereabouts. It may be a long shot, but there's not much else to do at this point."

"And if you can save Polina, that will go a long way in helping Elena's recovery."

"That's just what I plan to do."

"How long are you going to be in New York?"

"I'm not sure yet. The big shot lives out on Long Island so I'm going to go out there tomorrow—which means I'll be here at least another day. That reminds me, I'll have to call the doggie day care center and let them know."

"You have a dog?"

"Yeah, I picked up an abandoned pooch a few days ago. Haven't been much of a master to her, though. No sooner got her then I flew up here."

"All I can say is that she should be happy to have someone like you, Alan. Like me, she will learn to appreciate your empathy for others."

"Thanks for that, Beth. I just hope we don't let Elena and her sister down."

"We can do this, Alan. I just know it. Can you give me that cell phone number? I really want to talk to her."

"Sure. I turned off the ringer so it will go straight to voicemail when you call. I did that as a precaution. I also told her that you would probably be calling her. Just leave your number and she can call you back when the coast is clear."

"Okay."

Alan retrieved the phone number from his pocket and read it off to Beth.

"I hope she calls you back. She seemed pretty grateful about getting the phone so I think she will. If she doesn't, let me know and I'll give her a call to find out what's up."

"Okay, I'll do that."

"Thanks, Beth. I'll check in with you tomorrow. When are going to call this Maddie woman?"

"Just as soon as we get off. Maybe you could even meet with her while you're up there."

"That might not be a bad idea. Well, give me a call if you haven't heard from me first."

"Will do. Be careful, Alan. And thanks so much for what you're doing."

"Talk to you later."

Alan disconnected then gave Charlie Ling a call.

"Charlie, got anything for me?"

"Not thing yet. That URL is screwy, man. It's gonna be one of those hard ones to nail down, I'm afraid."

"Shit, I was afraid you'd say something like that."

"Sorry. But I'll keep on it. You know me, never say never. I'll track it down if it takes a year."

"Let's hope it won't take that long."

"Just kidding. But it will take some time."

"Okay. Well, give me a shout if ya get lucky."

"I will. Take it easy, Alan."

"You too."

After disconnecting from Charlie, Alan used his iPhone to search Google for "restaurants, Yuri Popov" and got six hits. The results were reviews of a restaurant named Stolovaya owned by Popov in East Hampton, Long Island. Pleased that the search had been so easy, Alan checked out the location of the restaurant on his Google Maps app and estimated the distance from midtown Manhattan. About two hours and change.

Deciding that a car would make snooping around much easier in the Hamptons, he searched car rentals in Manhattan and found a Hertz on West Fortieth Street. He went to the website and made an online reservation for a compact to be picked up the next morning, using his credit card to confirm the reservation.

He spent the next fifteen minutes or so checking out the East Hampton region on Google Earth, noting the large exclusive homes dotting the area. He knew that the Hamptons had some of the most expensive real estate in the New York area and as he zoomed in on several of them, he wondered how accessible Yuri Popov's home would be if he was lucky enough to locate it.

He decided to wait until the morning to call Marie and let her know that he would be staying at least another day. He felt guilty being away from Pan yet another day and realized that he was probably being a little overly sentimental about his new pet. On the other hand, he had to admit that he was already a bit homesick and couldn't wait to get back to Ohio. The vibe of the Big Apple was pretty lackluster and although the trip had yielded considerable progress on the case, he quite frankly didn't care if he ever came back to the place.

Noting that it was nearly midnight, Alan realized that he was exhausted and that sleep would come easily. He drained the last of his Michelob, washed up and hit the rack. Tomorrow he hoped would be another productive day.

CHAPTER 18

The Collector stood back and looked critically at the young girl named Polina. A smile of satisfaction came to his face—she was absolutely perfect for this shot! In addition to her long, thin body she had long, thick nearly auburn hair that was essential to the integrity of the composition. Degas had chosen a girl of similar proportions for his painting, _Woman Drying Her Feet_ and it almost looked as if the same girl had suddenly leaped off the canvas and into his studio.

The layout of the scene was simple: the girl was to sit in the chair and lean forward to dry her feet with a corner of the thick white towel she was sitting on. The perspective was from the girl's left side and slightly from the rear, showing the girl's body nearly in profile as she performed this everyday chore. She was to look as though she had just stepped out of the bath and for that reason the Collector had spritzed the ends of her hair with just enough water to make it look convincing.

The girl had been an absolute lamb throughout all of the stylizing and preparation for the session, from the application of makeup to her face and body to exhibiting the patience and precision required to be positioned in the chair at just the proper angle with regard to the rest of the set. At last he had gotten the lighting just the way he wanted it and was ready to get the session under way.

"I'm going to take a few test shots, Polina, so I'd like you do the following: lean forward with your left arm bent at the elbow, your forearm extended to your right and resting in you lap out of sight."

She looked at him in confusion and he reminded himself that her English wasn't all that good. He couldn't complain, though, for most of the Russian and Ukrainian girls were adequately adept with the English language and for that he was grateful. When he had initially acquired the girls, one of his biggest concerns was if they would be able to understand English and take orders from him.

"Here, let me show you," he said.

He stepped over to Polina and grasped her arm gently.

"Bend your arm halfway at the elbow like this. Now rest your arm on your lap like so. Great! Now lean forward and touch your toes with your forearm between your tummy and your thigh. That's it, perfect!"

He jumped back and stood behind the camera. While peering through the viewfinder, he zoomed out a little and lightly touched the shutter release button. The auto-focus engaged with a slight whir, instantly rendering a crisp image in the viewer.

"Fantastic! Now spread your feet a little farther apart and take a corner of that towel that's lying on the floor. I want you to act like your drying your left foot with the towel. That's it. Now hold it there!"

He clicked the shutter and the flash made a simultaneous _poof_ sound. He fired again.

"Very nice! The only thing wrong is your back. You need to lean forward a little further so we can get a nice curve of your spine."

"Like this?" the girl said, glancing back at him.

The Collector peered through the viewer again. "Not quite that far. I need your hair to fall at a sharp perpendicular to the floor so tilt you head up just a little. That's it. Perfect!"

He fired three shots in rapid succession. Then he stepped back and looked at the copy of Degas' painting lying on a small table off the set, comparing it to the scene in his viewfinder. There wasn't enough shadow under her right leg. The light needed to be placed back a little further in order to lengthen the shadows. He adjusted the light accordingly until the shadows looked nearly identical. Satisfied at last, he concentrated on getting the composition as close to the original as possible, allowing for cropping later in Photoshop to the precise proportions of the painting.

Ten minutes later, he was finally satisfied with the results.

"We're done, Polina. Excellent job!"

The girl smiled. It was a beautiful smile, if somewhat forced. All of the girls' smiles were like that—forced and a tad insincere. He had learned to live with it. After all, they didn't really have a lot to smile about considering how suffocating their incarceration must seem to them. But then, he had made it as pleasant for them as he possibly could and had provided them with a safe, healthy place to live for the past six months.

A pity that all of that would soon change.

If he followed his heart and not common sense, he would keep all of the girls here indefinitely. But he knew that time simply would not allow him to do that. For eventually someone would find out what he had done and put a swift end to everything, including his own freedom. He wasn't about to take that risk.

"You may get dressed and join the others now, Polina. Thank you for your services."

"Yes, Master."

The Collector watched as Polina stood up and went over to where her clothes were piled neatly in a chair. She glanced at him innocently as she slipped into her panties and bra—which was more like a training bra than anything else. Her breasts were still developing and the only reason he had been able to use her for this shot was that her chest wasn't visible in it. He would have to use mature, large-breasted women for the remaining shots in Degas' bath series. This would involve acquiring a whole new batch of models. His Russian provider was going to be absolutely ecstatic—

Polina finished dressing and started to leave.

"Where's my kiss, dear?" he said.

She looked at him sheepishly and moved toward him. The Collector leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

"Now you run off and join your friends."

She smiled, curtsied (just as he had taught her to) and left the room.

The Collector turned off the studio flash units and removed his camera from the tripod. He picked up the copy of Degas' painting and left the studio.

As he ascended the massive curved stairway to the second floor, the Collector felt a trace of sadness realizing that the ballerina dancer series was virtually finished. It was a cold hard fact he had been trying to avoid dwelling upon, wishing to stay focused on his work instead. The entire project had been like a breath of fresh air, and the results were even better than he could ever have imagined.

He had in fact become a true master as a result of his labors. Certainly not in the same league as Edgar and the rest, but a master in his own right, nonetheless.

_If only Mother could see me now!_ he thought. _She would be so proud!_

He arrived at the top of the stairs and headed left toward his study. He glanced down momentarily at the imported marble-floored foyer and adjoining library of this wonderful mansion, delighted that he had such a beautiful place in which to work and live.

The Collector had never been lacking of anything as a child growing up. His father had been the CEO of a prominent investment firm and his grandfather an immensely successful stockbroker in his day. Summer jaunts to the French Riviera and the family's private island in the Caribbean had been standard fair for him throughout his childhood. The family's wealth and social stature had fine-tuned his taste for the good life and by the time he had graduated Oxford, he felt the world was at his feet.

Art had always been his greatest passion. Studying the master painters was an obsession of his very early on and something he had eventually become an expert at. He could identify nearly every important piece of artwork from the Impressionist period as well as most of the other periods in Western culture. The Collector's personal art collection had grown through the years and was displayed throughout the mansion. Among his collection of nearly sixty pieces were several priceless masterpieces, including a few obscure paintings by Degas. He had gone to great lengths and expense to insure that no one other than a chosen few were aware of his priceless collection, always insisting on absolute anonymity as a condition of purchase with his sellers. No one in the art world had even a clue to his vast collection.

And he planned on keeping it that way.

Some of the pieces in his possession were officially listed as either stolen or lost. A couple of them he had arranged to be stolen just so he could own them. Some of the other pieces were among those that only very few people knew existed, such as the Degas'. These were his pride and joy and the mere thought of losing a single one of them literally sickened him.

Halfway through his MFA degree program, the Collector had become absolutely enthralled and obsessed with the French impressionist Edgar Degas. Not just his brilliant work, but his life, his philosophy of life, _his very existence_. Here was a man who had known what he wanted and always got it. The more he researched the master, the more of an affinity he felt toward the man. It came to a point that he could almost feel the spirit of Edgar Degas within his body, driving him to become the person he had now become.

There had been one serious setback, however. For as diligently as he studied and relentlessly practiced, he could not paint like the master. In fact, his talent as a painter could be compared to that of a below average high school student. This had not been an easy conclusion for him to accept.

As a result of this disappointing realization, the Collector entered what he called his "blue period"—a period of time that began with his own admission of having abysmal painting skills and ended only a couple of years ago. He had become so depressed during that period that he had nearly taken his own life on more than a few occasions. It had been nearly impossible accepting the reality that he had come as far as he had at emulating Edgar Degas—from being the son of a wealthy businessman to owning one the of most extensive private collections of art in his time—yet had been unable to acquire the most important quality of all: the ability to paint like a master.

Then, like an angel from the sky something suddenly entered the scene that had proven to his salvation: photography. If he couldn't paint like the master then he would do the next best thing: create his art with his camera. Along with some help from Adobe Photoshop.

And this he now knew was his fate, what he had been put on this earth for. Degas had dabbled with photography himself in his later years, but had known that his true calling was painting. So it was only natural that the Collector take up the slack left by Degas and become the photographer that the master couldn't be. And how had Edgar Degas become such a great painter in the first place? He had spent much of his early career copying other famous painter's works. Duplicating their styles right down to their distinctive, individual brush strokes.

That's when the Collector knew he was on the right track. Instead of attempting to copy Degas' work by painting them, he would go a step further and recreate his canvasses by setting up the scenes down to the most minuscule detail and photograph them!

Everything had suddenly fallen into place—even the idea for his pen name. One of Degas' most famous portraits was named "The Collector," a painting of a man sitting at a desk holding a print in his hand with a portfolio of artwork at his feet and art pieces adorning the wall in the composition. The Collector's take on this piece was that Degas was symbolizing himself in the painting, expressing his personal passion for amassing an impressive collection of art.

Ironically, while researching this particular painting the Collector discovered that there was a different title sometimes used for the piece: "The Amateur." He had never been able to find out why this was so—all he knew was that he had suddenly experienced an epiphany. He knew what he wanted to be known by, for this alternative title for the piece symbolized all that had gone down in his life. Finally acknowledging his own inadequacies at last and his fervent desire to turn those inadequacies into something strong and positive—indeed, a force to be reckoned with.

But would he be able to share his gift to the world in his lifetime, or would his art not be appreciated until after his death? This had become a dilemma of sorts—something that the Collector struggled with on nearly a daily basis.

The problem was obvious: if someone were to ever view his images, there was a very good chance that his crimes would be discovered. Someone would eventually come along and connect the dots between the models and his images. And as bad as he wanted to share his work with the art world, doing so would be absolute folly. He did not want to go to prison, that he was certain of.

So he had for the most part conceded that his art would be for his own pleasure only. But this had not always been easy to accept, which is why he occasionally found himself letting his guard down and taking risks. Like the website he had just started. He eventually planned on posting all of his best work on that site, anonymously of course, and without advertising it. His pride and ego had gotten to him one day so he had sent the URL to a couple of trusted friends to get their opinions—people with whom he knew that his secret would be safe. But that was to be the extent of his sharing and it had to remain that way.

Or did it? Was it possible that his careful planning and low profile was enough to let him have his cake and eat it too? After all, he had gone to great trouble and expense to use models that were absolutely faceless and nameless in this country. In fact, they were half the world away from their homes and certainly nobody would ever see any of their faces on a milk carton! And due to the very nature of impressionism—the muted colors and suppressed details—he had been able to mask their identities through simulated brush strokes in Photoshop. Their features were literally obscured by this technique to the extent that even their own mothers would have a tough time recognizing them.

Time will tell, he thought. First thing's first. He had finished photographing the dance/ballerina series and would spend the next few weeks modifying the remaining images in Photoshop until he was happy with them. In the meantime, he would call Yuri again and confirm that he was done with the girls. He would also show him the body type that he would need for the bath series by sending him a few examples of Degas' paintings. He would need four women, full-figured with milky-white skin, which shouldn't take Yuri's recruiter nearly as long as it had to obtain the young girls. This was a good thing because he wanted to get started on the new project within the next couple of months or so at the latest. He was pumped!

As much as he loved Harold, he knew that the man would never be able to fully understand him or his art. When he had first told Harold of his plan to re-create Degas' dance/ballerina series, his loyal companion had been thrilled to see him up and enthusiastic for something after such a long time. But when he informed Harold that he did not want to hire local schoolgirls to be used as models but instead planned on using European girls smuggled into the country, he thought the old man was going to have a coronary! It had taken quite a while to calm Branson down before he finally let him in on the rest of his plan, which was to have the girls stay here at the mansion 24/7 until the project was finished.

The Collector could still see Harold's reaction as clearly as if it were only yesterday: at first he had simply stared at him incredulously, unable to speak for several moments. Then he had recovered enough to ask why in the world he couldn't just hire a few girls to model instead of taking such, quote "ridiculously absurd and illegal measures just to shoot a few photographs?"

Had the look on Harold's face not been so comical, the Collector would have been angry for his assistant's lack of tact. Besides not knowing anything about the artistic process, his dear old friend was making light of something that was going to involve a hell of a lot more than just "shooting a few photographs." But poor Harold was clueless. He had no idea that in order to copy something and make it look authentic you must begin with something that is authentic. He didn't understand that a few silly American schoolgirls simply couldn't hold a candle to the real deal. Degas had originally painted European girls who had class and charm—who possessed a sort of presence that no American could ever convey to the viewer.

Furthermore, these girls had to be totally dedicated to their work, formally trained in dance, custom outfitted, made-up, stylized and be ready to pose for no less than a hundred shooting sessions. This would require them to remain on site in standby mode—ready to go whenever he was ready to go. Hiring American girls that had been dropped off by their mothers for an hour at a time after school was simply not going to cut it.

Not to mention the likelihood of their mothers' insistence to hang around throughout the shoots to make sure that their precious child wasn't molested or abused in any way.

Although he had explained all of this to Harold, it still took him several days to finally accept it. But then, god love him, he had eventually embraced the project fully and in fact been become a great support to him throughout the process. He drove into the city once a week to purchase food, clothing and supplies and never complained about all of the measures he had to take to avoid arousing suspicion among the locals. He saw to it that the girls did their chores around the house in a timely fashion and monitored their movements whenever they were allowed out of their room. In fact, Branson kept everything operating smoothly so that he was free to do his work without having to worry about anything interfering with it.

The Collector entered his study, sat down at the computer and connected the camera through a USB port. After the images appeared on the screen, he began the proofing process, comparing each image to the copy of Degas' painting until he found the right one. Having narrowed his choices down to three, he stared at the young girl and marveled at how well she had performed for him. Such a sweet young face, such a classic adolescent body. In fact, she would be perfect for—

Like a bolt of lightning, an idea suddenly came to him. And it was absolutely _brilliant!_

Nearly out of breath, the Collector double-clicked a folder on his desktop, located the file he wanted and dragged it into Photoshop. It was a photo of a sculpture by Degas, the one and only sculpture he had ever publicly displayed: _The Little Dancer of Fourteen Years._

He then placed one of the images of Polina beside the picture of the sculpture. It was uncanny. The girl had nearly the exact same body and facial features as the girl in the sculpture. Long and thin arms and legs, thin waist with just the slightest of curved hips, nearly flat-chested . . .

Could this girl not be the perfect model for his absolute favorite work by Degas?

Then suddenly, reality reared its ugly head.

He could not sculpt. He couldn't even create a decent pinch pot!

So what made him think he could create a copy of this magnificent work of art?

Then it hit him—an idea so bizarre and absolutely wicked that he could barely contain himself!

Degas' original sculpture had been made of wax, so how hard would it be to simply pour hot wax over the model Polina in the nude? The result would be a life-size perfect replica of the young girl! Then he could create a ceramic cast from the wax sculpture, just as Degas' heirs had done to the wax original after his death, and then pour molten bronze into the cast. How hard would that be? After cleaning up the imperfections he could then dress the bronze figure in a cream-colored silk bodice, a gauze tutu, and fabric slippers, just as had been done to the original. The result would be his own true masterpiece—the pièce de résistance of his career— truly original and for once, not a fucking copy!

The only catch to this brilliant idea would be the certain death of the girl. And as regrettable as that would be, she would in a sense never really die, for she would be immortalized in bronze. To be looked at and enjoyed for future generations.

Does it get any better than that?

And not only would the girl have a permanent place in history, he would be sparing her a fate that would certainly be much worse. He was not so naive to think that the Russian smuggler would be getting these girls another cushy modeling gig. No, they were destined to become common prostitutes, sex slaves to be robbed of their innocence and youth.

Such a pity. But lucky for Polina, she would be spared this horrible fate.

His hands now literally trembling from the sheer exhilaration of this brainstorm, the Collector suddenly took a deep breath and a moment to come back down to earth. Of course he realized the horrific risk he would be taking if he were to follow through with this undertaking. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea after all. He would have to give it some time to air out and wait for a vibe to push him one way or the other.

But it was certainly food for thought . . .

CHAPTER 19

Alan glanced over at the Conservatory of Dance Arts in Bridgehampton and slowed down his speed. Since he had only a few more miles to go before reaching East Hampton, he continued his drive east on the Montauk Highway at a leisurely speed and took in the town's quaint charm. It was easy to understand why this area was in such great demand and so expensive. Living this far out on Long Island allowed locals to escape the chaos of the city and live a more normal comfortable life in one of the beautiful homes, always in close proximity to the spotless white beaches and dunes stretching to the south along the Atlantic.

He reached the outskirts of town and sped up to the speed limit. Ten minutes later he approached East Hampton and grabbed the map printout of the area lying off the seat. Finding Yuri Popov's restaurant would be easy since it was not far from Main Street, the common name for Montauk Highway as it ran through the center of town. His goal was to find out all he could about the Russian-American, particularly where his home was located.

He entered the town and didn't need to drive far before he approached the intersection of Newtown Lane. He turned left on Newtown and spotted the intersection of the street where _Stolovaya_ was located within a few of blocks. He started looking for a place to park along Newtowne in order to avoid his car being seen by any of the workers when he entered the restaurant. He found a spot a little over a block away, parked the Taurus and got out.

As he backtracked down the street toward the restaurant, Alan noted the similarity between East Hampton and the other Hamptons he had driven through. All were small and charming with the characteristic small shops lining the main streets. He was surprised at the rather small size of Popov's restaurant, expecting something much larger. But that didn't take away from the fact that there was still plenty of money to be made from the well-to-do locals.

He entered the restaurant and waited a couple of moments to be seated. The crowd was fairly small since it was between breakfast and lunch time. The place seemed clean and comfortable—a nice blend of casual elegance and functionality. He knew very little about Russian cuisine and was curious what the menu consisted of.

He was led to a table near the window by a middle-aged hostess with a thick Russian accent. Alan sat down, ordered a coffee and looked over the menu. There was some American food listed in addition to the Russian cuisine—but Alan was feeling adventurous and decided he would give the ethnic food a try—more or less.

The waiter came over and set a cup of coffee and a water in front of him.

"What would you like, sir?"

"Uh, I'd like to just have couple of fried eggs over easy and a bowl of your potato soup."

"Very good," the waiter replied. "Bread?"

"Wheat toast would be fine."

The waiter nodded, scrawled down the order and left.

Alan peered around the restaurant to get a feel for the best way to go about pumping the help about their boss. He first needed to find out if Popov was on the premises now and if not, when they expected him to show up. Once he figured out what car he was driving, he would hang out nearby until Popov left. Then he would tail him to his home.

When the waiter returned with his food, Alan decided to cut to the chase. He took out his wallet, selected one of several bogus business cards and handed it to the waiter.

"Is the owner here by any chance? I sell top of the line kitchen equipment and would like very much to talk to him about our exciting new line."

The waiter said, "No, he is not here. He is out of town on business."

"Oh, that's too bad. Any idea when he will return?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"Well, thanks anyway."

The waiter handed the business card back to Alan and nodded before leaving.

Alan wasn't sure if this was good news or bad. On the positive side, if Popov were out of town it would make checking out his home a lot easier. The downside however was finding out where his home was located. He had tried Google searches of Popov and everything else he could think of related to his restaurant in an attempt to find his home address but to no avail. He had called Charlie Ling just after he'd picked up the rental car but had gotten his voicemail. He would have to try him again after he left the restaurant.

The food was delicious and Alan was finished wolfing it down in five minutes flat. He drained the last of his coffee, paid the check and left the place wondering how a scumbag like Yuri Popov could own such a nice place. He came to the conclusion that the man probably had very little to do with the actual running of the restaurant and most likely left that to somebody else while he spent his quality time overseas rounding up women for sex.

On his way back to the rental car Alan called Charlie again, crossing his fingers. The Asian American computer whiz picked up after a couple of rings.

"Hey, what's up?" Charlie said.

"I need a huge favor, Charlie and I need it fast. Is there any chance you could find out a person's home address if I all I have is the guy's name plus the address and phone number of a restaurant he owns?"

"Hmm, depends. What's the guy's name?"

"Yuri Popov."

"And the name and location of the restaurant?"

" _Stolovaya_ in East Hampton, New York."

"Give me a second," Charlie said.

He could hear Charlie tapping his computer keyboard over the phone at lightning fast speed.

"What's the name of the street the restaurant's on?"

"48 Charring Road."

Alan heard more clicking as Charlie pecked away at his keyboard.

"P-o-p-o-v?" he spelled out.

"Yeah, Yuri."

"Wait a second . . . Ah, got it!"

"No shit?"

"I shit you not. He lives at 704 West Beach Drive, East Hampton. I'm pulling it up on Google Earth and it looks like his place isn't too far from where the restaurant is located. Let me see here. Yeah, there it is. Whoa, it's a big spread—even has a pool and a tennis court. This guy must be fricking loaded!"

Alan hurriedly scrawled the address on a napkin.

"Christ, Charlie, I don't know how in the hell you do it but I really owe you for this!"

"I know you do—don't think I'm not running a tab for all of this greatness."

"And worth every penny of it. Well, my friend, I'd better get going. Thanks a million."

"No problem. Later, gator."

Alan disconnected, shaking his head. He couldn't believe how Charlie Ling could find things like Popov's home address, and do it so quickly. The guy was a bona fide genius.

He arrived back at the rental car, got in and touched the Google Earth app on his iPhone. He typed in Yuri Popov's address and was quickly taken via satellite to a dot on the map in East Hampton, Long Island. Alan double-clicked the satellite image until he had zoomed in as close as he could to Popov's property. Charlie was right—the place was enormous. Located within walking distance of the beach, Yuri Popov's estate consisted of a huge main house adjacent to what appeared to be a guest house, a tennis court, large pool and a garden, all surrounded by mature trees and tall hedges. The only break in the perimeter of the grounds were two gated entrances located on either side of a long driveway running along the front of the main house.

Alan zoomed out and located _Stolovaya_. It was only a few miles or so from Popov's house. He needed get back on Main Street, head east over to Egypt Lane then south to Further Lane. This would bring him within a stone's throw from Popov's home.

Alan started the motor and then heard his phone ring. It was Charlie.

"Hey, Charlie," he said, wondering why he had called back so soon.

"After we got off I decided to see if I could get anywhere on that website URL you gave me. I went to the site and noticed that there have been more images posted on it since you first contacted me. I didn't know if you were aware of that."

Alan felt his heart rate go up—he hadn't visited the site in several days.

"Shit, I _didn't_ know! How many more images are there?"

"Let's see. There were four posted before if I remember correctly and now there's about ten—no twelve. So there are eight new ones."

"Wow, Charlie, I'm really glad you called me back on this—it's hugely important!"

"I had a feeling you'd want to know. Anyway, I'm going to go to work again on this trace and see if maybe the additional image paths can give me a clue to the source. I'll let you know if I have any luck."

"Thanks for calling, Charlie," Alan said, then disconnected.

His hand actually trembling, Alan touched the Safari app icon and located the bookmarked website of Polina's captor. Seconds later, the page loaded. Alan scrolled down the column of images and glanced at the new ones. All of them were photographic renderings of ballerinas à la Degas, as before. He recognized most of them from his earlier research.

He scrolled back up to the top and looked for images of Polina. He counted a total of six, although a couple of them he couldn't be sure of because the girl in question was either not clearly focused or her back was to the camera. There was one that was definitely Polina and it was a solo shot. The girl was standing in a dance studio wearing a blue tutu fanning herself with a large fan. Her stance was rather formal and her hair was pulled back behind her ears. She was wearing a necklace choker on her neck, making her look rather elegant for her young age.

Alan zoomed in on this image and stared at Polina's face, wondering if he could read anything from her expression. Did it look like she was afraid or the least bit uneasy? No, not all. He wondered how these girls could model so effectively for someone who was literally using them as slaves. Although they were no doubt being forced to pose and do as their captor demanded, no one would ever know it from seeing these images. After comparing them to the originals, it was quite possible that the girls were being coached by someone who not only knew what he was doing but was patient with a penchant for detail.

His gut feeling told him that it was unlikely that the girls were being harmed by this man. They not only seemed to be content with what they were doing but they looked healthy and showed no visible signs of physical abuse.

Which was certainly good to know, but did not discount the fact that they had been kidnapped and sold into slavery by human traffickers—

And from what Elena had learned, they would soon be moving on to much a worse gig than their present one.

By posting these images, was the "artist" indicating that he was through with using these girls for this purpose? That their gig was over and it was time to move on? Why did that seem so hard to fathom?

How could someone "own" these girls for all of this time, be reasonably kind to them then suddenly let them go so that they could be re-sold as prostitutes?

It would really take an uncaring heartless bastard to do that.

But now was not the time to be analyzing this—he would return to it later. Right now, he had to go see what he could find out about the man who had purchased and then sold Elena to Viktor the pimp.

Alan closed out of Safari and returned to Google Earth. He got his bearings, started up the Taurus and headed back toward Main Street. He travelled east on the highway for a short distance then turned south on Cross Highway. After a few more miles, the smell of the Atlantic greeted him as he began peeling his eyes for Popov's house. Using Google as his guide, he spotted the entrance and slowed down.

It was nearly impossible to see the house from the road due to the thick hedges bounding either side of the main entrance. He drove up to the second entrance and could see a bit more of the house from that perspective. This access to the driveway was probably used more as an exit, he concluded. There were no cars parked on the drive, which was a good sign.

Alan pulled over along the side of the road and intentionally parked where the rental would be in plain view from the house. He powered off his iPhone before shoving it into his rear pocket then getting out of the car. Then, after a quick glance back at the Taurus, he headed up the driveway toward Yuri Popov's palatial East Hampton estate.

As the massive gray two-story house came into full view, Alan's eyes scanned the grounds. Beyond the patio separating the main house from the guesthouse was a tennis court located in the rear of the estate. Past the court were a good-sized garden plot and more trees. Although he couldn't see it now, Alan knew that behind the house and a little north would be the oval-shaped in-ground swimming pool and the pool house. He tried to estimate how much this spread was worth but didn't have a clue. All he knew for sure was that the profits from Popov's restaurant weren't the only thing paying for it.

He reached the front porch and rang the doorbell. A few moments later, a woman's voice sounded through the door.

"Who is there, please?" came the muffled greeting.

"My name is Densmore, ma'am—Brian Densmore. My car ran out of gas and I was wondering if I might use your phone."

The door opened an inch. A slit of face appeared through the crack.

"How do I know you are speaking the truth?" the woman asked. Her accent was clearly not American. It in fact sounded similar to the hostess's at Popov's restaurant.

Alan took out his wallet and pulled out a business card. He held it up so the woman could see it.

"See, Brian Densmore, real estate agent," he said.

The woman stared at the card a moment, and then opened the door. Alan did a double-take at what he saw. The woman was in her early to mid-twenties with long blonde hair and absolutely gorgeous. From the sound of her voice, Alan had expected an older woman.

She also looked more than just a little bit like Elena—if Elena was at a healthy weight and not strung out from her abominable existence. She was around five-seven and wore baggy sweatpants and an oversized NYU sweatshirt.

The woman smiled tentatively but remained where she stood behind the storm door, making no effort to open it.

"Don't you have a cell phone? It seems like a real estate person would own one," she said, still suspicious.

Alan pulled out his iPhone and held it up.

"Dead as a doornail."

The woman hesitated a moment, scrutinizing his face as if to size him up. He seemed to have won her approval.

"Very well. You may use the phone," she said, opening the door for him to enter.

"Thank you so much, ma'am. I'll just make a quick call to Triple A and be on my way," he said, stepping inside.

The interior of Popov's home was stunning in its opulence and elegance, again causing Alan to marvel at how a man so corrupt and loathsome could put up such a sparkling façade.

Then he recalled _The Godfather_ and all of this suddenly made some kind of sense.

"There is a phone in the study. Follow me," the woman said.

"Thank you—nice house you have here," Alan said.

"It is not my house. I only work here."

"Oh, I see. Well, then you have a very nice house to work in."

She glanced back at him long enough to deliver a wan smile and then led him into a large comfortable room that was Yuri Popov's study.

"Over there," she said, pointing at the desk. "I must run to the kitchen for a moment." It was clear by her expression that she didn't want to leave him alone now but she apparently had something too pressing going on in the kitchen that demanded her presence for her to avoid it.

"Thank you. I won't be long," Alan said.

As she left the room, Alan walked around the desk and began snooping around, grateful that his hostess had left him alone in the room. There wasn't any sign of a computer anywhere, so Alan assumed that Popov used a laptop for his work. He spotted a Rolodex on the desk and spun through it, looking for any names that might ring a bell. Nothing. He tried the middle drawer, half-expecting it to be locked but it wasn't. He pulled it open and fished around for anything that might help him locate the identity of Polina's captor.

Finding nothing of interest, Alan searched through one of the other drawers and found nothing but files related to the restaurant. He pulled opened the last drawer and spotted a short stack of CD's and DVD's in the rear of the drawer. He picked them up and quickly read through the titles. All seemed innocuous enough and just as he was about to put them back in he saw something move out of the corner of his eye—

" _What are you doing!"_ the woman shouted from the doorway of the study.

"Just looking for a phone book," he replied innocently, glancing over at her from behind the desk. "You wouldn't happen to know where the yellow pages are, would you?"

She waited a moment before replying, clearly contemplating whether or not to believe his lame excuse for rummaging through her keeper's drawers.

"Couldn't you just call information?" she finally said.

"Never thought of that. Thank you."

Alan picked up the phone and punched in 411.

"Uh, yes. I need the number for the AAA in East Hampton, please."

He smiled at the woman while waiting for the operator to connect him to the recorded phone number. She was standing directly across from him on the other side of the desk, her hands on her hips. He noticed that she had pulled up the sleeves of her sweatshirt since he'd last seen her, possibly to do some work in the kitchen. He spotted an oddly shaped black and blue bruise on her forearm that continued up to her elbow and out of sight. The bruise looked recent. When she caught him staring at it, she became noticeably uncomfortable and let her arms fall to her side.

The number was read off to him and Alan plucked a pen out of the penholder to jot it down. He hung up the phone and looked across the desk at the young woman standing there.

"Nasty bruise you have there," he said, glancing at her arm.

Her face flushed. "I fell down a couple of days ago."

"I see," Alan said. "It almost looks like somebody's hand could have caused it by the looks of those finger marks."

She pulled down her sleeves. "You must make your call and leave. I have work to do."

"Yes, I'm sorry. And I apologize if I seemed to be prying. It's just that I've seen marks like those before. And they were caused by somebody who had been abusing a good friend of mine. Turns out that her husband was using her as punching bag on a regular basis."

"Please make your call and go now," she said firmly.

Alan picked up the phone and began dialing the number.

"May I just ask you just one thing, ma'am?"

"What is it?"

"Did the man of the house do that to you?"

"It is none of your business!" she cried. "And if you don't go now, I am going to call the police!"

"Can I just make this call first? I'm sorry—I truly am. I just have a problem with men that beat up on women. I'm sorry that I seemed to have jumped to conclusions and will leave right after this call."

Her expression softened somewhat. "Very well. Make it quick."

Alan resumed dialing and reached the dead-end party at 555-1234.

"Yes, my car has ran out of gas and I need assistance. How long will it take to get someone out to—excuse me—"

He looked over at the woman. "What's the address here?"

"704 West Beach Drive."

"704 West Beach Drive," Alan told the imaginary dispatcher.

"Fifteen minutes? Great, thank you."

"Now you go," she said.

"Thank you, ma'am," Alan said. "And I truly am sorry if I upset you."

She waited for Alan to round the desk and then she led him out of the study. Alan watched her from behind, wondering how many more battle scars were hiding under the baggy sweats she wore. He knew he had hit a chord with her and that he was going to have to work fast if he planned on getting any further in this case.

When they reached the foyer, she stood there expectantly waiting for him to leave.

"Do you by any chance know a woman named Elena?" he asked point-blank.

Stunned, the woman stared at Alan, unable to believe what she had just heard him say.

"Why do you ask that question?" she said.

"Because I'm pretty sure that you do. At least, you've heard of her. Because I can't imagine Mr. Popov bringing you all the way over here as his live-in partner without at one time or another making a reference to the former mistress of the house."

"Who are you?" she snapped nervously.

"Let's just say someone who knows what is going on in this house. And I am looking for a young girl whose life is about to be ruined thanks to the selfish actions of your, uh, keeper. This little girl, much like yourself no doubt, was plucked out of her homeland and then sold for a price to one of Mr. Popov's cronies. She is now going to be re-sold into prostitution or worse. She also happens to be the little sister of the woman you have replaced here, who by the way is now doing twelve to sixteen hour shifts as a cheap whore in a New York City brothel."

She was staring at him incredulously, unable to speak.

"That's right ma'am, your leading man eventually grew tired of Elena and sold her to the highest bidder. And now she has nothing to live for except the hope of seeing her little sister saved before she becomes a similar statistic."

"My God!" she cried in anguish. "Please tell me all of this isn't true!"

"Oh, I wish I could—believe me—but I can't. And it is my hope that you will help me before it is too late for this little girl."

Tears formed in her eyes. She blinked once, looked down at the floor, then stared up at Alan in an expression of grief.

"Please tell me what I can do."

"You can begin by telling me your name."

"Nadiya."

"Pretty name."

Alan offered her his hand.

"Alan Swansea."

She hesitated a moment before shaking his hand. Her grip was soft, tentative.

"And what do you do? Are you a policeman?"

"Private investigator."

"I see. Do you mind if we sit down? I am suddenly feeling weak."

"Of course."

She led Alan into the living room and gestured for him to sit on the sofa. "Would you like something to drink? I just brewed some coffee."

"That would be great. Uh, when do you expect Mr. Popov to return?"

"Oh, he won't be back for a couple of days. He has gone to Europe."

"Hmm. I see."

She cast him a pained look before turning to leave the room. Alan sat and observed his surroundings—the home of a man that he hoped would soon be living in much less comfortable digs someday soon.

Nadiya returned carrying a sparkling silver tray with a pot of coffee and two cups. She set the tray down on the coffee table.

"Sugar or cream?" she asked.

"Black is fine."

She poured and handed the cup to Alan.

"Thanks."

She sat down across from him on the sofa. "How do you know of myself and Yuri?"

Alan replied, "Elena told me how Yuri obtained her in Germany and promised her work in his restaurant, which was a farce. She didn't know of you but I had a hunch that history had repeated itself the moment I saw you. You are of the same, uh, body type."

She looked away. "I have been such a fool! Yuri promised me a new life in America and told me that I could manage his restaurant once we arrived here. He seemed so much a gentleman, you know? But I was wrong. Not long after we came here he forced me to have sex with him. Over and over. Sometimes he beats me up for no reason at all! It's like he is hateful and takes out his hatred on me. He makes me do things that hurt bad.

"When I ask him why he treats me so badly, he says it is because I am a slut and I deserve it. Maybe I do deserve such treatment, I don't know any more . . ."

"He is controlling your mind, Nadiya, and I think you know that. And the longer you stay here, the worse it is going to get. Why don't you leave?"

She looked at him incredulously. "You are kidding, right? Elena surely told you how much power Yuri has and how he threatens to murder your family if you run away. And I have no doubt he would do it. I will not let my utter stupidity get my parents killed."

Alan's contempt for Yuri Popov, Viktor Skipetroff and their ilk was growing incrementally the further he went in this case. He was stunned by the absolute control these men apparently had over these poor women and the no-win situation they found themselves in. It was a vicious cycle—an insidious pattern of sheer evil that was going down here. Down on their luck by economic hardship, desperate women and children looking for a better life were being lured by shysters making false promises of hope only to be exploited and sold to scumbags who further exploited them for profit and/or their own sexual gratification.

And once they were sucked in, they were screwed. There was no way out.

"If I told you that Yuri Popov is going to be out of business soon, what would you do?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I probably wouldn't believe there isn't someone out there who knows Yuri that would still murder my family."

_There has to be an end to this madness,_ Alan thought.

"Nadiya, I want you to know something that you may not believe, but I can assure you that it's true. Yuri Popov does not own you. And he is not invincible. He is going to be going to prison one of these days for the rest of his life and once that happens, he will no longer be a threat to you. You can trust me on that.

"But for now we have to take this one step at a time. You need to help me find out where Elena's little sister is being held against her will. I am convinced that Popov knows where she is. Once I find her, we can trace that crime back to whomever it is that is running this crime ring. And as sure as we're sitting here, Yuri Popov will get eventually fingered somewhere along the line."

"I wish I could believe that. I really do. But it just isn't possible. Yuri has a way of knowing everything somehow. He will probably find out that you came here. He seems to have eyes and ears everywhere. That's why he knows he can leave me here alone and not have to worry about anything.

"But no matter what, I want to help you find the little girl. It is the one thing I can do for someone who is so innocent. I'm just not sure how I can help you. I don't know anything about Yuri's business affairs—he just wants me around for the other things. He never shares any of his life with me. I doubt I can help you but I am willing to try."

"You can help me by showing me where he keeps his records. I need to find out the names of his _business associates_ , for lack of a better term. Do you know where he keeps his paperwork? Or his computer?"

"He has only one computer that I know of—it is a portable one—a laptop—and he always takes it with him. His paperwork must all be in the study. He always does his business there."

"No other rooms in this house that he works out of?"

"No, that I am sure."

"What about the guest house?

"He rarely goes over there. He has only had guests stay over once since I've been here. I cleaned up after they left but I can say that there isn't any room over there that is used for business."

"Hmm. Then I guess I need to go back into the study and continue my search."

Her lovely face was pleading. "Please, Mr. Swansea, be careful that you don't do anything that would let Yuri know you were here!"

"Please call me Alan, Nadiya," he said. "And don't worry—I won't leave any tracks. I just want to take a look around and see what I can find. He'll never know I was here."

"I hope not. If he finds out, he will make me pay."

Alan leaned over and touched her arm gently, gazed into her soft blue eyes. "Believe me, Nadiya, he will never find out. The last thing I want to do is risk making you suffer any more than you already have. And I want to extend an open invitation for you to join me when I leave. I promise that I'll keep you safe from Popov until I can make arrangements for you to return to your country."

She shook her head with firm resolve. "I cannot do that! My parents are all that I have in this world and I can't risk their lives. But thank you for offering. It is very sweet of you."

A feeling of déjà vu swept over Alan as he recalled his conversation with Elena the night before. Neither of these women held any sense of self-preservation or hope for their future. They seemed ruined, broken beyond repair—their spirit sucked right out of them.

It was a goddamn pity.

"Promise me you'll think about it, anyway. I will leave you my number before I go. You can call me anytime. Promise me?"

She forced a smile. "Yes Alan, I promise."

He set down his coffee cup and stood up.

"I'm going to go check out the study. You want to come along?"

"I will be there in a moment. I have food cooking in the kitchen and need to tend to it."

"Is there a basement?"

"Yes. But you won't find anything there. It is nothing but a game room."

"I want to see it, anyway. And where is the master bedroom?"

"Upstairs."

"I'd like to see that too. But first thing's first."

Alan returned to the study and looked around. In addition to the executive desk was a built-in library taking up an entire wall, a pair of file cabinets, a laser printer and a fax machine. He went over to on one of the file cabinets and searched the top drawer. He saw nothing but more files pertaining to Popov's restaurant. Ditto for the remaining drawers. He searched the other cabinet but found nothing that seemed suspicious or relevant to the case.

Popov has covered his tracks well, he thought.

He went over to the library and studied some of the titles. Most of the books were literature and reference materials with a few periodicals thrown in.

Not that he really expected to find something like _Human Trafficking for Dummies_.

Becoming frustrated, he went through the desk drawers a second time and came up with a big fat zero. There was nothing in this room indicating that Yuri Popov was anything other than a successful restaurant owner.

Had he reached a dead end?

Alan left the room and found Nadiya in the kitchen standing over the stove. She was cooking something that smelled scrumptious and he wondered why she would be cooking what appeared to be a complete gourmet meal when she was the only one in the house.

"Expecting company?" he asked.

She nearly jumped out of her skin, unaware of his entrance into the room.

"You startled me!" she cried.

"I'm sorry, I thought you heard me come in."

She forced a little smile. "It is okay. No, I am not expecting anyone—I just like to cook—and eat. I would invite you stay but that would be out of the question under the circumstances," she said, and then added, "Wouldn't it?"

Alan was tempted to say no, it wasn't out of the question and he would love to join her for dinner. Her quasi-invitation and her willingness to take such a risk gave him hope that perhaps the Russian girl wasn't beyond repair after all.

"My better judgment tells me that as much as I'd love for you to feed me this delicious smelling food I'd best decline. Thanks for asking though."

She actually seemed disappointed. "You're right. Bad idea."

"Not a bad idea—just bad timing. My invitation for you to leave with me is still on the table, though."

Like a switch, her expression changed dramatically. It was like a dark cloud had just blotted out the sun. "I am not going anywhere."

Alan chose not to upset her any more and dropped the issue. "Can you show me how to get to the basement?"

She grabbed a towel, wiped her hands. "Come this way."

Alan followed her out through the dining room and down a hall to a stairwell leading to the basement. She switched on a light and led the way down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Alan let out a gasp.

"Jesus, you weren't kidding! This looks like a game room on a cruise ship—or in Vegas!"

"Yuri rarely uses it. I often have wondered why he has this room."

Alan walked around and marveled at Popov's "game room." There was a roulette table, five video poker machines, several one-armed bandits and no less than a half dozen card tables. Completing the ensemble were a Brunswick pool table and a large screen television set up in a lounge area appointed with expensive leather furniture and a fully stocked bar.

"I would wonder, too. He must have spent a king's ransom on all of these gambling machines alone. And you say he hardly comes down here?"

"Only when he has company, which is very rare."

Alan walked around the room for a few moments, poking around here and there, then took a last long look and said, "Let's go see the master bedroom."

Nadiya nodded and led the way upstairs. Along the way to the second floor, Alan was in awe of Yuri Popov's tastefully furnished house and shameless opulence. All for what? For himself and his live-in sex slave to enjoy as a happy couple? Although he had never met the man nor laid eyes on him, Alan was already forming a snippet of Popov's essence in his mind. Here was a wealthy man who seemed to have everything money could buy yet apparently was never satisfied with any of it. Why else would he spend a small fortune on a game room he never used and had no vested interest in? And why such an elaborate, appointed-to-the-max estate that rarely had any visitors? He had a hunch that if he asked her now, Nadiya would tell him that Popov rarely used the pool or the tennis court either—except when he had guests.

And why was he apparently not content with the women he had bought and sold, despite their beauty and the fact that they were there 24/7 at his beck and call? Another peek into Popov's mindset was beginning to take shape and crystallize. A hatred toward women. Possibly the result of a lousy performance in the sack or something more profound.

Why else would he purchase women just to knock around, demoralize and then re- sell? And his hatred probably didn't end with his personal cartel of women. How many other ones had he been instrumental in purchasing and trafficking for profit?

How else could anyone do what he does without any signs of remorse or regret?

Alan wanted to bust this fucker almost as badly as he wanted to find Polina.

"Here it is," Nadiya said. "The master bedroom."

Alan followed her inside.

"Do you sleep here too?"

She snickered. "You're kidding, right? Only when he wants me to, which is rare."

"So where is your room?"

"Down the hall."

"So you're telling me that this is Popov's bedroom and you only come in here when he invites you in?"

"That is pretty much it. In case you are wondering, we usually have sex in my room. Yuri says he doesn't want to "mess up his sheets."

"That's interesting. Is he some sort of neat freak by any chance?"

"Have you ever seen that television show, _Monk?_ Yuri is much like Monk."

"That doesn't surprise me for some reason" Alan mumbled.

The room was large, spotless and luxuriously furnished. There were French doors leading to a balcony. Alan went over and stepped outside.

"Nice view," he said, observing the scene before him. Beyond the trees and past a couple of houses were the beach and the Atlantic Ocean.

"Yes, it is. I serve his coffee out here nearly every morning."

"So you are not only his cook, housecleaner, punching bag and lover but his waitress as well?" he asked cynically. "He sure has gotten his money's worth!"

Alan thought she was going to slug him, the anger was so intense in her eyes. "That was a horrible thing to say!" she spat.

Alan tried to comfort her but she pulled away.

"I'm sorry, Nadiya, and I apologize. It's just that I know I am right, as much as the truth may hurt. And it quite frankly pisses me off. I mean, there you stand, young, beautiful, and intelligent with what should be a long wonderful life ahead of you. But instead, here you are—a slave to a man who doesn't give two shits about you or what he does to hurt you. If I had my way, I would force you to leave this place with me, drop you off somewhere safe then go out and murder the low-life motherfucker!"

"I cannot leave! Please, Alan, don't say that again. I know it is hard for you to understand but you must try to see how things are for me. Yuri knows where my parents live and he could make one call and have them murdered just like that. Nothing will make me let that happen. I am sorry but that is how it is. Please, finish your search then go."

As much as he didn't want to admit it, Alan knew she was not going to budge. Sad as it was—

"Okay, Nadiya, not another word about it."

Alan went over to the dressing bureau, carefully went through the drawers and then searched the walk-in closet. He combed through the racks of expensive suits and neatly arranged shirts, shoes, ties, and so on but found nothing. Not even a firearm. He checked the nightstand, under the bed and the master bathroom only to find nothing of interest.

Popov's house was squeaky clean in every sense of the word. If he didn't know better, the man appeared to live like a saint.

But he knew better.

"Can you think of anything I've missed?" he asked Nadiya. "Any other rooms that might contain papers or personal effects – anything?"

"I'm afraid not. The only other rooms are the three guest bedrooms. And they are clean and tidy with furnishings only. Nothing but spare sheets and pillows."

"I can't believe this! Does he have another place he goes to, besides the restaurant? A vacation house in the Caribbean for instance?"

"Oh yes, he has a house in Los Angeles and places in Mexico and Europe."

There you go, Alan thought. Popov conducted his business elsewhere, no doubt where the law was a bit less lax than here in the states. Smart son of a bitch.

His optimism continuing to spiral south, Alan said, "Where's the garage?"

"Follow me."

When they entered the two-car garage, Alan spotted a Mars red Mercedes SL550 Roadster parked in an otherwise vacant garage.

"Popov's toy, I presume?"

Nadiya nodded. "Yes, this is his sports car. His other car is also a Mercedes but bigger."

Alan went over and peeked inside before opening the driver's side door.

"He ever let you drive it?" he asked Nadiya.

"Of course, every day!" she joked. Then she said, "Yuri hardly ever drives this himself."

Alan got in and sat down behind the wheel of the two-seater. He snooped through the console and glove compartment and found nothing but the owner's manual and a garage door opener. The car looked like it had never left the garage.

Another expensive indulgence that Popov owned and hardly used. His useless, extravagant possessions alone could probably feed the entire population of a third world country for a year.

Alan got out, walked around the car then headed for the door.

"We're done in here," he said flatly.

"So you're going now?" Nadiya said.

"Unless you can think of anything else, I guess so."

Nadiya almost looked as if she was disappointed. Alan wondered the woman was so inconsistent—as though she couldn't decide if she wanted him to stay or go, or whether or not to give any part of herself up to him. Behavior that no doubt resulted from the pitiful abusive relationship she found herself in.

He decided to risk pushing her button one more time. "Listen, Nadiya. I think you're holding out on me and know more than you're telling me about Yuri Popov. I also know that you're scared now and that don't really trust me. I can understand why that is and frankly don't blame you for feeling that way. After all, I've come here under false pretenses and basically asked you to help incriminate a man that you probably feel some sort of weird bond to. I can almost see how that could happen under these circumstances, believe it or not. I mean, I don't know how hopeless your life back home was before all of this but it must have been bad enough for you to risk your freedom for what seemed like some sort of light at the end of the tunnel. A light that some low-life asshole made you believe existed for you elsewhere.

"Yet in spite of all this deception and the horrendous situation you are now in, you still don't want to risk running away from the man who stole your life from you. You're afraid he will harm your family because that is just exactly how people like Yuri Popov and his cronies maintain their hold on their victims—by threats, violence and intimidation. They know they have you over a barrel and therefore will always get their way.

"But here's a chance for you to turn all of this around. Make Popov and his network pay for what they've done. Sure, it is risky and yes, there is a chance that they may harm your parents. But what guarantees do you have that he won't harm them anyway? Do you trust Yuri Popov not to harm your parents just because you're staying with him? And what about when he decides to let you go, like he did with Elena? What then? You think he will give two shits about what happens to you or your parents?

"My point is this: If you don't want to leave with me now, that's your decision. I can't force you to go. But before I leave, I want you to think about what you told me earlier. That you want to help me find Elena's little sister. If that's true, then you have to start leveling with me now. Otherwise, I am going to leave here being no closer to finding her than I was before. So for the last time please, Nadiya, think. Think of that young girl and if there's anything else you can think of that might help me find her."

Nadiya stood silent for a moment, apparently soaking in what he had just told her. Then she looked directly into Alan's eyes.

"I am sorry, Alan. But I have not been holding out on you, as you say. I really do want to help and I am trying to. But I honestly can't think of anything else to say about Yuri. If I could, I would. I promise."

Alan believed her—or at least was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He had wanted to give Nadiya one final opportunity to open up if she was holding anything back—just so he could feel he had done all he could here. Now it looked as though he was indeed going to leave empty-handed, with nothing more than he had had before.

That was very difficult to accept.

He was not good at admitting defeat. Never had been. But it was beginning to look like this case was about to come to a screeching halt if something didn't break. The same feeling of helplessness he had felt before began gnawing at him again. It took everything he had to face this pathetic Russian woman one last time before heading for the door.

"Well then, I guess I'll be going now. Thank you, Nadiya. And please remember that open invitation."

She stood there awkwardly, like a schoolgirl who had just found out that she was grounded for life. Alan's heart went out to her.

"I'm sorry," was all she said.

Alan turned and headed toward the door. He sensed that she was not following him so he looked back. She was still in the living room. He placed his hand on the door handle and opened the door.

"Wait!" he heard her shout.

The next instant she was running into the foyer, her face flushed with excitement.

"What is it?" Alan said.

"I just thought of something! Well, I'm not sure if it will help you, but it might!"

"What are you talking about?" Alan asked, his voice cracking.

"The cell phone! Yuri bought a new one yesterday and threw the old one out. It's in a trash can—maybe that could help you!"

Alan wanted to shout for joy. Yuri Popov's old cell phone could still have his contacts stored in its memory. If he hadn't deleted them, that is. As resourceful as Popov had been so far at covering his tracks, there was a very good chance he had wiped everything clean.

But there was also a slim chance he hadn't.

"Where is the trash can?"

"Outside!" she replied, taking him by the hand. She tugged on his hand and led the way back toward the kitchen.

When they reached the den, she led Alan over to the patio door and slid it open. He followed her across the patio over to the spare house and around to the side where the trash cans were line up.

"I think it's in this one," she said, removing the lid of the first can. She rummaged through the contents until she pulled out a plastic trash bag with handles that had been tied shut.

"It's in here!" she cried excitedly.

She untied the ties, stuck her hand inside and pulled out a top of the line Blackberry.

"Here it is," she said, handing it over to Alan.

Alan pressed the power button. The phone booted up. At least he wasn't going to have to track down a charger. Twenty seconds later the start screen appeared. He pressed the contacts button and held his breath. A moment later, a scrollable list of names and telephone numbers appeared on the screen. There were no less than a couple dozen names and telephone numbers listed—

So Popov hadn't covered his ass quite so well after all. These contacts could very well lead to his undoing.

Alan checked the battery status and saw that the phone was still half charged.

"Let's go inside, Nadiya. I want to see if any of these names ring a bell with you."

"You are going to leave the phone here after you leave though, aren't you? Just in case he comes back and finds out it's missing somehow?"

"When's your trash pickup?"

She thought a moment. "Tomorrow—that's good! He won't be back until at least Saturday."

"So he wouldn't expect it to be here in the first place," Alan said. "I want to take the phone in case my friend has to hack it. Besides, it's cold hard evidence in the event I find something incriminating on it."

Nadiya nodded. She placed the trash bag back into the can and led Alan back inside.

In the living room, the two sat down on the sofa and huddled over Popov's cell phone.

Alan said, "Let's start here at the top of the list. I'll scroll down and you tell me if you know who any of these people are or if you recognize any of the names."

"Okay," Nadiya replied.

As he scrolled through the list, Alan noticed that none of the listings included both the first and the last names of the contact—it was either one or the other. For example, a contact would be listed as simply 'Ivan," or "Chirkoff." He had a feeling this was done intentionally by Popov, just in case someone got a hold of his phone. Although this wouldn't necessarily make tracking down any of the contacts impossible, it wouldn't make it any easier either.

"There—" Nadiya said. "That man who has been here a couple of times."

Alan read off the highlighted name. "Levkova?"

"Yes. But he works at the restaurant. I think he's the day manager."

"Hmm. We can probably cross him off, then," Alan said.

He continued scrolling until he realized that he was almost at the end of the list. Nadiya hadn't recognized anyone else. He was almost to the last name when she touched his arm.

"There is one I've heard of before: Rusakov. Yuri has spoken to him on the phone a few times."

"Do you remember a first name?"

"Yes, it is _Luka_ —I remember because that is also my father's name."

_Luka,_ Alan thought—was that not the name of one of the men who had lured Elena into a promising new future in the West? Yes! he recalled. It was Luka.

"Can you remember what Popov and this Luka guy talk about? I mean, could you tell if it was restaurant business? Or was it something else?"

"I don't think it has anything to do with _Stolovaya_. Yuri always leaves the room whenever he gets a call, so I am not certain of what they talk about. But I think that he and Luka are close, just by the way Yuri speaks to him. Like they are good friends."

That's promising, Alan thought. For if Luka Rusakov was the same Luka who had recruited Elena, and he and Popov were "close," it could be that Rusakov was a major player in this whole trafficking racket. And to think this bad guy was only a phone call away—

A thought suddenly occurred to Alan. "Do you remember the names of the people who are responsible for your sale to Popov? There must have been others involved."

Her expression grew morose. "This is very difficult to talk about. I feel such a fool for being tricked by them!"

"Please, Nadiya. I realize it must be difficult. But I need to find out if there is any connection between your abduction and Elena and her sister's."

"Okay, I will tell you how it happened. I am originally from Ukraine. My family has lived in poverty since the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991. By the time I was in my late teens, all I could think about was leaving the country and finding work so I could help out my parents. One day I saw an advertisement by an employment agency in the local newspaper. The ad promised "well-paying work in the West" and since I had nothing to lose I went to Moscow.

"I went to the address given in the advertisement, which was nothing but a small storefront near the square. There were men, women and children all crammed into this little room, all hoping to find work. I waited until it was finally my turn to talk to the recruiter and he immediately took a fancy toward me. He said that I would be perfect for a modeling career in America and he made the arrangements for me to be transported to the airport the next day. I was so excited and couldn't believe my good fortune.

"But I was never taken to the airport. Two men in a car picked me up the next day and headed away from the airport. When I asked them why they were going in the wrong direction they laughed and told me there had been a slight change in plans—that I would be taken overland by truck to Germany where I would then be flown to the United States.

"I grew suspicious and told them I had changed my mind, that I wanted them to let me out of the car right away. One of them told me that would be no problem as long as I had sex with him in the back seat first. I knew then that they were not going to let me go—that I was being abducted just like all the others I'd heard of who had been foolish enough to fall for false promises of a career in the West.

"I tried to escape by jumping out of the car but one of them saw me and grabbed my arm. He twisted it so hard that I thought he had broken it. Then he jumped into the back seat, tore my clothes off and raped me. I had only been in that car for fifteen minutes and knew that my life would never be the same. All I could think about while the man pawed me, beat me and raped me was what a fool I'd been and how I should have listened to my father who warned me not to go to Moscow."

"God, Nadiya—I'm so sorry. Your story sounds much like Elena's. Do you recall any of the names of your abductors? Or the recruiter at the alleged employment agency"

She shook her head. "Not really. Only their first names. The recruiter who lied to me—his name was Oleg. The first man who raped me in the car was Sergei. The other was Vladmir."

"You mean they _both_ raped you?"

"Yes, over and over," she replied weakly. "All the way to the Czech border."

He felt like he was hearing from Elena all over again—her horrific story of being transported through Eastern Europe in a truck and raped repeatedly by her abductors. Then he took into account that their stories were not merely isolated accounts of human trafficking activity but two variations of a common theme that was being repeated again and again, day after day in that part of the world. And from what Beth had indicated, this was happening everywhere—even in America. How many innocent victims had endured nightmarish scenarios like these all told? How many had seen their lives totally ruined, their very souls left barren by selfish heartless bastards that regarded these victims as no more than a commodity to be bought and sold? And violated.

"What happened after the Czech border?"

"They drove to Dresden and dropped off at a cheap hotel. But I wasn't there for long. I was locked inside a room by a man who I guess worked there. A few hours later, the man came back with another man who was a very well-dressed and American. This is the first time I met Yuri."

"I see. So what happened after Popov showed up?"

"He introduced himself and said that Oleg was right—that I was indeed perfect for him. I asked what he meant by that but before he answered, he wanted to know if my journey there had been a pleasant one. I almost laughed at this outrageous question but I was in no mood for humor. I told him what had happened along the way and he was angered to hear that I'd been raped by those men. In fact, he went a little crazy with rage. He excused himself and made a call on his cell phone on his way out the room. I could hear him shouting angrily from the hallway at somebody on the phone. He came back a few minutes later and apologized for the "rough treatment" I'd received and said that those men would be "dealt with," as he put it.

"Then he told me that he was going to be up front with me—that he had tipped Oleg off to be looking for a young woman with my _characteristics,_ as he put it. I asked him what for, and he just smiled and said something like "to join me in America as my partner and business associate." I asked what that meant exactly and that's when he lied about my employment at his restaurant and the great life I was going to have in the States."

Nadiya delivered this last sentence like she had just bit into a lemon.

Alan said, "What was your reaction to his plans for your future?"

"At first, I was in disbelief. After what had happened up until then, I had no reason to believe or trust anybody. But Yuri was very convincing and made the whole thing sound like I was going to be so happy with him and that I'd never have to worry about money again. He asked about my family and told me that I'd be able to send them money and get them out of poverty. It all sounded too good to be true! And of course, it was not true. But like a fool, I believed him and felt like a princess in a fairytale. He took me out to shop for clothes and we had a wonderful dinner. He was nice and treated me like a lady.

"But the fairy tale ended soon after we came to America. After he took me to his house, he showed me my room and told me take off my clothes. I asked why and he said because I owed it to him. That I owed my life to him for bringing me to America. When I refused, he started beating on me and tearing off my clothes. He was so cruel—he was like a madman! I had scratches and bruises all over me the next day.

"He is still cruel to me, but worse. The only time he talks to me any more is when he is telling me what to do for him—clean his clothes, clean his house, make everything spotless. Then he will suddenly grab me and force me to have sex with him. It is horrible! Sometimes I think he hates me and loves to take his hate out on me. He loves to see me suffer, to see me in pain. Then after all of this he makes me tell him that I love him. It is sick!"

Alan chose his next words carefully, not wanting to upset her any more than she already was.

"Has Popov ever threatened you by saying he wants to replace you with somebody else? You know, has he ever threatened to get rid of you, for lack of a better way to put it?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You mean, like the way I replaced Elena?"

"Yeah."

"Of course he has threatened me with about everything imaginable at one time or another, including that. But that's nothing new."

"You told me that he is in Europe now. "Doesn't that worry you? Knowing what he is doing over there?"

"You mean buying and selling girls?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

"I guess I try not to think about it."

"But you know that's what he's doing! And it's just a matter of time before he finds "a new model" and sells you to somebody else. Just like he did Elena. You have to have given that some thought at one time or another."

"Yes, I have."

"All the more reason why you need to get out of here. Before it's too late. I wish you would reconsider leaving with me."

"I can't. I really think you should go now. I have told you all I have to say."

Alan heard the familiar tone in her voice that said to back off. And as difficult as it was to do, he conceded. He took a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her.

"Please call me, Nadiya, if you change your mind. Or if you just want to talk."

She took the card, glanced at it and said, "Okay."

She led Alan to the door, held it open for him and told him goodbye.

CHAPTER 20

Once inside the rental car Alan powered up his iPhone. He started the engine, took one final look at Popov's house and pulled away from the curb. He saw a voicemail notice on the splash screen from a caller with a 212 area code—Manhattan. He wondered who it could be as he clicked the voicemail play button:

" _Hello, Mr. Swansea. This is Madeline Fulton. Beth Lindsay suggested that I call you regarding a situation she felt I might be able to help you with. Please call me at your earliest convenience. Thank you."_

Alan clicked the call button.

"This is Madeline."

"Hi, Madeline, this is Alan Swansea returning your call."

"Oh yes, hello, Alan. Beth Lindsay asked me to call you. She told me that you wanted to know about my organization's services regarding human trafficking victims."

"Yes, that's right. I don't know how much she told you but I know of a woman who has been trafficked to the states from Russia and has been forced into prostitution in a Queens brothel. I've been investigating the abduction of her young sister, who has also been trafficked and may also have been forced into the sex trade."

"Beth has basically explained the situation to me. I want you to know that I will do anything in my power to help you with this, Alan. The Human Connection has been working on behalf of exploited women and children for the last ten years and we are dedicated to see that victims' basic human rights are respected by giving them the support they need."

"That's very good to know, but what if the victim refuses to be helped? I mean, this woman only cares about keeping her family safe and alive. Her captor has threatened to kill her family if she runs away or goes to the authorities. She doesn't seem to care about herself at all—it's like she is resigned to this horrible situation she's in and has totally given up."

"That's not unusual with these victims, unfortunately. I'm sure Beth has explained to you how these pimps operate—how they use violence, drugs, threats whatever they can think of to take total control of their victims. The results are devastating. Victims feel no sense of self-worth and are robbed of their souls. They are used and abused to such an extent that they simply give up all hope after so long."

"That describes Elena to a tee. And now I've encountered another woman in a similar situation."

"No kidding."

"Yeah. And I think this woman's "owner" may be a king pen in this racket."

"Tell me more," she said, her interest evident.

"Well, I followed up on something I'd learned by talking to Elena and tracked down another East European who is being held as a sex slave—by the same man who had first exploited Elena. To make a long story short, I think he is also behind the abduction of Elena's little sister. I'll be honest, Madeline—I want to put all of these bastards away! But I feel like my hands are tied. First of all, since Elena fears for her family's safety, I am afraid to do anything that might jeopardize it. I don't know how much influence this group of thugs has or how extensive their network is. But what if they have the ability to harm her family before anything can be put into place to protect them?

"Secondly, a similar scenario applies for Nadiya, the other woman. She flatly refuses to leave this guy for fear of her family's safety. I literally just left her after having offered her refuge if she would leave with me. It's incredibly frustrating!"

"I understand what you're saying, Alan, and that's how I think we can help. I need to talk to these women somehow if that's possible. Reassure them that their lives are worth reclaiming and that they deserve being freed from their oppressors. That there are risks in everything and that their freedom is worth any risks that may occur to their loved ones. Assure them that their family members would be more than willing to risk their own lives to save theirs if given the opportunity."

"I'm no psychologist but I have to say that I'm doubtful that any of that will turn either of them around. Especially Elena. All she wants is for her sister to be found and taken out of harm's way."

"Perhaps we can change that. But first thing's first. Beth told me you left a cell phone with Elena. She wanted me to check with you first to see if I could call her. Would that be okay?

"Of course. Here, I'll give you the number."

Alan scrolled through his contacts and read off the number to the cell phone he'd bought for Elena.

"Thanks, Alan. I'm going to give her a call sometime later today. Let me see what I can find out about Elena's state of mind. Then I will get back to you. Are you going to be in New York much longer?"

"I'm really not sure how much longer I'll be here. But if I haven't heard from you beforehand, I'll give you a call before I leave."

"Sounds good. And please, Alan, don't hesitate to call if you have any more questions."

"I'll do that. Thanks, Madeline."

"Please call me Maddie. You are most welcome. Talk to you soon."

"Goodbye, Maddie."

Alan disconnected and promptly realized that he hadn't asked Maddie Fulton how her organization planned to protect Elena's family in the event she can be convinced to flee Stokley's Pub. He also hadn't asked what kind of arrangement, if any, the Human Connection had with law enforcement in the event that they bust Viktor's operation. He was about to call her back when he noticed a black Lincoln in his rear view mirror. It occurred to him that it was the same car he had seen parked facing the other direction a block down from Popov's estate when he'd left it.

Alan couldn't make out the driver's appearance but he was fairly certain there were no passengers in the car. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but knew he wouldn't be able to relax until he was sure he wasn't being tailed.

He looked for the first side street he could turn on to. A moment later he spotted one, switched on his turn signal and made a right hand turn. He slowed down, half-expecting the driver of the car behind him to keep going straight.

He didn't.

Wondering what the odds were of this joker choosing this same street to turn onto, Alan made a sudden left hand turn onto another side street without using his turn signal. When the other car also turned left without missing a beat, Alan knew he was being followed.

_Popov!_ he thought. _Or one of his goons—_

He had been shadowed!

How long has this guy been tailing him? he wondered. Had he been tipped off by someone at Popov's restaurant? Or could he have been tailing him even sooner than that? Even before he had left Manhattan that morning?

Alan's pulse quickened at the implications.

Speeding up instinctively, he fumbled inside the inside breast pocket of his jacket for Popov's Blackberry. He hastily booted up the phone and searched frantically for a button that would display a log of any recent call activity, glancing repeatedly at the pursuing car in his rear view mirror at the same time. He wondered for a moment what would happen if he simply pulled over—would the guy just keep on going or slow down long enough to take a pot shot at him?

He didn't really want to find out.

He located the call log directory and began scrolling down the list, nearly hitting a curb in the process. The text on the screen was incredibly small and difficult to read while keeping his eyes on the road. He was hoping to locate Popov's home phone number somehow so he could call Nadiya. He had failed to copy that number down during his shakedown of his home and now cursed himself for his oversight.

Most of the recent calls to Popov's phone were from his restaurant. Finally, he spotted one that was received from "Home" and assumed that it was a call that Nadiya had made to him from his residence. Alan picked up his iPhone, keyed the number in and hit the call button. The phone rang an agonizing six times before it was finally picked up.

"Hello?" he heard the Ukranian woman answer in her thick accent.

"Nadiya—it's Alan Swansea—you must get out of the house _now!"_

"W-what are you saying?" she sputtered.

"Get out of the house! One of Popov's men has been staking the house and he knows that I've been there. Now he's tailing my ass. Do you know how to drive?"

"No, I do not, and I am not leaving this house! You are crazy!"

"Nadiya, the gig is up! Don't you realize that Popov is going to find out that I've been there searching his house for the last hour? That is, if he doesn't already know. That means that you are going to be in serious trouble for letting me in. He will have no trouble putting two and two together. _You have to get away from there!"_

There was short pause as the woman digested what he had just told her.

"But I can't just run away—he will kill my parents! This doesn't change anything!"

"Listen, Nadiya. We don't have time to debate this. You have got to go. Not only is Popov going to waste you when he gets back, but if he has any plans on doing your parents harm he will have already made that decision by the time he gets there either way. Your only chance is to get away while you can. We can worry about your parents later!"

"But— Where am I to go? He will only find me eventually."

"No he won't. You are going to run, not walk toward the beach while I keep this asshole that's following me busy. When you get to the beach, go—wait a minute—

He navigated to the Google Earth app on his phone and clicked on the bookmark he'd created for East Hampton. He zoomed in on the satellite image of Popov's house and dragged the screen south toward the beach that was only a few blocks away. Alan noticed what looked like a public parking area perhaps a mile up the beach.

"Head east on the beach until you reach a big parking lot. Hang out around there and I'll come and pick you up."

"This is crazy! You mean just walk out this house and go down to the beach?"

"No, _RUN!_ Just go!"

"Oh, shit, Alan! I'm so afraid! I don't think I can do it!"

"Yes you can, Nadiya, and you _will do it!_ I can only keep up this cat and mouse chase for so long before this goon decides to give it up and heads back to get you. Trust me on that. You can not be there when that happens, Nadiya!"

The silence on the other side of the phone was maddening. Alan pulled back onto the highway and saw the Lincoln follow behind. He knew that Nadiya was mulling it over. He knew it would be difficult to persuade her to leave that house and he understood why. But what she wasn't taking into account was how close she was to being absolutely wasted by Yuri Popov once he catches wind of what has been going down. Which may have already happened for all he knew.

"Nadiya?"

"Yes."

"Are you gonna do it?"

A short pause.

"Okay. I will leave."

"Great! You have about fifteen minutes to get to that parking lot. If I don't make it there before you, wait ten minutes then continue walking up the beach. No doubt this guy will be looking for you when he realizes that you've left. And his first hunch will be that you headed to the beach."

"What if you can't lose him? What do I do then?"

Alan smiled to himself. "Oh, I will lose him. Don't worry about that."

"I'm glad you are so confident. I could use a little of that myself right now."

"It's going to be fine, Nadiya. Now get going!"

"Please hurry, Alan!"

"I will."

He disconnected.

He was only a short distance from the downtown area of East Hampton. He knew he would never be able to shake this guy once he was in the city limits. So he pulled onto the next side street he could find and slowed down for several blocks on purpose. The Lincoln followed suit.

Alan estimated that he was about ten minutes away from Popov's house. He needed to start doubling back if he was going to be able to pick up Nadiya in the time he had estimated. He studied the satellite image of the area again and spotted the blue GPS icon showing his current position. He was on Meadow Way traveling west. He needed to somehow lose this guy before he got back onto Main Street. He would take a left then a right and basically go around in a circle for a three-block radius. Once he spotted just the right place, he'd leave this guy in the dust.

When he took a right hand turn onto the next street, his pursuer stopped and remained motionless at the intersection. Alan felt his heart skip a beat as he realized that maybe the guy wasn't going to follow him any longer. If he decided to head back to Popov's now, it would be foot race to try to beat him there and find Nadiya. Since he didn't know the area, Popov's goon would most likely win hands-down.

With his mind racing, Alan glanced back in the rear view mirror again and saw the Lincoln pull out and resume the tail. He was going to have to start losing this guy pronto, or the game was over.

Alan floored the accelerator and sped down the street. The man sped up and kept close. Alan peeled his eyes for a place to pull off and shake the guy. When he saw his chance, he locked up his brakes then flew around the curve of what appeared to be a private driveway. He punched his foot to the floor and spun out in the gravel, hoping to find his way out of what now appeared to be a dead-end road. When he passed a mailbox and saw that he was only a few hundred feet from a solitary gray house at the end of the road, Alan locked up the brakes again, threw it into reverse and did a one-eighty. He sped past the guy before he could react. Alan flew back toward the intersection and hung a right just as the guy pulled a donut in the middle of the road.

His foot to the floor, Alan sped southeast until he reached Main street, praying that the local cops weren't out looking for speeders. When he reached Pondview Lane, he executed a sharp right hand turn, checking his rear view mirror at the same time.

The Lincoln was not in sight—

He punched it again and was up to sixty MPH and held it there all the way to Egypt Lane. He went south on Egypt to Further Road and hung a left, the smell of the ocean air a welcome sensation. He checked his rear view mirror again. He was home free—

If the bastard hadn't taken some kind of shortcut, that is—

He whizzed along the road, glancing at the satellite shot on his phone, looking for the name of the street that led to the parking lot. Hanford Lane—he was only a few blocks away. He checked his watch. He was going to arrive at the rendezvous point five minutes earlier than he'd expected. What if Nadiya had balked and was still in the house right this minute gathering up the courage to leave? She may have changed her mind altogether for all he knew. If Popov's man had already scrapped catching up with him and was headed back to the house, she would most definitely be screwed.

All he could do was cross his fingers.

He reached Hanford and hung a right, the Atlantic Ocean visible in the distance. When he reached the beach, he saw a few people milling around but the threat of rain was apparently keeping most of the locals away from the beach. He drove to the end of the parking lot and began looking around for Nadiya. No sign of her. He hopped out of the car and walked down the short sandy path to the beach. Looking all around, he saw a couple of people combing the beach and a man walking his dog, but no Nadiya.

Alan glanced back toward the parking lot to make sure he couldn't see Nadiya then began walking west along the ebbing tide. He felt his hopes wane as he considered the likelihood of Nadiya getting cold feet and never leaving Popov's house. He could almost see her standing there by the door, thinking about her family and her home so far away, fearful that her leaving would lead to their demise. He realized that she had never mentioned ever calling them since she'd been abducted, and this now gnawed at him. Had she been so paranoid of Popov finding out that she had never even tried contacting her family back in Ukraine?

He would have to remember to ask her about that.

If he ever saw her again, that is.

He picked up his pace and kept his eyes peeled. It was beginning to look like Nadiya had never left the house. Allowing for the few moments she may have spent wrapping her head around her escape after he had hung up, she would have easily made it this far by now—

_The bastard is going to catch her,_ he thought dismally. _And her fate would be on his shoulders._

Had he made a huge mistake tracking down Popov and putting this poor woman at risk? Should he have gone about all of this differently and thought it through instead of busting onto the scene like he was some kind of flippin' Rambo?

That feeling of self-doubt was rearing its ugly head again.

Suddenly he spotted a blue and white form walking toward him in the distance. He tried to recall what Nadiya had been wearing and remembered the baggy sweats, navy and white—

It was her!

Alan broke into a run and sprinted toward her. She was walking at a good clip, bogged down by the baggage she was toting. Looked like a good-sized duffle bag. Her gait was awkward in the sand, no doubt due to the shoes she was wearing. As he drew closer, Alan could see the expression on Nadiya's face, a pitiful combination of fatigue, doubt and fear.

"Thank god you made it!" he called out as she slowed down and waited for Alan to reach her.

"Oh, shit! I am going to pass out, I think!" she huffed, all out of breath.

"Please wait until we get back to the car to do that. I am so glad you came, Nadiya. I have to admit, I wasn't sure you would follow through with it."

She shook her head as Alan offered to take her bag. She gratefully handed it over to him.

"I almost didn't leave, and I hope I haven't made a mistake! He is going to kill my parents, I just know it!"

"He won't, Nadiya. I promise."

"How can you promise me that?" she cried.

"I guess I can't. But I _am_ going to do all I can to keep it from happening, and that I can promise. Have you seen the man who was chasing me—a big Lincoln?"

She nodded. "Yes, I think so. I was barely around the corner when I saw a big black car pull into the driveway. I suppose it was him."

Alan cringed as he realized just how close she had been to getting caught.

"Have you seen the car before?"

"No, I don't think so."

"We need to get back to my car and get the hell out of here. It won't take him long to discover you're gone and start looking for you."

"I am so tired! I can't run anymore."

Alan took her hand. "Oh yes you can—you have to!"

She cast him a frenzied look before Alan broke into a gait, nearly dragging the girl behind him.

When they reached the rental car, Alan dumped Nadiya's baggage into the trunk and held the door for her to get in. Alan started up the car, backed out and sped up the street. When he reached the intersection, he blew through it, hoping to avoid the man in the Lincoln who would be coming from the west.

"Where are you taking me?" Nadiya asked.

Alan glanced over at her. "Please put on your seatbelt. We could be in for a shaky ride."

She pulled the shoulder harness around her and snapped it into place. "Where are we going?" she asked again.

"Manhattan. To my hotel."

"And what are going to do there?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nothing like that, I can assure you. We will meet up with a lady who can take you somewhere safe."

"No!" she cried. "I don't want to do that—I thought you said you would keep me safe! You promised me—I want to stay with you!"

"I'm flattered that you feel that way, Nadiya, but it is impossible. You need to go somewhere where Popov and his lynch mob can't find you. This lady works for a group of people who specialize in this sort of thing. They can give you food, shelter and counseling. That's what you need right now."

"How do you know what I need?" she cried. "All I want is to know that my parents will not be murdered by Yuri. Can these people do that for me?"

"I honestly don't know, Nadiya," Alan replied. "I am going to call Maddie Fulton as soon as I know we've lost Popov's goon and we're back on the highway. She will be able to talk to you and tell you all you need to know."

Nadiya started to protest, but said nothing. Alan felt for her. He tried to put himself in her place and couldn't imagine what it would be like to be here in a strange country, forced into what could only be described as out-and-out slavery, and now escaping her bondage with a stranger she probably didn't trust any further than she could throw him.

And all this time, the possibility of her parents being hunted down and killed hanging over her head like a black cloud.

The reached the Montauk Highway and there had been no sign of the black Lincoln. Alan headed west back to the city and dialed Maddie Fulton's number.

"Maddie, it's Alan Swansea again. I have a new situation that I hope you can help me with," he said, glancing over at Nadiya who was staring out the passenger side window.

"Hello, Alan. And what would that be?"

"I have a special passenger in my car right now. Her name is Nadiya."

"Is she alright?"

"Yes, she's fine. I'll skip the details on what led up to this but I have a favor to ask. Nadiya has decided to leave the man who had been using her. I was wondering if you could find her a safe place to stay once I get back to the city."

"That's wonderful! Of course, Alan. I know just the place for her. She will be safe and very comfortable there."

"That's great! Now I have another question. This man has threatened to harm her parents if she ever left or blew the whistle on him. She wants to know if you can do anything to assure their safety."

"All I can promise her is that I will try. I'll need to get her folks' exact location as soon as possible so I can contact our east European associates. Can you put her on the phone, Alan?"

"Just a second."

Alan reached over and gently tapped Nadiya on her shoulder to get her attention.

"Maddie would like to talk to you, Nadiya," he said.

Nadiya turned around to face him and glanced at the phone he was proffering. She hesitated a moment then took the phone and placed it to her ear.

"Hello?"

While Nadiya spoke to Maddie, Alan's thoughts momentarily shifted to Elena. He wanted nothing more than to swing by Stokley's Pub on the way to Manhattan and bust a move upstairs to take her out of that godforsaken place. Right this moment, he felt elated that there was hope for Nadiya to be able to return home and live a normal life again. But his elation was bittersweet. He wanted the same for Elena. He pictured the beaten and abused woman trapped in that tiny room turning tricks day in and day out, utterly hopeless and half starved to death—

This just wasn't enough. He wanted Elena to be safe, too. And her little sister. Every one of them.

And he wanted every last one of the lowlife scum responsible for this unholy madness to be put away forever.

Nadiya handed the phone back to Alan.

"Maddie?"

"I think she's willing to let us help her, Alan. And that's one of the biggest hurdles. Like most victims, she is leery of strangers and has little or no trust in them. I think I've convinced her that she needs to let herself be helped and that there is no catch involved. You can't really blame Nadiya for being so hesitant to this, considering all she has been through. But she seems to be willing to try, which is paramount."

"What about locating her parents?"

"She apparently isn't exactly sure where they are, which may be either good or bad. She said that she has tried to phone them a couple of times at her home in Ukraine, but has never gotten an answer. They have no answering machine though so it may be just bad timing. Or, they have moved somewhere else."

"How can any of this good?"

"Those who may be looking for her may have to look a bit harder."

"I see. But is there anything else you can do?"

"We will try to contact friends of the family to see if we can find out her parents' whereabouts after we get her settled in."

"That's a good idea. Where should I take her when I get back to the city?"

"I'm going to have to make a few calls first, then I'll call you back. When do you think you'll be back in Manhattan?"

Alan looked at the clock. "Probably about 3:30 or so."

"Okay. Let me make those calls and I'll get back to you soon."

"Sounds good. Thanks, Maddie. I really appreciate this."

"It's my pleasure. Talk to you soon."

Alan disconnected and glanced over at Nadiya.

"She's very nice," she said.

"Yeah, she is. And she's very happy that you are going to let her give you a hand with all of this."

"I guess I am, too. It's just so scary. I keep thinking of my mother and father—how much I want to see them again. God, I hope they are okay!"

"They will be fine, Nadiya. You just have to have faith."

Easy for him to say.

After a half-hour of driving in silence, Alan decided to break it.

"So what is it like, living in Ukraine?"

Nadiya seemed surprised by the question. She heaved a sigh and said, "Boring."

"Why do you say that?"

"There is nothing to do there but be depressed about how miserable it is. Most of the people in my hometown are out of work and have no money. Everybody is looking for jobs and doing whatever it takes to survive. That is why so many leave for the big cities."

And look where that gets them, Alan thought. "Do either of your folks work?"

"Mother sews every now and then and does housework for those who can afford such luxuries. Father used to have a good business selling automobiles but that company went out of business many years ago. Since then, he tries to make ends meet as a handy man. Most of the time he just drinks. He is an alcoholic."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Alan fell silent as he realized that her unhappy life was probably the last thing Nadiya wanted to talk about. He felt uncomfortable trying to relate to this beautiful girl and he suddenly understood why people were trained specialists that work with victims like her. It was like walking on eggshells trying to avoid hurting her and there didn't really seem like there was anything upbeat to chat about.

Nadiya was indeed injured goods.

"Where is Ohio?" she asked suddenly.

He couldn't recall ever telling her where he was from and the question threw him off.

"How do you know I'm from Ohio?"

"It said so on the business card you gave me."

He had forgotten the legit card he'd handed her just before leaving Popov's.

"Oh, right. Ohio is about two states west of New York—in what's called the Midwest."

"I would love to see the rest of America. I always dreamed of coming here ever since I was a child. But I never thought it would be under these circumstances," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Maybe you can still do some sight seeing before you go back."

"I would like that if things were different. But all I want to do now is go back home. I miss my parents so much. I hope they are alright—"

"Maddie told me she has sources that can contact them. Everything is going to be okay, Nadiya."

"I hope so."

They were about an hour from Manhattan. Alan decided to play some music to help mellow out the atmosphere a bit. He turned on the radio and tuned in to a classic rock station that was playing the Beatles' _Revolution._ He noticed a smile come to Nadiya's face.

"I love this song!" she exclaimed.

"So you are a big Beatles fan?"

"Oh yes. They are my favorite band ever."

"What kind of music do they play where you live? I mean, is there a lot of American and British music or is it mostly Eastern European?"

"There are many Ukranian pop and rock bands—also metal and even hip-hop. Many try to sound like the Western performers and others play a sort of folk type music. My father used to have a very good collection of Western music. He also loves the Beatles. But he has had to sell most of his recordings to feed us."

"Wow, you both have great taste—I think I'd like your father."

"Oh, you would—he is a good man. And very funny. But he drinks too much."

"Are you an only child, then?"

"I had a younger brother but he died when he was only two years old."

"I'm sorry, Nadiya."

"It is okay. What is it like living in Ohio? Do you have a family?"

"My parents have both passed away. I have a brother who lives in California. That's about it."

"No wife or children?"

"No."

"Why not, Alan? You are older. Don't you want a family?"

He was stunned at how awkward he suddenly felt. The question seemed easy enough for her to ask, yet answering her back was not so easy to do.

" I, uh, used to be married. Her name was Julie. But she died a couple of years ago."

"I am so sorry. I shouldn't have been so nosy."

"It's fine, Nadiya—really. You aren't being any nosier than I've been."

"So, do you think you will marry again? Have kids?"

"I don't think so. I really loved my wife and can't imagine ever loving anyone as much."

"That is very sweet. But you can't always think like that."

"What do you mean?"

"You sound like you are giving up on love. That it can never happen again. That is like saying you have given up on living, even though life has not been good to you."

Alan smiled and threw her a curve. "You mean sort of like you would be doing if you had stayed with Popov?"

She realized what he was getting at. "Yes, I suppose so."

Just then, the iPhone rang. It was Maddie Fulton.

"Hello, Maddie."

"Hi Alan. I've arranged a place for Nadiya to stay. It's downtown in Tribeca. You can take her there directly if you don't mind. It's on Hudson Street near Leonard. I can meet you there if you could just give me a call back fifteen minutes before you reach the city."

"That sounds excellent, Maddie! I honestly don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here for me. I really appreciate it."

"I'm just happy that we can get Nadiya some help and hopefully get her back on track. I'd better go now. I'll be awaiting your call."

"Thanks again."

Alan disconnected and looked over at Nadiya. "Maddie has a place all lined up for you. We're going straight there and Maddie will meet us."

"I hope I'm doing the right thing. I'm so nervous about this!"

"You're going to be just fine."

CHAPTER 21

Alan was impressed with the safe house where he had just dropped off Nadiya— spotlessly clean, well appointed and comfortable. He also felt optimistic about Nadiya's positive reaction toward her temporary quarters and her counselor, Human Connection's caseworker Maddie Fulton. Maddie's warm and compassionate demeanor was a bright spot in an otherwise bleak situation and Alan sensed an immediate bond taking place between her and Nadiya.

As weary as he felt from the long road trip, Alan's wheels were turning furiously when he entered his hotel room. He had a lot to do and knew he had to put things into place quickly. There was little doubt in his mind that Yuri Popov knew of his visit with Nadiya by now and that Nadiya ran away as a result of his visit to his house. Not only would Popov be livid that his live-in sex slave had flown the coop but he would be chomping at the bit to find out what Alan's connection was to the whole situation. In order to bypass any repercussions resulting from Nadiya's escape—such as Popov alerting his associates of Alan's likely involvement— he needed to avoid any possible connection to Popov at this point in the investigation.

He sat down at the small table near the window, removed the lid from his Starbucks coffee and took a sip of Pike Place Roast. He powered up Yuri Popov's Blackberry, clicked on the contacts and scrolled down to the listing for Luka Rusakov. Alan stared at the phone number a full minute, knowing he needed to make the call as soon as possible, wondering if he would be able to pull this off. Everything was at stake with this call, and the result would either bring him closer to finding Polina or blow the entire case to hell and back.

A bead of sweat that had formed on his brow now found its way into his eye. He wiped it away, grabbed his iPhone and keyed in Rusakov's number. There was a long string of numbers and he wondered if he would even be able to connect. Most likely some of the numbers were international calling codes. Was this the number of the man's cell phone somewhere in Russia? Would the call even go through from his own cell phone?

In a moment he'd know.

After a brief silence, he heard a ring tone and held his breath. Another four rings and then a click. A recorded voice in Russian came on and Alan cursed to himself as a thought came to mind: what if Luka doesn't know any English? He would be sunk right from the get-go—

A live voice suddenly interrupted the outgoing voice mail message.

"Allo."

"Mr. Rusakov?" Alan said.

"Da."

"This is Gordon Davis in America. I would like to talk to you about a purchase I am interested in making. That is to say more specifically, a purchase of your services."

"Who is this—Gordon Davis? I know no one by this name."

Alan breathed a sign of relief when he heard the Russian's clipped English.

"I am an acquaintance of Viktor's in New York. That is to say, I know of Viktor through a common friend of ours. He referred me to you."

"Who is this Viktor? I know of no Viktor in New York. I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number."

Alan could sense he was lying. The guy was trying to feel him out to make sure he was legit.

"I am certain you know Viktor. Viktor Skipetroff? That's how I got your phone number—how else could I have contacted you?"

There was a brief pause as Luka processed this. Alan kept his fingers crossed.

"Oh, yes. I do know of Viktor. But what do you want of me? What is this about a purchase?"

"You have access to something that I am willing to pay a lot of money for. But I am afraid to discuss it over the phone. Is there any way that I could possibly meet with you to discuss this?"

"What do you mean, Mister, uh—Davis?" Luka asked.

"As I said, I prefer not to discuss this matter over the phone. How do I know the line is safe? I am secure from my end but how do I know that your line isn't bugged?"

Luka chuckled. "Oh, I can assure you that my line is not, _bugged,_ as you say, Mr. Davis! I am paying very much for this phone line—I take no chances."

His naive air of confidence and quasi exclusivity was laughable. Alan wondered how big of a fish Luka Rusakov was in the food chain of this whole racket. Then he recalled Nadiya's mention of his being a close friend to Yuri Popov, making Rusakov's level of clout in the organization a moot issue.

"I have no doubt you don't take any chances, Mr. Rusakov. But can you assure me that no one is monitoring this call? I don't take chances, either."

"I am a busy man, Mr. Davis, and I have no time for foolishness. Nor am I about to fly to the United States to meet with someone I do not know to discuss the purchase of some unknown services. Please know that your call is in strict confidence and let us cut to the chase, as you Americans say."

"Very well, then." Alan paused a moment for effect. "I have been informed that you know of several young women who are seeking new employment in America. The way I understand it, there are five or so of them all currently working as models for an artist but their engagement is about to come to an end. Do you know what women I am referring to?"

"I must say, Mr. Davis, that I am impressed that your friend is so uh, knowledgeable of this special situation. There are in fact very few who know of these young ladies and their current employment arrangement."

"Well, let's just say that I have some fairly influential connections and leave it at that. So, Mr. Rusakov, are these women still available for employment?"

"Yes, but not yet. They should be soon."

"What kind of answer is that? Can you be more specific? I mean, are we talking about days, or weeks or what?"

"I can't give you an exact date, Mr. Davis. Their current employer has not committed to a time for their release from his employment."

"That makes it rather difficult for us to negotiate then, doesn't it?"

"I must remind you that it is you who called me, Mr. Davis. At this time these women aren't yet ready for sale—er—I mean aren't available for work yet so I am not looking for negotiations with anybody yet."

As a result of Luka's slip of tongue reference to the girls not being _ready for sale,_ Alan felt his pulse quicken. Not only was he now certain that Luka Rusakov knew where Polina and the other girls were, there was a also good chance that they were somewhere in the States. He had purposely told the Russian he had been informed that the girls were seeking new employment in America. Rusakov's failure to correct him indicated that they were most likely here and not somewhere abroad.

He decided to go for broke. "So what you are telling me is that you aren't interested in negotiating the future employment of these girls at this time, Mr. Rusakov?"

"I didn't say that—I just said that I haven't been looking for any employers yet. That isn't to say I wouldn't be interested in discussing the matter at this time."

_Just as I hoped you would say, Mr. Rusakov._ "Well, as you no doubt already know, a purchase like this requires a lot of planning, and timing is of the essence. If you are indeed interested in negotiating the future employment of these young women, I need to know not only how soon I can hire them but if I am in fact interested in hiring them in the first place. In other words, I must see the goods first. Is that at all possible, Mr. Rusakov, or would you expect me to make this purchase in blind faith?"

"Oh, of course not, Mr. Davis! But I can assure you that these women will suit your needs without doubt. They are young, beautiful and as you may already have heard, quite uh—innocent. You can take me on my word for that."

"Your word doesn't mean squat to me, Mr. Rusakov. Listen, I am willing to pay a very large sum of money for your services, but that is contingent upon my being satisfied with the goods you are representing beforehand. Now, I need a straight answer: will I be able to view these women to see if they're what I'm looking for or not?"

There was a pause before he replied. "I will first have to check with the current employer about this, Mr. Davis. You see, he is rather eccentric and very—uh, private. He may not be willing to agree to this."

"You can't be serious! Are you saying that you're letting this person tell you how to do your job? I mean, from what I've heard, you are the one who is in charge of these young women. Is that not so?"

"Er, yes, I am. But—"

"But what, Mr. Rusakov? If that's true, then you should be calling all of the shots. How can this man expect you to get these women rehired if a potential employer can't first interview them? That is total bullshit!"

"My problem is that I made an agreement with this man prior to his employment of these women. It will be very difficult to go against this arrangement, Mr. Davis."

"Then I would suggest you give it your best shot, Mr. Rusakov. Otherwise, you are going to have an awful tough time putting up these women until you can find work for them."

"I am already aware of that, and don't think that doesn't concern me. But a deal is a deal. I can't break the contract. I can only hope that he will be willing to give me some un—slack, as you say."

"I hope so too, for your own sake. I'll tell you what, Luka—may I call you Luka? Why don't you speak to this man and explain the situation to him. Tell him that you have an interested party who is _insisting_ on seeing these girls before he will consider hiring them. Tell him what an awkward position he is putting you in. Push him, man! Tell him it's no skin off of his teeth and that this is just how you do business. Then, after you've spoken to him, give me a call and let me know what you find out. Fair enough?"

Alan knew that pushing the envelope like this could easily blow this whole deal. But he didn't have time to pussy foot around with this guy. He'd either take the bait or not.

"Yes, that is fair. But don't get your hopes up, Mr. Davis."

"Don't worry about me, Luka. I am a patient and understanding man. But when I want something, I almost always end up getting it. You can trust me on that."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?"

"No, not at all. It's just a fact, Luka. Just a fact."

"I see. I will call the man and then call you back—"

"On second thought, I will call you back. How long will it take for you to contact this party and get an answer for me?"

"Give me a day or two."

"A day or two! You have got to be kidding, Luka! How long can it take to punch in a number and ask this guy a simple question?"

"But, uh, there is an a eight hour time difference between Moscow and the United States—he may already be in bed asleep!"

"Listen, Luka. I'm calling from the U.S. and it's only 10:00 PM here. Nobody goes to bed this early except for young children and very old people. I'd like you to call the man as soon as we get off here and find out for me. Do you think you can do that?"

"You are a pushy one, Mr. Davis—that I can see. Okay, I will call him now. But I can tell you now that he probably is not going to uh, go for this idea."

"Only one way to tell. I'll call you back in fifteen minutes."

"Goodbye."

After he disconnected, Alan had to laugh. He knew he had taken some huge risks in his conversation with Luka Rusakov, but the man's insecure demeanor had given him faith that he could get away with it. There was something about the guy that seemed amateurish—like he wasn't exactly sure how to deal with somebody that's cocky and demanding. Which was a huge break.

Now all he could hope for was that the Russian could somehow persuade who ever had Polina and the others to allow him take a look at his models. He had little hope that this would happen however, and he didn't really plan on it happening. But maybe he could at least get a bead on the artist's identity or where he was keeping the girls. Then he would take it from there.

Alan opened the clock app on his iPhone and located the world clock button. He pressed the add button and typed in Moscow. The present time there was 6:05AM. This was exactly eight hours later than the current New York time of 10:05 PM—

So not only had he learned that Polina was in the States, but there was a good chance they were somewhere in the eastern time zone since Luka had said there was eight hours difference between Moscow and wherever they were being held captive.

Was it possible that they were in New York?

Hopefully he would know in just a few moments.

His thoughts switched over to Elena Nazarova. He wondered about her safety once Popov discovered that Nadiya had escaped. Would he suspect she had been approached by the same person responsible for Nadiya's leaving? That she may have been the key to Alan's discovering Nadiya's whereabouts? He could only hope that the restaurant owner/gang kingpin wouldn't draw that conclusion. It was unlikely actually, that he would given the circumstances. For unless Alan had been tailed prior to his driving to East Hampton, which Alan doubted, Popov would have no reason to believe that Elena had any part in any of this.

Every time he thought of the poor woman stuck in that miserable place, Alan's conscience begged for him to call the cops or the feds and have the place busted immediately. But as difficult as it was to do, he had to keep his promise to Elena and refrain from contacting the authorities. He had a feeling that blowing the whistle on Stokley's Pub would be a mistake at this point in time anyway. Not only would doing so raise a flag to the others involved in this operation, he knew that the only way Yuri Popov would go down in flames was to go for the kingpin's jugular. Then Viktor Stipetroff, Luka Rusakov and anyone else involved in this gang would go down along with him.

He needed to find Polina. That was the key.

He waited another five minutes and then called Luka again. He got his voice mail. Either the Russian was on the line with Polina's captor or blowing him off. He continued calling until Luka finally answered.

"This is Gordon Davis again—what have you found out?"

"I am sorry, Mr. Davis. But he will not budge. I told you that would be the case."

"But that's not acceptable, Luka! Did you explain to him that you won't be able to get those girls new employment without his cooperation?"

"Yes, I did. He told me that that is my problem, not his. I must add that he was very, uh, pissed off that I was calling him. He warned me not to call again, period. This has strained my relationship with this client, Mr. Davis. I'm afraid there is no deal."

"No deal, my ass! What kind of businessman are you, Luka? Do you take shit like this from all your clients? I am really disappointed!"

"Now wait a minute, Mr. Davis. I am a good businessman. I made a deal with this client and I intend to honor his wishes. Sorry, but I must go now."

Alan's desperation was palpable. But he didn't show it. "Very well, Luka. I guess I understand the position your in and I admire your faith to your clients. So let me take the pressure off of you so we can both benefit. Why don't you give me your client's phone number and I will negotiate this with him myself? What do you say?"

"That is not possible, Mr. Davis. I am also bound not to give his identity or whereabouts to anybody. I am afraid there is nothing else to do."

"Listen, Luka. He doesn't have to know that you told me squat—I will keep you totally out of this. All I need is a phone number and I'll take it from there. He'll never know you gave it to me."

"Oh, but he will, sir. He will be able to put two plus two together since he already knows that you are an interested party."

"How will he know that? He will never be able to prove anything! There are no doubt others in the market for these girls besides myself. He will never know for sure that you had anything to with my contacting him. Trust me."

"I'm afraid I can't do that—much too risky. Sorry—"

"Okay, okay," Alan said. "I won't pressure you anymore for that number. But will you at least do one thing for me?"

"What?"

"Give this person my cell number. Perhaps he will change his mind."

Luka chuckled. "He will not change his mind, I can assure you of that. But okay, Mr. Davis, I'll think about giving him your number. But if I do, it won't be for at least a week—he does not want to hear back from me. It will have to wait. And don't expect to hear back from him."

"Well, you don't leave me with any other choice, Luka. So this is my only option."

Alan read off his number. "Please let me know if you have a change of heart, Luka. I really want those girls."

"I will, Mr. Davis. Goodbye."

When Alan disconnected, he felt like he had been ran over by a train. As green as he had thought the Russian was, he realized that he had underestimated him.

Now, what?

He had only one hope left. Charlie Ling.

He pressed his name in his contacts.

"Charlie, it's me again. I am hoping and praying you can help me out with something."

"Shoot – I'm about ready to give up on that website URL, anyway. I've been doing overtime on that thing today. It's useless, man, I just can't crack through it. So please give me something that's doable so I'll feel a little better."

"What about cell phone logs?" Alan asked, crossing his fingers.

"You mean like, can I tell you who called who at such and such a time?"

"Exactly."

"It depends. Some carriers are easier to hack than others. Some are damn near impossible. Which carrier are we talking about?"

"Actually I don't know. All I've got is a number. I need to know the number this guy just called a few minutes ago."

"That's not going to help much. Give me the number and I'll see what I can do."

"Uh, it's kinda long— "

"What do you mean, "kinda long?"

"Well, it's sort of an international cell phone number," Alan replied lamely.

"You're shitting me, right? You want me to not only try to find out info without a carrier name and the carrier is operating outside of the States? That's a fantasy, my friend!"

"Can you at least try? I have got to find out who this guy called and where he's located. It's the same guy with the website, Charlie. And time is quickly running out."

"Okay, I'll give it a shot. Where is the cell phone located—and please don't tell me you don't even know that!"

"No, it's in Moscow. That I am sure of."

"Shit, it would have to be an ex-communist country! I'll be honest, Alan, this is not looking too promising. Unless the phone is on a network that is common to the U.S, it will be virtually impossible to even get out of the gate. And even if it is a common carrier, like say AT&T, it's not going to be a stroll through the park!"

"Please, just try Charlie—a lot is riding on this. I'll pay you twice your usual rate."

"You know that's never been an issue with me. But I'll be honest—I feel like I've let you down not being able to come through on that website so I'll do my best to make up for that. I just don't want you to get your hopes up."

"I won't. How long before you can tell me if there's even a chance?"

"Depends on how long it takes me to trace down the carrier. Normally that doesn't take too long—just have to cross-reference exchanges, and so on. Assuming it's a good carrier, then I an probably get you that info within twenty-four hours."

"That would be great! I'm going to go ahead and book the first flight out of here tomorrow and come home. I miss my dog and I am pretty damn tired of this place."

"Okay. Give me the number and I'll get on this right away. I'm not doing anything in particular now anyway."

"Thanks Charlie."

Alan read off Luka's cell phone number and the approximate time Luka would have placed his call to Polina's captor. Then he promised Charlie a steak dinner if he came up with the info within twenty-four hours. Charlie simply laughed and reminded Alan he was a vegetarian before hanging up.

After booking a flight out of LaGuardia to Columbus that departed at 7:45 the next morning, Alan left a message for Marie Schiff saying that he would be picking up Pan before noon. He followed this up with a call to Maddie Fulton to let her know of his plans to leave the next morning and to ask her to keep him in the loop with regard to Nadiya's progress. Finally, he called Beth Lindsay and updated her on the case since making contact with Maddie Fulton. Beth commended him for his freeing Nadiya from her incarceration then informed him that she had tried calling Elena twice on the cell phone Alan had left with her but she had not returned her calls. This only made Alan feel even more frustrated than he already was with this case.

He felt that familiar sense of insecurity lingering again as he chugged down his first beer of the evening.

CHAPTER 22

Yuri Popov was impressed with what he saw. Of the dozen or so women standing before him, at least half of them were under twenty with gorgeous bodies. These would be his bread and butter—the cream of the crop. The rest of them would be sufficient at best; perhaps he would send them to the south where the men like their women with lots of meat on their bones. He had heard from some of the clients that the fat ugly ones were the best ones on the job—possibly to compensate for their misgivings in the looks department. He couldn't give a flying fuck either way. They were all sluts any way you sliced them and the money they would bring him was all he was concerned about.

The girls were all lined up along the wall in various stages of undress. Ivan certainly knew how to present the goods, he had to give him credit. He had ordered the ones with the best looks to remove most of their clothes and then carefully arranged them in such a way that none of the good-lookers stood side by side. This of course downplayed the fact that most of the remaining women were basically ugly cows with less than alluring figures hidden beneath their clothes. As they should be—

All of these women had one thing in common, however: they were all scared shitless. And that was for good reason: they were all eventually going to be bought and shipped off to work in brothels or on the streets either in Europe or in the States.

He walked over to the most beautiful girl in the group. She was about twenty or so, with long blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and a face like a cherub. She reminded him a lot of Nadiya in fact, with the exception that she was a bit shorter with smaller breasts.

"Turn around," he told the girl in Russian.

She glared at him and Ivan stepped over to the group.

"Do as the man says, bitch!" Ivan snapped.

He raised his hand to slap her but Popov seized him by the wrist.

"Don't you dare strike this beautiful woman, Ivan! She is just a little hesitant to comply because she is frightened. Now, honey, please turn around for me. I won't harm you."

The girl remained still and continued to stare at Popov defiantly, which excited him to no end. She could be a perfect replacement for Nadiya! he thought. So much spunk! But the slut still needed to learn how to take an order—

"Turn around now, dear, before you get me all worked up too," he said, with more than a trace of threat in his voice.

The girl rolled her eyes and then turned around. Yuri stared down at her sweet ass as he reached for the clasp of her bra and undid it. The bra fell to the floor and girl flinched.

"Now turn back around, uh—what is your name, dear?"

The girl turned slowly around. But instead of staring at the floor, as so many of them did after being humiliated, this one simply glared at Popov with eyes of pure hatred.

This was more than Popov was about to take from the silly bitch. He backhanded her hard on the cheek. There was a loud smack as her head whipped backward. The entire room suddenly fell silent—only the clicking of a wall clock was audible.

Popov glared at her, his face beet red. "I asked you what your name is, wench, and you will tell me this instant!"

She was still reeling from the blow, a hand-sized red welt already visible on her cheek. Her eyes had lost their fire and were now fearful and docile as a lamb's.

"Lydia," she moaned quietly.

"Lydia, eh? Well, that's a very sweet name. But you could use a few lessons on obedience, Lydia. I want you to follow Ivan back to your room now. I will rejoin you there a little later."

"Please, sir! I am sorry—I will obey you!" she cried.

Popov got right in her face, smiling broadly. "Oh, but I know you will, Lydia. That's why you will go to your room and wait for me there. Ivan, take her away."

"No!" she shouted as Ivan grabbed her by the arm and led her out of the room.

"Oh, and Ivan—send Mikhail and Sergei up here after you're finished with her."

Ivan nodded.

Popov continued slowly down the line of women, enjoying the look of sheer terror on their faces. This is the way it is supposed to be, he thought. All of these bitches put in their places. He stopped at a girl who was clearly the youngest in the group. She was tiny and didn't look a day over thirteen. Her eyes were all puffy from all of the tears she no doubt had shed since being plucked up from her family and her home. A pity, really, that she now found herself in this place at such a young age. But the amount of money she was going to bring in would make that pity disappear like magic.

He moved on to the next one, a tall brunette with large breasts that actually looked like they could be real. He was about to examine her when he felt his cell phone vibrate. He pulled the new Blackberry out of his breast pocket and glanced at the caller ID. The woman would have to wait for a moment.

"What is it, Hank? And it better be good."

"She's gone, Yuri!" his man said.

Popov wasn't sure he heard him right. "What are you saying, Hank? Who is gone?"

"Nadiya, sir! She has escaped!"

Popov felt a sharp pain in his chest as he turned and walked toward the door. "You had better be fucking kidding me, Hank, or I am going to personally string you up by your nuts and hang you out to dry!"

"I'm sorry, Yuri, but I'm telling the truth—she took off about an hour ago and I can't find her anywhere."

Popov stepped out of the room and went over to a window in the hallway, in utter disbelief of what he was being told by his Long Island security man.

"Hank, take a deep breath and start at the beginning. Is it possible she is running an errand? She left the house once before, if you recall, when she decided to take a walk to the grocery store. I nearly killed her for doing it but still, maybe she's just decided to sneak out for a short time while I'm out of the country."

"No, sir, I'm pretty sure she has escaped. It looks like she took some of her stuff with her. And there was a man who came to the house earlier today. I was making my rounds and spotted his car parked out front. So I hung out a few blocks away and waited for him to leave—just to make sure he left alone. I mean, I thought he was just some kind of traveling salesman or something. He only stayed a half hour or so and then he left. Alone. I decided to tail him to see where he went—just to be on the safe side. But, well, he sort of lost me near the center of town."

"Judas Priest, Hank, are you fucking _shitting_ me? Am I really hearing all of this? Please tell me you aren't that stupid, _please!_ How could you sit around in your goddamn car and _hang out_ while a stranger was inside my goddamn house with Nadiya? Have you lost your mind?"

"I'm sorry, Yuri. I just figured that as long as I kept an eye on him, no harm would be done. I swear, it's standard procedure. I didn't want to make some kind of big deal out of nothing with the guy and possibly arouse suspicion."

"Standard procedure? To sit there like a fucking duck while this guy has run of my entire house for thirty minutes? Now does that sound like standard procedure? But finish the story, Hank, before I blow a gasket here. Do you think this guy has anything to do with Nadiya's leaving?"

"I'm not sure, but it sort of looks that way. I mean, I looked all over the place for her—combed the neighborhood, the beach, everywhere. No sign. But she was on foot—so she couldn't have gotten too far in the time I was out tailing the guy. Unless somebody picked her up—that's the only way she could have disappeared like that."

"So you think the stranger who lost you came back and picked her up?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so. What else could it be?"

Popov fell silent. If what Hank thought may have happened really did happen, that meant that the man who took Nadiya probably had been looking for her. Or himself. Either way, this was fucked up. He would have to find out where the stranger took her and pronto.

"What did this guy look like?"

"White, about six foot, longish dark hair, medium build. I'd say he's about thirty to thirty-five."

"We've got to find out where they went, Hank. Please tell me you took down his license plate number. Or I may just have to kill you when I get back."

"Of course I took it down, chief. And I've already had it traced to a rental car company in Manhattan. I'm heading there right now to see what I can find out."

"Good, at least you've done something right. But Hank, I must say that I am very disappointed in you. You know you are going to pay dearly for this after we find her, don't you?"

"But sir, I thought I was doing the right thing! I'll find her and everything will be good again!"

"It will never be good again, Hank, if this guy is some kind of investigator or something. It isn't going to be good at all. And you are going to be the second person I take care of after all of this is said and done. Nadiya, that fucking slut, is going to be first to bite the dust."

"Please, Yuri, don't do this! I promise I'll make it all up to you. I'll find the girl and the guy—I promise!"

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Hank. It isn't healthy."

"I'm going to find them. You'll see."

"You had better, Hank. And I want you to call in every half hour until you do. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Popov pressed the end button.

Yuri had always been a laid back, cool cookie his entire life. His philosophy was to lay low and make all of the money he could without getting caught. He had spent his life making that happen and for the most part, it had worked. And he'd been as clean and cool as a cucumber through it all.

But he had a bad feeling about this. Never had anyone stepped foot in his house that he didn't know or wasn't invited. He had ordered Nadiya never to let anybody inside the house while he was away—to never even answer the door if somebody rang the doorbell. That went for Fed Ex drivers, the mailman—any fucking body, period.

Yet the silly slut had defied him. She had evidently not only answered the door but actually let this bastard inside. And she had let the guy remain for half a fucking hour—

Nadiya was dead meat. He should have gotten rid of her a couple of months ago when he first started really growing really tired of her. But he had held off. And now look at what had happened—

Why in the hell had she let this guy in? Had she been expecting him? That would be the most obvious explanation. Otherwise, he just couldn't see the bitch opening the door up to a total stranger. But of course nothing was impossible with the dizzy Ukrainian whore—

So if that were the case, _why_ had she been expecting the guy to show up? Had she called him or had he called her? And what was the reason for his visit? Could he be a cop or an investigator working on a case?

Possibly, but unlikely. Popov had always maintained a low profile—obsessively vigilant to keep his name and outside business transactions out of the public eye. In all outward appearances he was nothing but a successful restaurant owner with clean hands—he hadn't so much as a traffic ticket on his record. And the house was squeaky clean. This stranger couldn't have found a single shred of evidence suggesting he was anything but an honest tax paying restaurant owner. He was certain of that.

_So what the hell is going on here?_ Had Nadiya actually turned a deaf ear to his threats and spilled the beans to this guy? Is it possible?

He seriously doubted it and this was the only thing keeping him focused right now and not totally freaking out. Nadiya had her flaws and could be weak at times, but she would never do anything that would jeopardize the lives of her beloved parents. He had made it crystal clear to her that if she pulled something like this, he would blow her parents away quicker than flies on shit.

Popov had already given this action some thought. But first, he wanted to be absolutely sure Nadiya had indeed crossed him before he would have her folks executed.

There were other possible explanations for what had happened. What if Nadiya had been abducted by the visitor? What if he had gained access to the house by force and kidnapped Nadiya? It was even possible that the guy was a pimp he knew that had it out for him, so he'd taken his woman.

But why would he leave her there alone at the house if he were going to kidnap her? That didn't make any sense—she would have simply run away before he got back.

Which may have been what happened. And the guy had been able to track her down after he lost Hank.

Or, for all he knew he had managed to talk her into leaving with him voluntarily. Which case, he simply ran to get something while she packed her belongings.

Fuck! Why did this have to happen?

Mikhail and Sergei suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs and walked over to him. Popov stared at the two scruffy-looking Russians and wondered if he would be able to rely on them to take things over from here. The issue was moot though since he had no other choice.

"Listen carefully—something's come up. I want you both to go in there and separate them into two groups: Mikhail, you take the best lookers but leave a few for Sergei. And I don't want to hear one fucking complaint from you, Sergei—you know I'm still pissed after what you pulled last time I was here. Then I want you, Mikhail, to take your group down to the cellar and keep them there until I can get a hold of Fergie to drive the van down and transport them over to his place. You are to stay here, Sergei until Bruce arrives from Hamburg—that should be some time tomorrow morning. You are both to lay low until all of the paperwork is finished—Klaus will take care of that. Then take your ladies and go your separate ways. I'm going to have to fly back to the states pronto so you guys are on your own. Don't fuck anything up or I'll personally have you both deported to the bottom of the Dead Sea. Got it?"

"Yeah, we got it. So what's come up that you have to fly back so soon, boss?" Mikhail asked.

"Let's just say there was a breech in security and leave it at that. No big deal, but you need to focus on your own business and not worry about mine."

"Right," Mikhail said. He looked at Sergei. "Well, let's go inside and divvy up the goods, my friend."

Sergei smiled idiotically and followed Mikhail into the room where the women were being held.

Popov clicked on his cell phone contacts and chose Viktor Skipetroff. There was an appreciable delay before his friend finally answered.

"Viktor, it's Yuri. Where are you now?"

"At the spa, why?"

"I'm in Berlin and just got a call from Hank. Nadiya has flown the coop."

"You have to be shitting me! What happened?"

"Someone visited my home today and the cunt let him inside. I don't know what the hell went on while he was inside but after he left Hank tailed the guy and then lost him. By the time he made it back to the house Nadiya was gone. He thinks the guy came back to get her."

"Why in the holy hell did Hank let the guy get away in the first place? He didn't even question him?"

"No, the fucking idiot! Anyway, at least he got a license number and is trying to track the guy down in Manhattan. I'm calling to see if anything suspicious has happened at either of the places in the last few days. You know, like has anyone been snooping around or anything like that? This guy is white, about six foot, dark hair medium build, thirty-ish."

"Nothing that I've noticed. Everything has gone fairly smoothly at the bar and this place is running like clockwork. In fact, I had a special guest show up again for a massage."

"Let me guess, one of your cop friends from Queens."

"Yeah. This one especially loves the spa, and for good reason. I mean, where else can you get all of the nookie you want for free?"

Popov forced a laugh. Nothing like a couple of cops on the take to keep things kosher. Back to the question—can you think of anything at all that seemed suspicious? What about my dear Elena? Has she been behaving herself?"

"Yeah, she's been pretty good. But I'm actually a bit worried about her. I probably should get someone else there to take up the slack—business has been booming the last week or so and the poor bitch is getting pretty burned out. I just may have to start looking for some fresh goods and get rid of her altogether if she doesn't start perking up."

"Why don't you just take a couple of the girls from the parlor and lay Elena out to pasture if she's that fried? I could have Mick pay a visit and take care of her for you. You know how good he is at liquidating waning assets."

"Yeah, I may just give that some thought. If that place didn't pull in so much easy money, I'd sell Stokley's and just stick with the parlor. Less headaches, for sure."

"That might mess up your arrangements with the boys in blue, though. You got to keep them happy, too you know. At any rate, let me know if anything suspicious comes your way. I'm thinking that the guy who took Nadiya could have been some kind of investigator—and may have been tipped off somehow. I can't think of any other way he would be able to track down my house, for chrissakes."

"I hear what you're saying, it definitely sounds fishy. I'll ask Tommy if he's noticed anything suspicious when I see him later on."

"Good, thanks. Listen, Vik, I have to go. I'm going to have to settle up things here and then fly back home tonight. I'll touch base with you when I get a chance."

"Okay, Yuri. Have a good flight."

Popov disconnected. The next call he made was to Luka Rusakov.

"Luka, it's Yuri."

"Hey, my friend, how are you?"

"Not so good at the moment. I'm calling to find out if anything out of the ordinary has been happening there."

"What do you mean by that, Yuri?"

"Has there been anyone asking questions about me or any of our associates?"

"What kind of questions?"

Popov sighed. Luka was so daft that he had to spell everything out for him. "Questions like they are trying to find out what we do—you know, like they are investigating our business."

"Oh, I understand. No, nothing that I can think of. There have been the police snooping around once in a while, but no more than usual. You know how they want to look like they are on top of things when they really couldn't give a shit."

"Okay, that's good. I'm afraid that someone has taken one of the women. From my house, no less. I think this guy could be trying to bust me."

"Shit, Yuri! You think this guy found out where you lived and took your woman on purpose? That could be big trouble!"

_No shit, Luka?_ Popov thought to himself. "Yes, Luka, it could really be big trouble. So you can't think of anything unusual that has happened in say the last week or so? Nothing suspicious at all?"

"Well, there was the man who called from the States who was interested in buying Fowler's girls. That seemed strange because not very many know about that deal."

Popov felt the pain in his chest again. "What's this? When did the man call?"

"Just a short while ago."

"What was his name?"

"Let me see, a Gordon, uh Davis. That's it, Gordon Davis."

"And he was asking specifically about the girls that you found for Martin Fowler?"

"Yes."

"Did he tell you how he found out about them? No one knows about that but a handful of people—certainly not a Gordon Davis."

"He didn't say exactly how he found out about them—he just said that he had connections, like he was some sort of big shit. And he said that Viktor gave him my cell number. That's the only reason I talked to him in the first place."

"That isn't possible! I just spoke to Viktor and he told me nothing about giving a Gordon Davis your number or having told anyone about those girls!"

"Not to worry, anyway. I told him that the girls weren't for sale now. He tried to talk me into seeing the girls so he could decide if he would be interested in them once they went on sale. I of course told him that would be impossible because of the deal I had made with their present employer."

"At least you did the right thing there. What did the man say after you told him that?"

Luka paused and didn't reply right away. Popov sensed there was something his primary recruiter was holding back.

"Luka? What did he say?"

"Uh, you may not like this, Yuri, but I'll tell you anyway. Like I said, this man was pushy and he sort of, uh, talked me into calling Fowler to see if he would change his mind about showing the girls."

"He what? I told you Luka under no circumstances to contact Martin Fowler once the deal was done, did I not? And now you're telling me you called him just because of this stranger?"

"Uh, I know Yuri that I shouldn't have. It's just that—well, I sort of wanted to see if I could keep the guy interested in case we can't find a buyer for all of them. Or at least be able to get a price war happening. I never spoke to Fowler, anyway. His assistant answered my call and told me that Fowler was busy at the time. I never told him who I was and just hung up."

"Judas Priest, Luka! Now do you see why I told you that I would take care of this matter once Martin was through with those girls? You are such a dolt! You don't know your ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to business matters!"

"But I made a good deal with Fowler for those girls—you even said so yourself!"

"Listen, Luka. I let you negotiate the deal with Martin Fowler because he is a personal friend of mine and needed a favor. I figured that since you were the best recruiter I had that if you were able to acquire what he was looking then I'd let you handle the deal, too. Let you make some big bucks for all your trouble. But that was to be the end of your involvement. And I told you so. Now we've got some guy we don't know from the man in the moon calling about girls he shouldn't even know about!"

"I am sorry, Yuri."

"You sure as fuck are! Is there any more you haven't told me, Luka?"

"That's it. I told him that Fowler still refused to show the girls and then he gave me his cell phone number and told me to give it too Fowler in case he changed his mind. I told him that was not likely to happen and that was the end of the conversation."

Popov tried to collect himself. On one hand, none of this necessarily seemed relevant to Nadiya's escape. He couldn't think of any possible relationship between this Gordon Davis looking for the young girls to buy and what had happened at his home. But it seemed just a little too coincidental not to give pause. What bothered him the most was the fact that this guy had found out about the girls in the first place. He had promised Martin he would keep this arrangement confidential, which is exactly what he had done. Viktor, Luka and himself were in fact the only ones who knew about the deal. He had given Viktor the link to Martin's website with the photos of the girls on it just so Viktor could show them to Elena and taunt her about her little sister. He hated Elena that much and knew that it would upset her. But he told Viktor under no circumstance was he to show those photos to anyone else because of his promise to Martin of complete anonymity of the situation—

He needed to call Viktor back. Find out if he had given Luka's phone number or any other information to a Gordon Davis.

"I'm going to have to call you back Luka. Keep your cell phone on."

He disconnected and called Viktor back.

"Vik, I need to ask you something. Do you know a man named Gordon Davis?"

"No, that name doesn't ring any bells. Why do you ask?"

"I'm following up on something that Luka just told me. Has anyone inquired about Fowler's girls or asked you for Luka's cell phone number? I need the truth, Vik—no bullshit."

"Yuri, we go back a long way. And I can honestly tell you that I have not told a soul about those girls or given out Luka's number."

"Okay, I believe you. It looks like someone is snooping around."

Popov proceeded to tell him of his conversation with Luka.

"So what are you going to do about this, Yuri?" Viktor said.

"I don't know yet. I'm going to have to wait and see what Hank finds out. If the guy who took Nadiya is the same guy who just called Luka inquiring about those girls, it could be real trouble. Nothing to do but wait it out at this point."

"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

"Thanks, Vik. I'll call you when I get back to New York."

CHAPTER 23

After hanging up from Yuri Popov's second call, Viktor took a swig of Vodka and stared thoughtfully at the video screen. On the screen was a wide-angle view of the reception area for Healthway Massage and Spa. In the foreground was the back of Melanie's lovely head. Melanie was the receptionist and wore a headset that was linked not only to the business phone but to the headset he was wearing by a wireless network. Beyond Melanie he saw the pair of chairs lining the wall and the main entrance to the spa. On either side of her desk were doors leading to the back.

Viktor's job was simple: just sit there monitoring the clients that entered the place. Most of the clientele were repeat business, which made his work incredibly boring most of the time. But other times it was interesting and in fact a vital aspect of the business. It was imperative to carefully screen all of those potential clients looking for services beyond standard massage therapy.

Which would be the johns.

A middle-aged man wearing an expensive gray suit suddenly came through the door. Viktor listened closely to his headset as Melanie greeted him.

"Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment?"

The man smiled and replied, "No, this is my first time here."

"I see. Are you familiar with our services?"

"Oh, yes, and that is why I chose this place. Your reputation for quality service is first-rate."

"Why, thank you, sir. We pride ourselves on giving the best services at affordable prices. So what may I ask would interest you?"

"I'm looking for something that would relax me and help tone my muscles at the same time. Do you have something like that?"

"Why of course, uh, what is your name?"

"James Foster. But you may call me Jim."

"Alright, Jim. Yes, as you know we are a full-service spa using all of the latest equipment and techniques. In addition to our whirlpools and private saunas, we offer a variety of packages that include the ultimate in relaxing massage coupled with a regimen of effective muscle-toning exercises."

"That's what I want, a package deal."

Melanie smiled and handed him a brochure. "Our package deals are listed here along with our individual services. Why don't you take a look and let me know which package interests you?"

The man took the brochure, his expression a little odd. This was the part Viktor like the best. The part where the guy wanting to get laid is handed this brochure and seriously doubting that the service he's looking for will be listed there. Sure enough, he quickly skimmed through it then looked at Melanie in a questioning manner.

"I'm afraid I don't see a package that quite suits me here."

Melanie paused almost imperceptibly, waiting to hear from Viktor over her headset. Viktor knew the man was okay—he recalled talking to him over a beer at one of the neighborhood bars a week ago. Many of the new clients had been informed of Healthway's unique services in this manner.

"He's good, Melanie," Viktor spoke softly into the microphone.

Without skipping a beat Melanie said. "I forgot to tell you that not all of our services are listed there—that brochure is a bit outdated. Perhaps you'd like to step through that door into our consulting room. There will be somebody there who can help walk you through all of our available services."

Jim smiled broadly. "That would be excellent! Thank you, Melanie—you've been most helpful."

"You are more than welcome, Jim."

Viktor watched as Melanie stood up, walked over to the south door and held it open for the new client.

"Did you see that suit he's wearing? It must have cost a grand!" she whispered into the microphone after the door closed.

"Let's hope he's as generous to Healthway as he is to his tailor," Viktor replied.

Melanie sat back down at her desk and Viktor took another sip of Vodka. His eyes went to a second video monitor that showed Jim Foster, or whatever his real name was standing in a small vacant room. A moment later, Babs entered the room from another door and walked over to Foster. Babs was wearing a thong bikini beneath a sheer pink see-through robe. She was knockout gorgeous and by far the best whore in the house. But she didn't come cheap as Foster would soon learn.

Babs took his hand and shook it gently. "Good afternoon. My name is Babs and I understand that you are interested in seeing our complete list of services."

Her English had improved dramatically in the year since she'd been brought here, Viktor acknowledged. It was clean enough to understand yet spoken with an accent that most men found irresistibly _Russian._ Babs had looks, brains and panache—the complete package.

"Thank you, Babs, that is correct. My name is Jim and it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Very well, Jim. I will start at the top and work down the list. The following features contribute to the price for our services: how many, for how long and what all you wish to be engaged in. The prices start at two hundred."

"Babs, I can tell you right now that money is no object. I came here for a good time and would like very much to experience all of the goods and services. So if you could please show me what is available in a timely manner, I would appreciate it."

Viktor smiled to himself when he saw the look on Bab's face, which was worth the price of admission. He had seen some high rollers before but this Foster guy took the cake. He noticed Babs glance toward the video camera hidden in the ceiling for a split second and he felt like running out there and braining her for it. He could only hope Foster didn't notice it, too.

"Okay, Jim. There are I believe three girls available now, all beautiful of course. But before I introduce you to them, I'll need a deposit."

"Would that be including you?"

"Four, including me. But that will cost you much more."

"Of course," he replied. Foster reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out a billfold. He opened it, plucked two bills out and handed them over to Babs.

"Here is your down payment. There will be more upon completion of the services, depending on the quality of the experience."

Babs quickly examined the two one-hundred-dollar bills and stuffed them into her top.

"Very well, then. Please follow me this way, Jim."

Babs led Foster through the door she had just come through and disappeared from the monitor.

" _This is what makes it all worthwhile,"_ Viktor sighed aloud.

"What was that, Vik?" he heard Melanie say over the headphone.

"Nothing, dear. You're doing a good job out there but let's not start getting cocky or you're going to be right back where you were before your promotion. Got it?"

Viktor stared at the monitor and could see the back of her head, which seemed to be trembling ever so slightly.

"Got it. I'm sorry."

"You'd better be."

Viktor lit up a Marlboro, inhaled deeply and poured himself another glass of Vodka. Peering down now at an array of smaller video monitors clustered below, he could see Babs leading Jim Foster through the vestibule. He wondered if Jim Foster had any idea what an exquisite experience he was in for.

The total floor space of Healthway Massage and Spa was six thousand square feet and divided into two equal halves. The "legit half," as it was referred to, consisted of a half dozen massage rooms, state-of-the-art spa equipment and provided excellent services for those clients wishing to relax and rejuvenate themselves. There were three full-time licensed masseuses working there that were paid quite handsomely to do their jobs and not to ask questions. They had been handpicked by Yuri prior to the establishment of the "other half" of the business.

Dividing the two spaces was a ten-inch thick concrete wall covered with soundproofing material. The remaining space was similar in appearance to the legit side with a few exceptions. In place of massage tables and chairs were a half dozen rooms with custom-made queen sized beds. There were also a couple of whirlpools, a hot tub and a sauna dispersed throughout the space. Whenever necessary, the beds could be quickly replaced with massage tables and no one would be the wiser. This necessity had been rare in the spa's six-year existence.

The women working here were not licensed masseuses but prostitutes that had been trafficked primarily from Eastern Europe. Unlike the whores found in common brothels like Stokley's Pub, these women had been trained to accommodate a more sophisticated, wealthier clientele. Having discovering that their new jobs consisted exclusively of sex-for-hire, these women had been raped and tortured repeatedly until they finally accepted their new positions without resistance. Then they had been preened, taught proper English and outfitted with fine expensive clothes and lingerie. In exchange for the privileges they enjoy, the women are allowed to socialize among one another and live in a relatively clean, safe place kept exclusively for them in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.

But despite these rare privileges, they were still whores as far as Viktor was concerned. And they would remain employed here in this capacity until decided otherwise. They were paid nothing for their work but given credit toward the supposed expenses owed to their captors for their passports, transportation and this opportunity of glamorous employment in the United States. Their debt would of course never be paid off. They were severely punished if they ever got out of line. They were not to try to escape nor were they permitted to go anywhere other than this place and the place in Brighton Beach. If they crossed the line, they would be found and murdered. After their relatives back home were murdered, that is.

Viktor considered the current lineup of girls Jim Foster was being introduced to. There were three Russians including Babs, a girl from Moldova, another one from Ukraine. Melanie, who up until last month worked as a whore before her promotion to the front desk was from Slovakia. The oldest woman in the group was twenty-seven, the youngest seventeen. All were beautiful, refined and healthy. All of them were ordered to employ safe sex practices, something that was occasionally frowned upon by some of the clientele, fools that they were. But that was the rule of the house.

Jim would be shown each girl and be asked to make his choice or choices. Then he would have to commit up front what he wanted to do with the girl or girls and how long he was going to do it with her or them. Whether Babs participated or not, it was her responsibility to see that a client received only what he opted for, no more and no less. If there was trouble of any kind, whether it be a argument over the services or excessive physical harm to any of the girls, Anton would be contacted and sent in. Anton was a three hundred pound beast who liked nothing more than to settle differences with the clients. He worked full time out of a small room in the rear.

Viktor realized that he was basically the nuts and bolts of the business but didn't mind. Yuri not only owned the building but also had put up the capital to start up the business. On the books, however, there was absolutely no evidence that Yuri Popov had anything at all to do with Healthway Massage and Spa. The legal owner of the business existed in name only, and the non-existent Brian Wellsley always paid his taxes on time (income resulting from the "legit side, " that is,) signed all of the payroll checks and handled all of the finances.

Prior to his gig at the spa, Viktor had worked odd jobs most of his life since immigrating to the States in the early eighties. He had finally saved up enough money to buy the bar on Steinway Street several years ago. The place had never turned a profit until he decided to add prostitution to the menu. He had gotten the idea from Yuri in fact, who had finally confided what he had been doing during all of those trips to Germany. The first whore Viktor had acquired was named Natasha. She had been lured to the States like all of the others by the promise of great jobs and a piece of the American dream.

When he first laid eyes on the woman, whom Yuri had sold to him for a thousand dollars, Viktor wondered if any of the men would be interested in banging her. She was less than decent-looking face-wise with a fair body but her English was poor and she was dumber than a post. He wasn't really sure what to do the day Yuri had sent her to the pub, so he called Yuri up after he'd taken her up to her room. He felt stupid asking him, but Yuri seemed to understand. He simply told him to do whatever it took to turn the bitch into a good piece of ass. That meant showing her how to fuck and give good blowjobs. If she resisted, which she no doubt would, he was to beat her until she relented. And if that didn't work, he was to let her starve for a few days. Whatever it took, he had told him. That was the only way to break a whore in right.

Viktor had never married since most women were appalled by his looks and enormous girth. To the few women who had been willing to spend time with him, besides the occasional whore, he had shown respect and never once been abusive. But once Natasha entered the scene, all of that changed.

Besides being incredibly stupid, she refused to have sex with him. The first day he had made advances, she pushed him away. At first he thought it was humorous in a way, but once he realized that she wasn't simply teasing him and had no intentions whatsoever of having sex with him, he started getting angry. After ten minutes of getting nowhere, he slapped her for the first time. She had stared speechlessly at him, stunned at first, then with a hurt feeling. He tried to reason with her, telling her that he wouldn't hit her again if she would just let him touch her. She still refused.

So he beat the mortal shit out of her.

She looked like a car crash victim by the time he finally mounted her that first day. And when he did, she didn't move—just laid there like a corpse. So he hit her some more and told her that if she didn't start participating, he would kill her.

She finally gave in.

Viktor gave her a couple of days to heal while she remained locked alone in the smaller room above the bar. He had warned her not to scream or make any sounds while the bar was open or she would regret it. She had been quiet as a lamb.

The next time he tried to have sex with her she was more compliant. She tried to do everything he told her to do but he could tell that she was still sore from the beatings. So he took it easy with her for a while and forced her give him blowjobs in the meantime. Then once she was fairly healed, he resumed breaking her in until she became very good at it.

Two weeks later he started pimping at the bar. He was very cautious at first, careful not to let anyone know of Natasha's existence. The first john he lined up for her was in fact one of the regulars at the bar who was also a good friend of his. He sent the man up to the room for a freebie with Natasha. Fifteen minutes his friend came downstairs and told Viktor that she wouldn't let him screw her. Embarrassed and livid, he marched upstairs in a tirade and beat her within an inch of her life. Then he went back down to the bar, took his friend upstairs and they both proceeded to rape her.

Things started looking up after that night and profits at the pub began improving dramatically thanks to Natasha's services. He had devised his covert line of conversation for prospective johns wanting some action with Natasha to follow to minimize the risk of being busted by undercover cops. It is ironic that not long after he added Natasha to the mix, he was in fact paid a visit at the pub by a pair of Queensboro's finest, who had heard on the streets that there was a prostitute working on the premises. Fortunately for him, these cops were already on the take from a neighborhood bar owner Viktor knew who conducted some major after hours gambling in his back room. Viktor knew that their silence could be bought for a fair price and they were more than happy to get the perks he offered them any time they wanted it.

Natasha lasted almost a year before she became too ill to work. She had some kind of neuromuscular disease that rendered her partially paralyzed so Viktor asked Yuri what he should do. Yuri sent Mick the exterminator over and that was the last he'd seen of Natasha.

Not long after Natasha's departure, Yuri offered Elena to Viktor. She had been his live-in sex slave for several months and Yuri had grown to despise the young woman. He offered her to Viktor for a mere five hundred dollars to replace Natasha. He told Viktor to do with her as he pleased, that he wished for her the worst experience possible. If he didn't accept her, he would have her "disappear," which he didn't really want to do. Viktor of course accepted the beautiful woman with open arms.

It didn't take long for him to realize why Yuri disliked the girl so much. Like Natasha, she was totally unwilling to be his whore in the beginning. So he had to break her in, too. He beat and raped her for two weeks until she finally gave in to his demands. All this time, Yuri encouraged him to show her who was boss and to "make her bleed." Viktor still couldn't believe that one person could hold that much hatred for a woman of such stunning beauty.

Staring absently at one of the monitor screens, a thought suddenly came to Viktor: the night before when he caught Elena and the john talking instead of screwing. That guy who had been with her past the time limit—

That man matched the description Yuri had given him—

And the incident was what he would consider _suspicious._

Viktor pulled off the headset, picked up his cell phone and called the pub.

"Tommy, I need to ask you something. Do you recall any suspicious activity from any of the customers this past week? I'm especially interested in a white guy, thirty or so, six-foot and medium build. Any newbies matching that description hanging around or asking questions?"

Viktor's partner at Stokley's thought a moment before his reply. "You know, there was a guy fitting that description poking around yesterday afternoon. Wasn't looking for any action but behaved kind of strange. He played the jukebox and the pinball machine. Asked for change a couple of times then out of the blue handed me his business card. Wanted to know if we'd be interested in getting some new games for the bar. I gave him the card back and said no thanks. He didn't push it but I'd been chatting with Mike and he thought the guy seemed like he could be a cop. I'm not sure I agree, but the dude was acting sort of suspicious."

"How long did he stay in total?" Viktor asked.

"I'd say about half an hour – long enough to play a little pinball and drink a beer. Then he left. Never saw him again."

"Did he speak to anyone else besides you?"

"No, I don't think so. Came in alone, hung out then left alone."

"Okay, Tommy. That's all I need."

"What's up Vik? Something going down?"

"No, I was just curious. I'll fill you in later."

"Sure. When do you think you'll be relieving me?"

"Around seven-thirty or so."

"Okay, see you then."

Viktor disconnected. The guy that was with Elena the night before could well have been the same guy Tommy had seen earlier in the day. If that were the case, what in the holy fuck had he been doing?

Elena had some explaining to do. He would pay her a visit the moment he arrived at the bar this evening.

Viktor watched the monitor as Jim Foster slipped into one of the rooms with four of the girls, including Babs.

CHAPTER 24

Having finished her chores for the morning, Polina followed Branson down the stairs to the dorm and stood by while he unlocked the door. He held the door open long enough for her to enter, his expression dour as always, then closed and locked it again. Polina noticed the girls gathered in a group near the far end speaking excitedly in Russian—not the customary broken English they had adopted since being brought here. She sensed that something serious must have happened and ran over to join them.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Katya said, "Nina said she overheard Master telling Mr. Branson that we would be leaving soon!"

The expression on their faces told Polina that there was more to this news—that it wasn't good news.

"But we aren't going to be allowed to go back home," Nina cried, her shoulders heaving uncontrollably. "He told Mr. Branson that we were going to be sold again!"

Polina's felt her knees grow weak. "Oh, no! Please tell me this isn't true—I miss my family so much! I thought we were only to be here for six months then get to go back home!"

"That's what we all thought, but it was _lie!"_ She turned to Nina. "Are you sure he didn't say where we would be going?"

"I couldn't hear what he said after that. I was cleaning the foyer bathroom and heard them as they walked by. They must have forgotten I was in there."

"Shit!" Sveta cursed in English. "I knew this was going to happen. I knew that they have been too nice to us all this time. They have just been using us and now they're going to ship us to a whorehouse like the others!"

Polina said, "No Sveta, that can't be true. Master has promised that we would never come to any harm. He would never let them do that to us. He likes us too much!"

Katya said, "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Polina. I know that most of you trust him but I never have. There's something very scary about him—something that he's been hiding from us all along. I mean, how many old men have this many young girls live in their house just so they can take pictures of them posing as ballet dancers? This is the craziest thing I've heard! There's more to this than he's told us. And now it's all going to come out."

"I'm scared!" cried Sveta, who was the youngest of the girls at twelve. "I don't want to stay in this country any more—I want to go home!"

Katya took hold of the girl's hands and squeezed them firmly. "Don't cry, Sveta, we're not going to let them sell us—we will escape instead!"

"Yeah, sure. And how are we going to do that, Katya?" Nina said. "We're locked in here all day and night except to do photo shoots and the chores. He has video cameras all over the place. There's no way!"

"All I know is that I'm not going to be sold into prostitution like the older girls! I would rather die trying to escape any day!"

Polina thought of her sister and wondered for the hundredth time where she might be. She had tired to convince herself that Elena was okay, that they hadn't harmed her since separating them in Germany. But somehow she knew that hadn't been the case. She and Sveta's older sister had been sold to pimps—there was little question in her mind.

"I am with you, Katya," Daniela declared. "If what Nina heard is really true, then we must assume that we are not going to get another job like this. We are going to be sold to men who want us as their whores. Master has known this all along, I am sure of it. We must get out of this place before it's too late!"

"Okay, let's think about this for a minute. Before we try to escape we need to find out how much time we have. That way we can start making our plans. Can anyone think of a way we could find this out?"

"We could try to get Master to tell us next time we see him. Just ask him how much longer we will be here and see what he says," Daniela suggested.

"That is the dumbest thing you've ever said, Daniela!" Katya chided. "Like he's going to give you one straight answer to such a question!"

"Maybe it's not so dumb," Nina said. "I mean, why not try it? The worst he could do is refuse to answer."

"That is true," Polina said. "Master has always answered our questions before, as long as he knew the answer. Maybe we should just see what he says."

"Okay, we'll give it a try. But know that if we aren't careful and he starts getting suspicious, we will never have a chance of getting out of here."

"Okay then, so who wants to be the one to ask him?" Olga asked.

"Polina, why don't you do it? He likes you the most."

"That's not true!"

"Of course, it's true—you just don't want to admit it! I can't tell you how many times he's told me that you are the most talented one here and says things like 'why can't you do that like Polina's doing?' The man adores you!"

Polina blushed. She hated being the center of attention and all five girls were now staring at her expectantly.

"Okay, I'll ask him. But when shall I do it? I'm not sure when I'll see him again."

"I'll bet you'll be seeing him sooner than any of the rest of us will. You're the only one he's still photographing, in case you haven't noticed," Katya said.

"That's true—he hasn't shot anyone but Polina in the last three days," Sveta said.

"That doesn't mean he's going to shoot me again anytime soon. You know, I have a feeling that he's done with what he wanted to photograph us for now that I think about it. He's been doing less shoots in the last week or so. This is beginning to make sense now."

"Exactly. That's why we must move fast. We can't wait until another shoot to ask him. Let's think of a way we can get him by himself and talk to him. Anyone got any suggestions?"

"One of us could say she's not feeling well. He's always been concerned about things like that," Polina said.

"That's good! Then you'll be the sick one!" Nina said.

"Oh, okay. So how are going to let him know I'm sick?"

"Let me tell you how. You will work on making yourself sick looking and I'll beat on the door until someone comes. We need to make this convincing and serious. I know—tell him you've become blind! That all of a sudden you can't see anything—that will get his attention!"

"Good idea—we'll pretend that I stood up, got really dizzy then realized that everything all of a sudden got real blurry. He'll think I've had a seizure or something!"

"Great! Okay, let's all get in our places. Polina, you sit on your bed and the rest of you stand around her. I'll go beat on the door."

Once the girls were in place, Olga ran to the door and started beating on it with both fists.

"Help us! Polina can't see!" she shouted. "Please, I think she's gone blind!"

Olga kept beating until the door opened a few moments later.

"What's all this racket about?"

It was Mr. Branson.

"It's Polina, sir! She seems to have suddenly gone blind! Is Master around?"

"Let me see the girl," Branson said.

Nina frowned as Branson brushed past her and went over to where Polina was sitting on the side of her bed.

"Now what seems to be the trouble here, young lady?"

"I, uh, can't see. I was starting to stand up then suddenly I got all weak and the room started spinning. The next thing I know is everything got blurry. Now I can't see anything!"

Branson held up two fingers. "How many fingers do you see?"

"None—I'm blind!" Polina cried.

"Why, this is most unsettling. Perhaps—"

"What is going on here?" Master said from the doorway.

"It seems this youngster has gone blind. At least, that's what she says," Branson said.

Master walked over and looked down at Polina. "What has happened, Polina? Is it true that you can't see?"

"Yes, Master. I can see _nothing_ —I'm so scared!"

Master made a clicking sound with his tongue and gently placed his hands on Polina's shoulders. "Now, now let's not get all excited. This is probably only a temporary thing. What were you doing when this happened, child?"

"I stood up and almost collapsed and realized I couldn't see anymore."

"Okay, let's get you to the kitchen where the light's better. I'll take a look at you and if we need to, we'll get a doctor here. Come along now."

He took the girl's hand and led her out of the room. Branson joined them as they made their way to the kitchen. The Collector helped Polina into a chair at the table, leaned down and peered directly into her face.

"Branson, bring me a flashlight."

Branson went over to one of the drawers and returned with a maglight. He handed it to the Collector. He turned it on and shone it into each of Polina's eyes.

"Pupils are responding. Can you see this light at all, Polina? When pupils constrict like this, it suggests that the eyes are working properly."

The light was nearly blinding her. "Uh, yes, a little," she replied, straining to keep her eyelids open against the harsh glare.

"Excellent. The fact that your pupils are constricting and dilating properly indicates that this is probably nothing serious."

Without warning, he made a motion like he was going to strike her with the back of his hand but stopped himself just short of her cheek. Polina whipped her head backward to avoid his hand.

" _What—!"_ she screamed.

At that moment, Polina realized that her little act had failed.

"Just as I thought," the Collector declared knowingly, his smile forced. "There isn't anything wrong with your eyes, Polina. You've been lying to me, haven't you?"

The girl nodded her head slowly.

"Branson, please leave us now," he told his assistant.

"Very well, sir," he replied.

The Collector waited until Branson had left the room before speaking again. "And why, may I ask, have you lied to me?"

Polina hesitated, her head spinning.

"Come on, girl, tell me the truth!" he demanded.

"I, uh, was supposed to try to get your attention so I could talk to you," she said barely audibly.

"Okay, so now you've gotten my attention. What would you like to talk about?"

"Um, we were sort of wondering how much longer we're going to be here."

"I see. And why are you all of a sudden asking me this now?"

"No particular reason. Just happened that way."

"Are you lying again? You know it's not nice to lie, Polina."

"No, I swear! I'm not lying!"

"I see. What if I told you that I know exactly why you decided to ask me this now?"

Polina could feel her heart racing now. Master was standing very close to her, almost touching her, and his face was right in hers. He was grinning in an odd way.

"Uh, what do you mean, Master?"

"What if I told you that I heard everything you girls talked about this evening in your room? And that that isn't the first time I've heard your childish rantings and ravings?"

"But how could you?" she asked, turning away.

He placed his hands on either side of her head firmly and forced her to face him.

"Let's just say that I have my ways of knowing everything you girls are doing in that room. And that I haven't missed a beat since the very first day you arrived here."

_Shit!_ she thought. _Their room had been bugged all this time!_

Polina was speechless. Her mind raced back to moments ago when they had all began plotting this ill-fated plan. Master had heard and maybe even seen everything that had happened! Then her mind went back to earlier that day, to yesterday, to last week, to last month—

He had always known their every move!

Suddenly she realized that the girls' worst fears were real. They were not going home. They were never going to see their family or friends again. They were not going to ever be safe again.

They were all going to be sold as whores.

"Please, Master—don't sell us to pimps! You promised!"

"Now Polina, there's no reason for you to fret. I really don't know where you got the notion that I am going to sell you into prostitution. Your little friends are simply being paranoid. Have I not always given you girls the best treatment since you've been here?"

"Yes, you have."

"Then why would I suddenly subject you to something as appalling and heartless as that? I care too much for you—all of you. I've gotten to know you and I've grown very fond of each and every one of you. So I want you to go back to your room and tell your friends what I just said. Okay?"

Polina forced a smile, but it was a weak one. "Okay, Master."

He kissed her gently on the lips—not on her cheek. It was a lingering kiss that lasted much too long.

"There, do you feel a little better now?"

She visibly shuddered as her face flushed. She barely managed a reply. "Yes, Master."

She wanted to spit in his face; let him know how gross and disgusting he was. Whatever this strange man got out of all of this—the ballet lessons, the posing, the make-up, the meticulous sets, all of those pictures he took—she had no clue.

All she really knew was that in some way it was evil. That he was evil.

Master walked her back to the dorm, opened the door long enough for her to enter then closed and locked it behind her. The girls rushed over.

"What happened?"

"Did you find out when we get to go?"

"What did he say?"

Polina brought her finger to her lips in a hushing gesture and looked around the room. She peered up at the ceiling, in search of a hidden microphone or video camera. The dorm had a dropped acoustic ceiling that always looked out of place with regard to the rest of the mansion. The other ceilings were either vaulted or ornate in some way, not low and plain like this one.

She motioned for the girls to huddle around her. She kneeled down on the floor and whispered.

"This room is wired! And that means he has always been able to hear and maybe even see everything we've ever said or done in this place!"

"We are so stupid!" Nina cried. "There are video cameras everywhere else in this house, so why wouldn't they be in here as well?"

"But you can see those cameras," Katya said. "If there are any in here, they're _hidden!"_

"This is why we need to find them and destroy them _now!"_ Polina exclaimed.

"But he'll know if we do that! He will be very angry!"

"I don't care if he's angry," Olga said. "He has no right to eavesdrop on our every conversation and watch us get ready for bed! "That's why he never touches us—he probably watches his videos of us and plays with himself!"

"I think I'm going to be sick," Daniela said.

"He just told me that he isn't going to sell us to pimps and that I was to tell you that. But I don't believe him—especially now that we know he's been spying on us! So I say we find those cameras and microphones and get some privacy!" Polina said.

"I'm with you, Polina," Olga said. "Let's do it!"

The huddle broke and the girls spread throughout the room. They looked under the beds, in the closets, in the bathroom and everywhere else that was within reach. But after ten minutes they had found nothing.

"We need to check the ceilings," Nina said. "But they're so high up."

"Let's stand on a bed and boost the smallest girl up. Okay, Sveta?"

"Okay, but please don't drop me!"

"We'll start in the rear and work our way forward," Katya said. "But we need to hurry. He may be watching us right now!"

She led the group to the back of the room. "I'm the tallest so you guys help me get Sveta up on my shoulders."

The girls managed to lift up Sveta and position her bare feet on Katya's shoulders. Polina and Daniela helped spot the girl as Katya grasped her ankles to keep her from falling.

"Push up that ceiling tile and look around!" Polina said.

Sveta gingerly pressed up on the acoustic ceiling tile and was able to stick her head through the opening.

"Nothing up here. Can you guys turn me so I can see in the other direction?"

Katya carefully rotated her body until Sveta was facing toward the front of the room.

"Hmm. I don't see anything here—just a bunch of wires where the lights are stuck into the ceiling. And there's some vent things like for the heat."

"Okay, let's go to a bed that's closer to the lights," Katya said.

They chose a bed centrally located in the room and boosted Sveta up again. She looked around a moment and then suddenly gasped.

"I see it!"

"What do you see?"

"A camera! It's right there by the light thingy. It's angled downward toward the room!"

"Can you touch it?"

"No, it's too far. I need to get closer."

They inched Sveta down and then she pointed at a light fixture in the ceiling.

"It's right up there—you can almost see it from here!"

All of the girls went over and stood under the light fixture. Near the edge, they noticed a small hole cut out that was nearly obscured by the framework.

"So it's true! Master has been spying on us all this time!" Daniela cried.

"Not for much longer, he isn't," Nina declared.

The girls assumed their positions on top of another bed. Sveta was able to lift up the ceiling panel nearest the light fixture just enough to slip her hand through it. She struggled with something for a moment then gingerly pulled out a small video camera, mounted on a tiny tripod. There was a tiny red light flashing on top behind the tiny lens. A cord was plugged into its side.

"It's got this wire running out of it—I wonder where it goes."

Katya said, "It doesn't look like it's for power—more like the kind of wire you hook up to a computer. Here, hand it down to me if there's enough cable, Sveta."

Sveta pulled out enough cord to enable her to hand down the camera to Katya. The girls looked it over and discovered that there was no sign of a memory card or tape in the camera. There was a small hole near the lens that probably served as an opening for a tiny microphone.

"My father used to work at a television station. I think this is what they call a closed-circuit camera," Nina said.

"Closed-circuit? What does that mean?"

"That the camera is hooked up to a video monitor somewhere else in this house. That's why we don't see any tape or anything in it."

"So all we have to do is unplug it," Polina said.

Nina pulled out the plug. "Yes, just like that!"

The girls laughed nervously then stared down at the camera.

"He is going to kill us, you know," Daniela said.

"Not without a fight. Now we can do whatever we want, but we don't have much time. So how can we get out of this place? Anyone have any suggestions?"

The sound of the door opening stunned them into abrupt silence. The Collector stepped inside and cleared his throat. His expression was grave.

"I'm afraid the party's over, girls. I should have known you would do this but I wanted to think that you would be sensible instead. But fools that you are, you have defied me. And now you are going to have to pay for it."

"Please, Master! We're sorry!" Sveta cried. She grabbed the video camera out of Nina's hand and ran over to him.

"Here's the camera! You can hook it up again. We don't care, just please don't hurt us!"

The girl was sobbing hysterically. The rest of the girls simply stood there, dumbstruck and frightened.

The Collector snatched the video camera out of Sveta's hand, looked it over, then hurled it as hard as he could against the floor. The sound it made as it broke into tiny pieces was horrific.

"I don't give a fuck about this camera, kid! What I do care about is how you girls could turn on me like this. And after all I've done for you. You have had a good life here this past six months. I have fed you, clothed you, coached you in dance and asked for only one thing in return: to allow me to photograph you. And this is how you thank me?"

The girls ran over to him in unison.

"We are so sorry, Master! We appreciate what you've done for us and we are very grateful, aren't we girls?" Daniela said.

"Yes, we are!" Nina said. "The only reason we did this is because we are afraid of what you are going to do after you're through with us. We're afraid you're going to sell us instead of letting us go back home."

The Collector gently patted Daniela on the head and gestured for all of them to sit down.

"I'm going to say this one time and one time only. I would never sell you girls to anyone who would harm you. In fact, you are not mine to sell in the first place—I've only been renting you for your services. Someone else actually owns you. And it will be up to that person to decide your fate once I let you go. So you see, it's actually out of my hands."

There was a moment of silence as this sank in.

"So you _lied_ to us!" Polina shouted. "You said that we would be going home after this was over. Now you're saying you don't know where we'll be going or what we will be doing!"

The Collector stared at Polina for a moment, a look of pity in his eyes. "I'm afraid I did mislead you into thinking that, yes. But had I told you the truth, you would have been totally unable to model effectively for me. Don't you see—the only reason you girls have been happy and able to perform for me all of this time has been the prospect of going home afterwards. Wouldn't you rather find out the truth now instead of before? That would have made your time here absolutely unbearable!"

" _I hate you!"_ Polina spat. She turned around and walked away.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Polina. You know that you've always been my favorite. You have more talent than all of these girls put together! In fact, I have been considering keeping you indefinitely if you're interested. You could keep modeling for me and not have a care in the world. What do you say?"

Polina stopped suddenly and spun around. "Get fucked, old man!"

The Collector laughed heartily. "Fine, I will take that as a 'no.' Sorry, Polina, but it looks like you'll be going to the same place as the rest of your friends are going. Where ever that may be."

He took one final look at the girls, turned around and left the room, making sure to lock the door behind him.

The girls burst into sobs.

CHAPTER 25

Hank Multer spotted the Hertz Rental on West Fortieth Street and began looking for somewhere to park the Lincoln. He found a space three blocks away, got out and started walking.

He was so pissed at himself that he wanted to punch something. Popov wanted to burn him a new asshole and he couldn't really blame him. Whatever had compelled him to allow this bastard to get away he had no clue. All he knew for sure was that if he couldn't track him down again, he would be dead meat.

He knew how Popov hated slipups like this and the man wouldn't hesitate to have him murdered. He'd seen it happen before, to one of Hank's old friends no less. Sal Milano had been hired by Popov to keep an eye on one of his many interests in the city but had let his guard down just one time. And that had been all it took for Sal to be listed in the obits a few days later.

Hank also knew the risks there were working for someone like Yuri Popov but the pay overshadowed the danger. And the work was a cinch most of the time. The hardest part was his having to be on call twenty-four/seven in case Popov needed him to work a particular job. The jobs usually consisted of keeping tabs on his restaurant and home out on Long Island whenever he flew to Europe on business. He had done this now for nearly a year and there hasn't been a single hitch in all that time.

Until today.

Why in the fuck had he let the guy drive away?

Hank still didn't know the answer to that. He had just done his third drive-by for the day at Popov's home and was heading back to the restaurant when he happened to see the guy in the rental car pull over in front of the place and park. After he'd circled the block, Hank had half-expected the guy to have already left—he often saw folks drive up to a place and stop like that in the Hamptons while trying to locate a particular place. There was no rhyme or reason to the streets or street numbers in the upscale beach community.

But the guy was still parked there so Hank pulled over on a side street to observe. He watched as the guy got out and walked directly up the driveway to Popov's house. Hank had grabbed his binoculars to zoom in on the scene but the front porch was out of view. So he got out of the car and walked around until he was able to see the front door through the binoculars. The man was standing there on the porch with his back to him and the inside door was already open. Nadiya was standing inside talking to the guy for a moment before he handed her what looked like a business card. A second or two later, she opened the door and let him in.

The scenario had occurred so naturally and smoothly that Hank had little reason to suspect any kind of foul play. It was broad daylight; the guy was probably some kind of traveling salesman that had managed to offer a sales pitch convincing enough to prompt Nadiya to let him inside the house. It was like, no big deal.

But what Hank had forgotten was Popov's insistence that nobody whatsoever was allowed to enter that house.

That had been Hank's first major screw up in this comedy of errors.

So he had gone back to the car, turned up the stereo and waited for the guy to leave. After thirty minutes, Hank started getting nervous so he got out of the car and headed for the house. Then he suddenly saw the man come out the front door. Hank ran back to his car and watched as the man came back, got in his car and drove away.

Hank's second major mistake—not stopping the guy immediately to question him.

Suddenly realizing that it would be a good idea to follow the guy, Hank waited until the stranger had a couple of blocks on him then began tailing him. It wasn't long before the guy must have noticed him on his tail because all of a sudden he cut down a short side street that hardly anyone ever went down. Then he had pulled the same stunt on the next street without warning.

That was Hank's third major mistake. Letting the guy catch him tailing him.

After a while, the guy pulled into the private drive, hacked a u-turn and eventually lost him altogether.

Fourth major mistake of the day in less than an hour. Did he really deserve to live?

At this point he realized he had better get back and grill Nadia on who the hell the guy was and what had transpired. So he flew back to Popov's house and discovered that the man's live-in whore was nowhere to be found.

Fifth major mistake. He was a dead man.

Not if he could help it, Hank thought as he approached the rental car agency that had rented the car to the stranger. A former policeman before he retired a few years ago, Hank still had connections on the force that were able to help him from time to time. He had called Stu Gallagher in the Bronx to run the license plate of the rental car for him. Now all he needed to do was follow up and get the guy's name and where he was staying. Then hopefully, Hank could save his own ass from Popov's assassins.

He went up to the door and entered. The place wasn't busy and there was only one person working the front desk—a middle-aged black woman. Hank walked up to her, pulled out his badge and held it up for her to see.

"Good evening. I'm hoping that you can help me identify a man who rented a car from you recently."

The woman glanced at Hank's old and now obsolete police badge and then stared at him apathetically.

"I'd love to help you out, officer but I'm afraid I can't divulge that information to you. It's our company policy."

"Excuse me ma'am, but this is police business. All I need is some information for one of your customers. It's not like I'm asking you for their medical history."

"Listen officer, there is no way I'm going to lose my gig here just because you want me to do something that I am forbidden to do. I have a sick husband at home and a kid in college so I can't afford to lose this job on account of you and your police business. I'm sorry, but I can't break company policy."

"Okay, if you can't, then I'd like to speak to someone higher up who can. Let me speak to the manager."

"He's not here. Won't be here until tomorrow morning. Maybe you could come by then and speak to him."

Hank was not believing this. What was wrong with this bitch that she couldn't look up a fucking name for him? He was a cop, damn it! Well, a retired cop, but she doesn't know that. He had half a mind to demand that she comply or face an obstruction of justice charge, but that could get messy. If she were to call the cops to report him, his cover would be blown. Then he'd really be screwed.

He glanced at the wall clock. He had to call Popov again in five minutes to update him on his progress. What the fuck was he going to tell him?

"Please, lady, can't you give me a break here? I can't wait until tomorrow for this information and I can assure you that no one will ever know that you did this for me. So what do you say?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, no can do."

Just then a man and a woman entered the agency. Hank glanced back at them and then turned to face the clerk again.

"How about calling your manager? You can do that, can't you? Then you can put me on and I'm sure he'll clear you so you can look the info up for me."

She smiled. "No way! That boy is out on his first date since his divorce! There's no way I'm going to bother him with this. I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow, officer. And if you don't mind, I've got other customers waiting."

"What's your name, lady? I want to be sure to make a note of it for my report."

"Gwen Samuels. That's short for Gwendolyn."

"Very well, Ms. Samuels.And your manager's name?"

"Tom Hodges."

Hank fished around in his coat pocket, pretending to look for his notebook.

"Good evening," he said, then stormed out of the agency.

Out on the street, Hank's wheels were turning. He had to find out where the man was staying somehow. He could stall Popov a little longer, but eventually he was going to have to come up with something tangible on finding this guy or he might as well pack it in.

He was half way down the block when he suddenly stopped himself dead in his tracks. He reached inside his jacket and touched the grip of his Beretta.

He didn't have time to fuck around with this. He was going to have to do this the hard way.

Hank resumed walking toward the street corner then crossed to the other side of Forty-Fourth. It was dusk now and he wouldn't be easily seen from this distance. He walked back up the street until he was directly across from the rental office. He stopped and pretended to be looking into a shop window, glancing behind him occasionally at the car rental agency. The couple was still there talking to the black lady. He stood there for another ten minutes and finally the couple left. The woman was alone.

He looked both ways then ran briskly across the street, stormed through the door and pulled out his gun. The woman did a double-take when she saw him then noticed the gun he was pointing at her.

"Go lock that door while I wait for you over there. If you try to run, I'll shoot your black ass all the way across that street."

The woman's indifferent attitude suddenly took a 180-degree turn.

"Okay, I'll lock it! Please just don't shoot me!"

"Hurry, lady, before someone comes in!"

She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a ring of keys then headed toward the door. Hank ran around the counter and stood off to the side. He held the gun on the woman who was standing at the door nervously trying to get the key into the lock.

"Hurry up, goddamn it!" he shouted from across the room.

She glanced around to see him pointing the gun on her then managed to lock the door.

"Now come back here and look up this plate number on your computer. It's to a 2010 Honda Civic, blue."

The woman ran back and Hank handed her the scrap of paper with the license plate number scrawled on it. She clicked on the screen, scrolled up to a search field and typed in the number. A moment later, a new page appeared. She clicked on a link that subsequently brought up what appeared to be the application and checkout form for the rental.

"Let me see that," he said, pushing the woman aside.

Hank looked at the name of the renter for the Civic—Alan Swansea. His address was listed in Columbus, Ohio.

"Where is his hotel address?"

The woman looked at the screen. "There ain't no hotel address listed here. Just an Ohio address."

"You mean to tell me that you have no idea where this guy is staying in the city?"

"That's a fact."

"Wait a minute—what about a contact number? Let's see, here it is—his phone number. That will work in a pinch."

Hank picked up a pen off the counter and copied down the phone number that the man had given as his contact number. Unfortunately, it had a 614 area code and not 212, so it was most likely his cell number. Not much good that was going to do.

Hank looked to see if the car had been returned yet—it hadn't. It was due to be returned the following morning at LaGuardia Airport. Great, finally a break! He was flying back home tomorrow morning so at least he could catch up with the guy at the airport. He went ahead and copied down the man's Ohio address just in case he'd need it then stuck the paper in his pocket.

"Thanks, Gwen. Sorry you couldn't do this the easy way but I won't hold it against you. Now I want you sit down in that chair there and put your arms to your side."

"What you gonna do to me?"

"Make it so you don't call the cops before I'm way the hell out of here."

Hank spotted a roll of packing tape and gestured for Gwen to sit down in the chair. Then he began wrapping tape around her arms and the chair. When he was finished, he taped her ankles together then stuck a piece of it over her mouth.

"That should hold you. See you, Gwen. And make sure to tell your boss I hope he got laid tonight!"

Hank then switched off the computer, picked up the keys and bolted out of the place.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that he was twenty minutes late for checking in with Popov. He got out his cell phone and made the connection.

"Sorry I'm late checking in boss, but I've go some good news."

"It better be good, Hank. Please tell me you've found the guy."

"Well, not exactly, but the next best thing. He's flying out of LaGuardia tomorrow to Columbus, Ohio, I assume."

"You _assume?"_

"Well, that's where he's from and he's returning the rental car at the airport tomorrow morning. So, logic says he's going back home."

"Jesus, Hank—is this the best you can do? What have you been doing all this time? I figured you would have at least located his hotel by now!"

"No such luck—all I was able to get was his name, home address, cell phone number and rental car drop-off time."

"What's his name?"

"Let's see, Alan—wait, let me get out the paper. Here it is—Alan Swansea."

"That's not ringing any bells. Any other info you found out about him? Like where he works or anything like that?"

"Nah, that's about it chief. So I'm gonna hang out by the rental agency bright and early tomorrow morning and catch up with him there. What do you want me to do once I locate him?"

"Tail his ass to Ohio, what do you think? Check out the flights to Columbus from LaGuardia and find out which one he's on. Then go ahead and buy a ticket. Don't let that guy out of your sight Hank, until I can find out what the hell's going on with Nadia!"

"Okay, boss. I guess I'll get on the internet and check out those flights."

"And call in once you've confirmed everything, Hank. I want to know that you've found the guy and boarded that plane. Got it?"

"Got it, sir. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Don't fuck this up, Hank."

"I won't. This guy won't get away again, I can assure you."

"He'd better not," Popov said before hanging up.

After he returned to his car, Hank headed for the Lincoln Tunnel en route to his apartment in Jersey City. He had a lot to do when he got home, including shaving off his beard and coloring his hair. The cops would be looking for him once Gwen managed to free herself from that chair.

CHAPTER 26

After landing at Port Columbus, Alan took the shuttle out to the long-term parking lot, thankful to be home again. As he drove north on I-71, his thoughts shifted from the details of the case to seeing Pan again to wishing that Julie were still alive so he could bounce all that had happened during the last week off of her. By the time he pulled up to Marie's Doggy Day Care Center, the anticipation of taking Pan home was the only thing on his mind.

Marie wasn't there so he paid her employee by credit card for Pan's boarding and then was promptly reunited with his new pet. The moment the girl brought the dog into the reception area, she spotted Alan and broke into an excited run toward him.

"Hello, Pan!" Alan said, kneeling down and allowing Pan to deliver a barrage of puppy kisses to his cheeks.

Just as Marie had said, it was like he'd never left her.

Alan thanked the girl and walked Pan out to the car. He opened the passenger door for her; she leapt in and waited until Alan got in on the driver's side. Then she rested her head on his leg, staring up at him, panting excitedly all the way to the house.

Alan checked his mail, his land line phone messages and then fed Pan. He brewed a pot of coffee while skimming the headlines of the last few editions of the Dispatch then decided to take Pan out to the backyard to fetch Frisbee. The dog acted as though she had been catching Frisbees all her life as she proceeded to sprint full speed to catch the disk in mid-air, turned around wildly and ran back to drop it at her master's feet.

A half hour later he took Pan inside, gave her some fresh water then went up to his office. He turned on the computer, reviewed the web design work he still had yet to begin, and then finally let the nagging thoughts he had been trying to avoid take over full tilt.

He realized that he actually felt even worse now than he had before he'd decided to take this case. He had thought it would be so great to get back into the PI game for a change of pace and to do something positive and satisfying. But satisfaction was the last thing he was feeling right now.

The case was already falling apart, he acknowledged. Granted, he had made some progress and discovered some of the players in this human sex trafficking racket but that would all come to a dead halt if Charlie Ling wasn't able to track down who Luka had made that call to. Alan could think of absolutely nothing else he could do until he was able to locate who was holding Polina and the other girls. Knowing how much was at stake and that it all teetered on Charlie's success or failure left Alan feeling anxious and desperate in equal measures.

He could not quit thinking about Elena Nazarova. She was in a grave situation that would only get worse. But his hands were tied for all intents and purposes—it wasn't like he could report Stokley's Pub to the authorities with hopes they would in turn bust the place, leaving Elena free to live happily ever after. It simply wouldn't work out that way. Besides the fact that she would be charged with prostitution, Elena would be defenseless against the charges and most likely end up in jail, with only herself to blame if her family got knocked off. There would be no investigation of Viktor Skipetroff beyond the relatively minor charges of pimping and running a brothel. And the apparent kingpin to that whole situation would remain safely out of the picture, comfortable in his East Hempstead digs, running his restaurant.

Yuri Popov.

He had to admit that wrenching Nadiya out of Popov's grip and placed into a safehouse was wonderful but it was also the only positive thing that had happened thus far. And that didn't mean that her troubles were over by any stretch. Although she may be safe for the time being, there was no guarantee that Popov couldn't find out where she was. Especially if he had as many connections as Nadiya indicated. And even if he didn't locate her, there was always the possibility he would retaliate and have her parents murdered. And that would totally devastate the woman with the guilt she would feel.

And then there was Polina, Elena's little sister. Although she may be safe from any serious physical harm at the moment, that wasn't to be the case for much longer. Out there were men that would love nothing better than to purchase Polina and the other girls and force them into the same kind of life Elena and Nadiya had been living. Young children with their whole lives ahead of them robbed of their innocence.

What else could he do? There was very little in the way of hard evidence that could get Viktor Skipetroff or Yuri Popov convicted and put away. His recordings at Stokley's Pub plus testimony from Nadiya and Elena—assuming that they would be willing to testify—were helpful, but it would take more than that to make it a strong case.

He needed to locate those girls and their captor. That was the key. Then and only then would there be a decent chance of nailing all of these guys.

He checked the time and recalled that Charlie had promised him an answer in twenty-four hours. He had nothing to do but wait around for what could add up to another twelve hours before he could plan his next course of action. He decided he would catch up on some reading to help kill the time.

He grabbed the novel he'd been reading, got another cup of coffee and then went into the den. He sat down in the reclining chair, turned on his reading lamp and settled back. Pan immediately jumped up and joined him. He had time to read two paragraphs before the phone rang. He pulled out his iPhone and looked at the caller ID. At first he didn't recognize the number. But once he did, his heart skipped a beat—

Elena!

He pressed the answer button.

"Elena?" he said.

There was silence for a moment and then Alan heard a weak voice speaking unintelligibly.

"I can't hear you—are you alright, Elena?"

"Alan, can you hear me now? I have to keep it soft," she said, barely audible.

"Yes, that's better. What's wrong?"

"Viktor."

"What about Viktor. Has he hurt you?"

"Yes, pretty bad."

"Why did he beat you this time?"

"He asked me a lot of questions—about you."

Alan's heart sank. "What about me?"

"He wanted to know about the other night when you came here. He demanded that I tell him who you are and why you were really here."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing! Except that you were just another john. He didn't believe me, though. He kept hitting me and hitting me—"

"Jesus, Elena! I'm so sorry—why wouldn't he believe you?"

"He had spoken to Yuri and that was why he became suspicious of you. He mentioned Nadiya and that Yuri thinks you may have had something to do with her running away yesterday. Is that true, Alan?"

"Yes, it's true. I took her to a safe house. But why did Viktor think it was me who sprang Nadiya? What did Popov say to him exactly?"

"I'm not sure. All I know is that he stormed into my room like a madman yesterday evening and started asking me all of these questions. He said that you seemed suspicious when he came up here and found us talking instead of screwing. He said that you matched the description Yuri had of the man who came to his house while he was gone and that Nadiya had fled the house afterwards."

So Popov had wasted no time in calling Viktor, Alan thought, just as he figured might happen. He wondered if anything had been mentioned about his call to Luka.

"Was there any other reason Viktor suspected me?"

"What do you mean?"

Alan wasn't sure how much to tell Elena about his conversation with Luka Rusakov. He didn't want to get her hopes up about Polina—especially at this point. The less she knew the better.

"I was just curious if he wondered _why_ I had been with you if it hadn't been for sex."

"Oh, I see. I think at first he thought I might have told you about how I came to be working as a prostitute for him and what all had led up to my being here in this country. Like maybe you were some kind of undercover cop or something. But I assured him that I had never seen or talked to you before and insisted that I would never take that chance anyway. He seemed to believe that, thank god. Otherwise he would have killed me, I am sure."

"God, Elena, I feel so bad that you got beat up because of me. I—"

"It wasn't your fault, Alan and that's not why I called you. I called to let you know that you are under suspicion by Yuri. I thought you might want to know."

"And I appreciate your call, Elena. I'm just sorry that he did this to you."

"Don't worry about that, I'm used to it. I can't believe that Nadiya left Yuri! She has more guts than I ever had. But she's a fool, I'm afraid. Yuri will hunt her down and kill her after he's murdered her family."

"Maybe not, Elena. Like I told her, these men—Popov and Viktor—are not as all-powerful as they want you to think they are. They may be big with the threats and beating up women, but they aren't invincible."

"I don't think you realize how much power they have, Alan—especially Yuri. But all I really care about is my little sister. Have you gotten any closer to finding Polina?"

"I may have a lead, but I'm not sure yet. I'm still working on it."

"She's running out of time—Viktor reminded me that she to be sold into prostitution very soon—I can't take this anymore! Please, I beg of you to find her, Alan!"

"Believe me, I am going to do everything I can, Elena. I'm curious though, why haven't you spoken to my friend Beth? She told me that she's called you at least twice now but you haven't called her back."

"I just can't do it. I know that she wants to help me and please tell her that I appreciate that. But Polina is all I can think about now. In fact, if you find her, I promise I will talk to your friend."

"That's a promise?"

"Yes."

"Good enough—I'll see to it that you have to keep that promise."

"I hope so, Alan. I must go now. Good-bye."

"Please take care, Elena. And call me if you need anything at all."

She hung up.

_This is ridiculous!_ Alan thought. _There she sits nearly pummeled to death by that big fat slob and there isn't a goddamn thing I can do about it—_

Will this madness ever end?

He stared blankly at the page he had been reading, wondering if he should call Charlie Ling. He knew what his answer would be—that Charlie hadn't had any luck tracing that number yet—but Alan thought he would crawl out of his skin if he didn't do something.

Suddenly, his iPhone rang. He looked at the screen—

It was Charlie!

"Hey, I was just getting ready to call you! Please tell me you have some good news."

"Hello, my man. Okay, I'll cut to the chase. I have some good news for you."

"Oh man, you have just made my day, Charlie! What do you have?"

"Well, it hasn't been a picnic but once I found out which carrier your Russian party was with, I knew we were in luck. Otherwise, to be quite honest, this would have probably taken at least a week."

"So you have the guy's name and location?"

"Yup, I do. You see, the number and exchange you gave me wasn't much to work with since it was international and all. But once I—"

"Please, Charlie! You can give me the details later, okay? I really don't have a second to waste. Give me what you have there."

"Okay, I'll overlook your lack of interest in my endeavor for now. The guy's name is Martin Fowler. He lives in Wayneston, West Virginia. His address is listed as RFD 3—no number or street name—which means he is probably located somewhere in the boondocks. You copying this down?"

"Yeah, I got it."

Alan was already looking up West Virginia in his Google Maps app. "Where the hell is Wayneston?"

"I was curious myself so I looked it up. It's about thirty miles southwest of Charleston. Mountain country, for sure."

Alan found the town on Google and zoomed in on it. It was very tiny and as Charlie said, in the middle of nowhere in the mountains.

"Wow, are you sure this is the right guy?"

"Are you doubting your sources, now? Trust me, if the cell phone number you gave me for the Russian is correct, then this is where he placed a call in the time frame you gave me. The reason I'm so sure of it is that he had made no other calls in a two-hour range either way so that had to be the number he called. He received a couple of calls, but transmitted only the one."

"Okay, I believe you—I just can't believe that the guy I've been trying to locate not only lives in the wilds of West Virginia of all places but he is literally only a few hours drive from Columbus!"

"I told you I had good news for you. Well, there you have it."

"Thanks Charlie. I'm sorry I've been so rude but this case has stressed me out and I am swiftly running out of time. And oh yeah, give me the guy's phone number before I go."

Charlie read off the phone number and Alan jotted it down.

Alan said, "Hopefully the next time I call you, my friend, it will be to request your invoice for all of this."

"Should I be holding my breath?"

Alan chuckled. "No, I wouldn't go that far. See you, Charlie and thanks again."

"No prob."

Alan looked at this notes and felt a mixture of elation and doubt. Now that he had finally found out where Polina's abductor was, he could move forward. That was so freakin' awesome that he couldn't help but let out a cheer, which he did—

Yes!

On the other hand, he had no idea where he would go with this. Other than to Wayneston, West Virginia, that is. Knowing the location of Polina's abductor was one thing—saving Polina was another.

One step at a time.

He noticed Pan staring up at him from where she lay curled up beside him in the easy chair.

"Looks like we're going bye-bye in the car, Pan. There is no way I'm going to leave you again this soon. You up for a little road trip, girl?"

On cue, she barked.

"Then let's do it!"

Alan stood up and began gathering up everything he would need for the trip. He replaced the dirty clothes in his carry-on luggage with clean ones and packed a heavier jacket. He knew from experience it was always cooler in the mountains and that it could get particularly chilly at night.

He went into his office and accessed a detailed section of Wayneston, West Virginia in Google Earth on his iMac. He zoomed out a radius of several miles from the center of town, making sure to include the names of all the outlying streets and roads. He then printed out a high resolution 11X17 inch print on inkjet paper and stuck it into his laptop case.

He packed a pair of binoculars, a flashlight with extra batteries, matches, rope, hunting knife, gloves, and his camera bag into a nylon backpack. After collecting a few other items he carried it all out to the Pilot and set it on the backseat.

He picked up Pan's leash, an unopened bag of pretzels and a bottled water on his way out to the SUV with Pan at his side. He needed to get on the road before the Friday rush hour began—it was already 4:10— so he headed toward the highway at a brisk pace.

CHAPTER 27

As Hank Multer sped north on I-71, he glanced down at the detailed map of Columbus, Ohio lying on the console of the rental car. Four more exits to go and then he would be making a left onto North Broadway. That would bring him within a few blocks of Swansea's residence.

Yuri Popov had been furious when Hank informed him that Swansea's flight out of LaGuardia was booked full and that the next flight to Columbus wasn't for another four hours. Fuck him, he thought. It wasn't his goddamn fault. But you'd think it was the way Popov had proceeded to shout a barrage of death threats over the phone after hearing the news. After he got a handle on himself, Popov told Hank to book the next flight out to Columbus, rent a car and resume his surveillance of Swansea the moment he arrived there.

Hank reached the North Broadway exit and took Indianola north until he reached Swansea's street. A block and half further he arrived at his destination. Swansea's house was a two story brick located on a good-sized lot with an attached single car garage. Since he didn't have to worry about being recognized in his disguise, Hank drove a couple of houses past Swansea's, pulled over and parked.

He checked his watch and noted the time: 5:15 PM. He had already decided that if Swansea weren't there, he'd call Popov to find out if he was to simply hang out and wait for him to return or break into the place and see what he could learn about the guy. He got out of the car and walked leisurely toward the house, noting the quite peacefulness of the neighborhood and the lack of traffic. He was a long way from Manhattan.

He reached the driveway and figured that if Swansea were home, his car would be in the garage since there were no cars parked out front. He walked over to the garage and peered through a window. The garage was empty.

Hank glanced around then walked up to the front door, checked the mailbox, which was also empty, then peered through a window off to the side. Seeing no one inside, he walked around to a side window and looked in then went through a gate that opened to a backyard patio. He went over to one of the rear windows and saw nothing inside but an empty house.

The backyard had a six-foot privacy fence that effectively prevented prying eyes from the neighbors. He pulled out his cell phone and called Popov.

"I'm in at Swansea's home – no sign of him. What should I do?"

"Shit, I was afraid you were going to say that. You have to find him, Hank, I have a feeling that he could be some kind of investigator from what Viktor told me. Seems he was snooping around his bar the night before he came out here. I just got home a few minutes ago and I'm going to look around and see if there are any clues to where he might have taken Nadiya before I go see Viktor."

"Damn, Yuri, I'm really sorry I screwed this all up. The guy just didn't look suspicious to me and I'll really be surprised if he's a cop. He just didn't look the type, and I should know."

"Hank, I hate to tell you this but you dropped the ball but royally this time. I don't give a flying fuck if the guy looked like a frog in a tutu—you should never have let him get away!"

"You're right, boss, of course. But I'm here now and surely he'll show up before long—do you want me to hang out until he comes back?"

"Yes, but first I want you to go in and see what you can find out about him before he gets back. Do you think you can handle that?"

"Sure, no problem. I'm standing by his back door as we speak and it will be a cinch to pick this lock."

"Do it. Then call me as soon as you find out who the fuck this guy is."

"Okay, boss."

"And don't get caught, Hank. I mean it, if he catches you or you somehow screw this up, I'll personally see that you sing soprano before I kill you."

" _Jesus—"_

The phone went dead.

Hank shrugged and stuck his phone into his pocket, opened the storm door and took out his lock pick kit. It only took a minute for him to pick the lock and open the door. He stepped into a spacious den and began looking around. Finding a stack of unopened mail on the coffee table, he examined each piece but didn't find anything significant—just a couple of bills and some junk mail. He looked through a stack of magazines by the recliner and saw quite a few techno-geek titles like _MacWorld_ and _Photoshop Weekly_ but nothing that would suggest Swansea was a cop or any kind of investigator.

He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and saw a twelve-pack of Michelob and not much else. Something told him that Swansea lived alone since there wasn't a whole lot of food and he'd seen nothing so far that indicated anyone else's presence in the house.

He noticed a dog food bowl on the floor and his senses suddenly sharpened. If there was a dog in the house, his ass could be grass. He had a mortal fear of them. Instinctively he drew his Beretta from a shoulder holster and walked cautiously into the dining room. After a quick look around, he headed up the stairs leading to the second floor, keeping his eye out for any dogs that might bolt out from somewhere.

The first thing he did when he reached the top was freeze and listen for any sounds. Then he entered the master bedroom and started digging through the closet, nightstand and dressing bureau. Nothing suspicious.

Hank went back out to the hall and walked past the bathroom to the only room with a closed door. He quietly opened the door a few inches, craned his head and peered inside—just in case the dog was in there. He saw what appeared to be an office and entered the room. He went over to the computer and booted it up and started looking through several stacks of CD's and DVD's piled on the desk. Judging from the Sharpie-scribed titles, most of the disks contained images of this or that—cleaning products, office furniture, sporting goods and so on.

When the iMac's desktop appeared, Hank took a quick look at the dock and read the icons for twenty or so applications. Besides Microsoft Office, he saw Photoshop, Dreamweaver, Flash, Illustrator, InDesign, Acrobat Pro and several more graphics-oriented programs. He read then names of the numerous color-coded folders on the desktop and noticed that many of the names contained "website." He opened a few of the folders and looked at the files, which were mostly html pages. He knew from his experience with computers that these folders contained files for websites and that the guy probably designed and built them.

Most of the names of the sites were retail business related, which further indicated that the guy probably did web design for a living. He opened the email application but was surprised to find that he needed a password to access the mailbox. A bit suspicious perhaps, but not necessarily significant.

He dug around some more on the computer and found nothing indicating that the guy was any kind of law enforcement or investigative person. He had the feeling that the guy was clean and that Popov could quit worrying. After rifling through the desk drawers and finding nothing significant, he decided to clean up his tracks and call Popov to give him his report.

As he stood up he noticed a framed photo of Swansea and a woman standing together in front of the Horseshoe Falls in Niagara. The woman was tall, blonde and knockout gorgeous, hanging onto Swansea like her life depended on it. The guy sure had great taste in women, he thought as he turned and left the room.

After he left the house thorough the back door, Hank felt a little better now that he knew his instincts had been right on the money. Swansea was neither a cop nor an investigator—and maybe hadn't taken Popov's whore in the first place.

Now if he could just convince Popov of this, he may be able to save his own ass from the scary son of a bitch.

CHAPTER 28

It took Alan nearly three hours to reach the outskirts of Charleston, West Virginia. He had only made one stop along the way to get fuel, a coffee to go and an ice cold bottled water.He referred to the Pilot's GPS navigation system to see how much further he'd be on I-77 until the Route 119 south exit, which would eventually take him to Wayneston. It was pitch dark out and he knew that locating Fowler's home at this time of night could be challenging. But he also knew he had no time to waste. A few miles later he spotted the exit sign and instinctively gave the SUV a little more gas.

As he noted the hilly terrain, he recalled the last time he'd been to Charleston and realized it had been nearly twenty years ago. He and a friend had gone to a rock concert at the Civic Center, but he couldn't remember which band he'd seen. He had always thought of Charleston as an enigma because it was so different from rest of the Mountain state, except perhaps for Huntington. West Virginia as a whole seemed such a backward, obscure place because it epitomized the term _Appalachia_ and the negative socio-economic connotations implied—visions of hard times, moonshine and feuding hillbillies in tiny pockets of humanity dotting the dense mountain ranges. The state's capital on the other hand was populous, modern and situated in a much lower elevation. He had a feeling that by the time he reached the tiny town of Wayneston, the influence of the city would be most likely be somewhat diminished.

Fifteen minutes later, he was crossing the Kanawha River and heading into the suburbs of Charleston. There were quite a few new housing developments along the highway, something he had not expected to see. Perhaps Wayneston wouldn't be as obscure as he'd thought. In another half hour or so he would find out.

He had to remain on Route 119 all the way to Wayneston so he decided to give Beth a call to update her on his progress. He scrolled to her number in his contacts and reached her voicemail. He had no sooner left a message that she clicked in on the line.

"Hey, Alan! Sorry—I couldn't get to the phone on time."

"No problem. Just thought I'd bring you up to speed on the case. Have you got a moment?"

"Sure—I had a nice long talk with Maddie earlier today and she told me that Nadiya is actually doing pretty well at the safe house. She said unlike most of the girls she has encountered who had been used as sex slaves, Nadiya is one of the few that is readily willing to share her experiences with somebody. A lot of them don't get to that stage for a very long time, if ever. Others are so afraid they'll get caught by their former pimps that they just clam up altogether. She said that Nadiya actually has a decent chance of coming out of her experience intact."

"I'm really happy to hear that. Nadiya had said something to me during the drive to the city that made me think there was some hope for her and it looks like I might have been right—I wish I could say the same for Elena."

"What do you mean—have you spoken to her? She still hasn't returned my calls and Maddie told me she's also tried calling her but hasn't had any luck, either."

"Elena actually called me earlier today."

Alan proceeded to tell Beth about the call from Elena and how both Viktor and Popov have become suspicious of him. When he told Beth about the beating Elena had endured, it broke her heart.

"I'm serious, Alan, I don't know how much longer Elena will be able to survive the situation she's in."

"What do you mean?"

"When a woman has been beaten and abused for as long and as often as Elena has, it sometimes suggests that her pimp is considering terminating her. If this Viktor starts thinking that the law is on to him, he may not wait around much longer before he decides to remove incriminating evidence. Which in this case would be Elena."

"By 'terminating her,' what exactly do you mean?"

"I mean 'eliminating her,' as in killing her—or having her killed."

"Shit, are you serious? That's awfully extreme."

"I know, but it happens more often than you think. These enslaved women are considered expendable commodities by their owners, not human beings. The easiest way to avoid prosecution is to simply have the girls disappear forever."

"God, I sure hope you're wrong about that."

"Me too. So how is the case going? What's happening?"

"Well, I finally got what I think is a big break—I found out where Polina is being held."

"No shit? That's great news, Alan—so where is she?"

"In West Virginia of all places. I am heading there now as we speak."

"How did you find that out?"

"Sort of a long story—I'll tell you later. That would be the good news. The bad news is that I'm not sure what I'll be going up against once I locate where Polina and the girls are. I've got to admit, I'm more than a little apprehensive because knowing a crime is being committed is one thing but getting justice done can be quite another. I don't even feel like I have the law on my side, for one thing. I mean, take into account what happened with Elena: there I was in a brothel in New York City where a woman had been abducted from her country, sold into slavery, forced to sell her body, and beaten to a pulp on a regular basis by her pimp. But what could I legally do about it? Nada—zip! Because for one reason or another, the cops couldn't be involved.

"Then I case out where the man who's probably the king pin of this sex trafficking gang lives and damned if I don't find yet another exploited woman living there with him. But I go through his house with a fine-toothed comb and find absolutely nothing that could incriminate him. Plus, the girl is unwilling to leave the place for fear of her parent's lives. So I get lucky and get the girl out anyway, but that isn't going to be enough to put this bastard behind bars. You see what I'm saying? How and when am I ever going to get any legal help on this case, once I find where those girls are being held?"

"I hear your frustration, Alan, and I sympathize. I told you from the beginning that the laws right now are anything but conducive to combating the human trafficking situation. It's a travesty! Which is why so many people like Viktor and this Popov character get away with it. The laws simply aren't in place in most countries or states for law enforcement to actively pursue the trafficking issue. Drug trafficking, plenty is being done. Human trafficking, an entirely different story.

"It's ironic isn't it that so much is being done about the drug problems yet so little is being done about the human slavery problem. There is something terribly wrong with that! Which is exactly why people like Maddie Fulton and myself do what we do—to try to make a difference and see that these exploited people get some justice finally.

"Anyway, I'll get off my soapbox now. One thing in our favor is that Polina and the other girls are minors who have been kidnapped. Those are serious charges that law enforcement can work with. Why can't you simply tell the police where the girls are being held and they in turn can investigate the situation?"

Alan said, "On paper that sounds good but I don't think it's going to be as easy as that. I mean, I can't just blow into this little town and tell the authorities that there may be some kidnapped girls in some guy's house and expect the locals to jump right on it. At best, they will want to hear enough evidence to justify a search warrant right from the get-go. And even if I can convince them to serve a warrant, getting one can take days, sometimes weeks. By then it will be too late."

"Hmm, I see what you mean."

"I don't really have any concrete evidence, Beth—just speculation and theories. Unless you want to consider a computer-hacked name and address I acquired along with a hunch that there is a crime being committed. I don't think they're going to buy it."

"Well, all I can say is that I have faith in you, my friend. And if there's any way to pull this off, you'll do it."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence. I know that whatever I do I must do quickly. Those girls could be sold any minute, or for that matter may have already been sold. This Popov guy is no fool and is a master at covering his tracks. If he thinks there's the slightest chance that I could be on the trail of these girls, he will do whatever he can to make them go away ASAP."

"Please be careful, Alan. It sounds like you're dealing with some hard-hitters."

"I will. I'll give you a call when I find something out."

"Okay. Good luck."

"I'm gonna need it," Alan replied.

Alan took a swig of his tepid water, reached over and patted Pan's head. "Well girl, we're just gonna have to do what we can do, right?"

She glanced over and barked.

Alan laughed, thinking how nice it was having his companion here with him. This brought on thoughts of Julie and how much he missed her. He knew he would never be able to love anyone like her again and had resigned himself to that fact. His mantra had become the old saying, "better to have loved and lost than to never to have loved at all." This helped him get through the pain, but at times left him feeling emotionally void.

He turned the volume on his CD player back up and heard the chorus for Hey Jude. He wondered if it was just coincidence that the song with the line "take a sad song and make it better" was playing at that moment or if he had just gotten a spiritual message from Julie. He smiled at the thought and suddenly felt much better.

* * *

Twenty minutes later he saw a sign that read _Wayneston - 10 miles._ The last fifteen miles had been relatively sparse with occasional homes and businesses popping up here and there. Wayneston was considered a town according to Google maps, which meant it wasn't going to be very large, but larger than nothing. One thing it had was a Holiday Inn, which was a good thing since he didn't want to have to stay too far away from his destination.

When he reached the city limits, he passed by a strip small and a couple of gas stations before he spotted the Holiday Inn located right along the highway. He passed the motel and turned onto a street that stretched for seven blocks or so to the west. Alan cruised along Broadway Street, which was evidently Wayneston's main drag and saw a few retail businesses, a library, a couple of banks, a McDonalds, city hall and a small park. There wasn't a lot of activity since most of the businesses were closed. He reached an area where the storefronts dropped off sharply and cased out both streets running parallel to Broadway on either side. There were a couple of small restaurants and a bar but not much more.

Having been in Wayneston, West Virginia only a few minutes, a single thought pervaded his mind: _what in the hell is an artist holding five or six young abducted East European girls doing in a place like this?_

He couldn't even venture a clue. When Charlie Ling had told him that Martin Fowler lived in West Virginia, he had been skeptical. Now that he'd actually seen this place, it didn't even seem real.

He'd learned that Fowler was eccentric and that may have been an understatement. It just didn't seem plausible that a man who was obsessed with Edgar Degas and had hired girls to pose as ballerinas would be residing in this backwoods hillbilly place. Perhaps he was being a bit presumptuous—after all, this could be some kind of small artists' town like Yellow Springs, Ohio.

But he sort of doubted it.

Alan decided to check into his motel room while it was still fairly early so he could plot out his next move. He headed back to the motel and had a tough time making Pan stay in the car while he went into the office. He doubted that pets were allowed and he'd already decided not to even bother asking—he would simply sneak Pan into his room while nobody was looking. He got his key and went back outside to locate his room. Then he parked the Pilot directly in front of it, let Pan out, grabbed a few items and went inside.

He threw everything on the bed, got out the map printout of Wayneston and sat down on the edge of the bed. He had two things going against him now that were going to make locating Fowler's home challenging. Besides it being after dark, he had no street address for him—only a rural delivery route number. So even when he could figure out where he lived, it would most likely be a bitch to find in the dark.

But he wasn't about to sit around here and twiddle his thumbs. He would just have to do what he could with what he had to work with. He figured that if he could at least get a rough idea of where Fowler lived, he could brainstorm what his options were and deal with it at daybreak. He was going to lose a bunch of time, but there probably wasn't much more he could expect to accomplish under the circumstances.

He examined the map, which he had printed out from the "Earth" mode on Google. Not only could he see the buildings that made up the downtown he had just driven through, but the map also showed the terrain of the land surrounding the center of town for several miles in all directions. The roads and many of the homes were also clearly mapped out. He took a few moments to examine the outlying area, hoping to find a place that looked like Fowler might live. He knew the notion was ludicrous—he had no criteria to work with for crying out loud—but he'd learned in the past that sometimes a hunch was better than nothing.

Unfortunately, nothing was popping out at him. It looked like he was going to have to locate Fowler's place the old fashioned way, by hitting the road. He folded up the paper printout and stuffed it into his jacket. He took a moment to clean up a bit then left the room with Pan at his side.

When he got into the Pilot, he decided that the best place to try first would be the bar he'd seen earlier. There was usually somebody soaking the suds that would be willing to chat to a stranger. It was getting chilly out and Alan wondered if there was a cold wave blowing in. It was late September and even though fall had officially started, the daytime temperatures had remained summer-like. This was the first time it actually felt like fall.

When he arrived at the bar, he pulled over and parked. He looked over at Pan and realized he had not considered the fact that the place probably didn't allow dogs inside. He was still getting used to dealing with his new friend.

"You're going to have to wait here, girl. I'll be back soon."

Again, Pan was not happy about Alan leaving her in the car and let him know by barking the moment he shut the door. He walked around and peered at her through the passenger side window. "Hang in there, I'll be back as soon as possible—I promise!"

This seemed to help as Pan fell silent and watched Alan walk to the bar. The name of the place was Thirsty's and it looked decent enough as small town bars go. He went inside and was immediately greeted with a country song blasting out of the jukebox.

The bar was good sized yet felt cozy thanks to the layout and the way the place was decorated. Old rustic items ranging from fifty-year old license plates and vinyl LP covers to tin soft drink and beer signs adorned the rough wood walls. Dangling from a huge centrally located beam that ran along the entire length of the bar were an old rusted bicycle, a wooden propeller and a canoe. And from the wall at the far side of the bar, the entire rear end of a 1955 Thunderbird stuck out, complete with illuminated taillights.

Alan headed toward the horseshoe shaped bar, trying to ignore the stares from the dozen or so patrons. He sat down on a leather stool and waited for the girl working the bar to come over.

"Howdy, what you need?" she asked.

"A Michelob Ultra, please," he replied.

"No problem."

Alan watched the girl as she went over to the cooler to get his beer. She was late-twenties, average height with long dark hair and an absolutely stunning face. She had brown eyes, pouty lips and a trim body, accentuated by tight faded blue jeans and a yellow cotton t-shirt. The girl came back and sat a bottle of Michelob down in front of him.

"Thanks," Alan said. He took a five out of his wallet and lay it down on the bar.

"You're not from around here," she said as she took the bill.

"No, I'm from the Buckeye State."

"I sort of figured that."

"How's that?" Alan said, wondering if being from Ohio was that obvious.

"Well, you're wearing an Ohio State Buckeyes sweatshirt for one thing. Damn near everyone that comes in here is a Mountaineers fan. Plus, you don't sound like you're from West Virginia or Kentucky. Put two and two together and that's what you get."

Alan glanced down at his sweatshirt then back to into her smiling eyes. "Hmm. You'd make a good detective, uh—"

"Marcia. And you would be?"

"Alan."

She offered her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth as silk. Alan shook it. "Nice to meet you, Alan."

"Me, too."

"So what brings you to Wayneston? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

"Oh, I don't mind. I'm a freelance photographer and I'm working on project. I want to publish a really good nature book that has more than just a bunch of photos—one that also serves as a guide. Like where the best places to go to find otters in their natural habitat while you're in the Allegheny Mountains. This project requires me to travel all over the place and today I just happen to be in the fair town of Wayneston."

She chuckled. "I don't want to discourage you or sound like a know-it-all, but I can just about guarantee you aren't gonna find much to shoot around here!"

"Seriously? You mean it's that bad?"

"Oh yeah, it's that bad. It used to be pretty around here but in the last ten or fifteen years towns like Wayneston are evolving into mass suburbia thanks to the developers. Charleston is the largest city in a hundred mile radius and folks are spreading out from the city and settling in the burbs. So even though we're a half hour a way, some people would rather live in a housing development and commute to Charleston then live in the city."

"That sounds like Columbus. The city is shrinking while the burbs keep growing. But surely there are still some natural resources here."

"A few nice places, like Cooke's Lake or the park, but nothing to write home about. Wayneston used to have all of these old homes and cabins that have been here since the late 1800's. But most of them have been leveled so the developers can build their ugly cookie cutter houses in their place. I get pissed just thinking about it!"

"Yeah, I can see that they seem to have hit a nerve. Well, I'm stuck here for the night nonetheless so I'll just have to make the best of it tomorrow morning. If nothing pans out, I'll just move on."

"I think it's so cool to be able to do that—to be able to travel around and take pictures—it just sounds so _, artistic._ I wish I could blow out of here and do something like that."

"No offense, but what's keeping you here?"

"This place, for one thing. And my mom. She's disabled and needs me."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. So how long have you worked here? It's really nicely appointed."

"I've been here a little over four years. I own the place."

"Really? That's cool."

"I don't know how cool it is—it's actually a pain in the ass. I mean, I love fixing the place up and all of that, but the business side is scary. This last year has been pretty lousy, business-wise. The economy has not been kind to us here, period. It gets nerve wracking trying to pay the bills on time and all of that. Anyway, I'm sounding like a whiner, which I'm really not. I just wish I could afford to spend a little more time away from this place, that's all."

"How many people you have working for you here?"

"Just myself and two others. And only one of them is full time. It's gotten that bad."

"Sorry to hear that. Maybe things will get better now that we have some new blood in the White House."

"Yeah, that can't hurt things any. It's just going to take too damn long, I'm afraid—Excuse me, I think they need something at that table."

"No problem."

Alan watched Marcia as she came out from behind the bar and went over to a table where a couple was sitting. A moment later she came back, popped open two Buds and took them over to the table. After ringing up the sale and making change, she came back over to him.

"Another one?" she asked.

Alan stared at his bottle in disbelief—he had all but drained it already.

"Yes, please."

She went over and brought back a cold Ultra.

"Thanks."

"So what does your wife think about your travelling around taking pictures?"

"My wife?" Alan said. Then he saw that Marcia had noticed his wedding band, which he still wore all of the time. "Oh, I'm not married—I'm a widower. My wife passed away a couple of years ago. I just sort of never quit wearing this ring."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. You must have loved her an awful lot."

"I did, actually. She was a great girl."

"God, I hope I haven't made you sad, Alan. I just saw the ring and—damn, I wish I'd learn how to keep my trap shut!"

Alan smiled warmly. "Egads, Marcia, it's okay—you didn't do anything wrong! In fact, I probably should quit wearing the thing just for that reason. I guess I just haven't given it that much thought."

"Well, I don't think there's a thing wrong with your wearing it. In fact, I think it's really sweet of you. I would absolutely melt if I found out my husband still wore his wedding ring after I passed. It shows such . . . _devotion."_

"I'm afraid that's not the only reason I still wear it, in all honesty. I am sort of a creature of habit and after six years, I've become rather attached to wearing this ring. Therein may be where the problem lies."

She laughed. "You're funny!"

Alan laughed, too. "Just being truthful . . ."

Marcia went over to the fountain and filled a glass with Coke, took a sip and returned.

Alan said, "So how long have you been married?"

"Me? Who said I was married?"

"You just said that if your husband wore his wedding ring—"

"I was just speaking theoretically. I'm not married. No time for that nonsense, really, with the bar and all."

"Hmm."

"What does that mean: 'hmm?'"

"Nothing—I was just thinking about what you said."

"You don't believe me?"

"Of course I believe you. I just wonder why you would consider marriage nonsense. Sounds sort of like a cop-out to me."

"Okay, I don't really think it's nonsense. I just have sort of a bad taste in my mouth from a relationship I was in not so long ago. Made me want to quit thinking about dating men, period."

"Sounds bad. I can relate to what you're saying. I don't really want to think about dating women either, after having lost my wife. I really loved her and doubt that I could ever love anyone else like her. So like you, I'm not really giving any of that stuff much thought nowadays."

"There you go—we have something in common!"

"Yes, we do. Maybe that's why we've been talking all of this time like we've known each other for years, eh?"

"I have to admit, I've surprised myself. You're so easy to talk to, Alan. I'm enjoying it."

"I'm enjoying it, too. Most of the talking I've done today has been with my dog. And that's not quite the same thing."

"You brought your dog with you?"

"Yeah. In fact she's out front in my car."

"Well, bring her inside—I love dogs!"

"You sure?"

"Of course. What's her name?"

"Pan—short for Panera, where I found her. She was dumped there by her former owner."

"How pathetic. I want to see her!"

"Okay, I'll go get her."

Alan stood and headed for the door, his head reeling. He was amazed at how easy it had been to talk to Marcia and only now did he recall why he had come to this bar in the first place. To be that totally distracted by talking to someone was something he hadn't encountered since Julie was alive.

When he stepped out onto the street he heard Pan barking from the car excitedly. He went over to the passenger door and let her out.

"Looks like you can join me after all," he said.

When he returned to the bar, Marcia came around and let Pan jump up on her.

"Well hello there, Pan! You sure are a cute one!"

"I think she's a mix of a terrier and something like a border collie."

"Yeah, I think you're right. She sure is friendly, isn't she?"

"For sure. She has made herself right at home in the week I've had her."

"You've only had her for a week?"

Alan nodded. "I boarded her part of the time while I was in New York for a few days and I think she actually suffered from separation anxiety, if you can believe that."

"She obviously loves you and is happy you took her in."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"You two make yourself at home while I wait on these people," Marcia said. A couple of women and a man had sat down at a table.

Alan sat back down at the bar and petted Pan, wondering if he should ask Marcia about Martin Fowler. After all, she was a local and a bar owner. Who could be more qualified to know everything that went on in a small town like this? The only problem with asking her is that he would have to come clean and tell her the truth, otherwise she would consider the request odd. He felt that he could trust her and the worse that could happen is his coming off as a liar. But hopefully, after he told her why he had made up his story and how important it was to find Fowler, she would forgive his deception.

Aware that time was of the essence, he decided to level with her.

When she finished waiting on the men at the table, Marcia returned and set out a bowl of roasted peanuts in the shell.

"How about some peanuts?"

"Sounds great, thanks."

He took a handful, cracked a shell and plopped one in his mouth. "I don't know how to say this rather than to just come right out and tell you. I sort of fibbed to you why I'm in Wayneston."

She looked at him suspiciously, her disappointment showing. "Oh yeah? So why did you really come here?"

"I'm looking for somebody. I'm a private investigator. I'm sorry I lied to you but I felt I had to under the circumstances."

"And what exactly are the circumstances, Alan? Or is that not really your name, either?"

He chuckled but it fell flat. "No, that's my real name, honest! Listen, Marcia. I don't blame you for being pissed and I would be, too. I mean, here we were having this great conversation but I've not been up front with you. All I can do is hope you will forgive me after I tell you why I have to find this person and how important it is that I be discrete."

She seemed to lighten up a notch or two. "Okay, I'm willing to listen."

"Good." He lowered his voice a little. "I'm looking for a man who is holding captive several young girls that have been abducted and trafficked to the States from Eastern Europe. I need to find out where he lives as soon as possible because they are going to be re-sold as prostitutes soon, if they haven't already."

"Jesus, Alan! Wait a second—"

Marcia came around the bar and sat down beside him so they could talk more easily.

"How did you find all of this out?"

"It's a long story, but basically I was hired to locate some woman's sister who incidentally was also trafficked here and then forced into prostitution. My investigation has led me to this guy who is not only keeping this woman's little sister captive but several other young girls that have been trafficked to the states well. He is supposedly only using these girls as models for his photos and not exploiting them in a sexual way. That of course may not actually be the case. But either way, they are about to be re-sold into prostitution now that he is done using them for his purposes. I've just recently found out that man lives somewhere around here."

"What's the man's name?"

"Martin Fowler."

She gave him an incredulous look. "You're shitting me—Martin Fowler? That's impossible!"

"Why is it impossible?"

"Because Martin Fowler's family has been living here in Wayneston for as long as anyone can remember. They have given so much to the community through the years—hell, our park and even the football stadium are named after the Fowlers! I just can't believe that Martin could be mixed up in anything like this. What kind of photos has he supposedly been taking of these girls, anyway? Not kiddie porn, I hope!"

"No, at least I don't think so. He is apparently obsessed with the impressionist painter Degas and has the girls pose as ballerinas so he can reproduce Degas' paintings as photos. Then he manipulates them to look like the original paintings. Crazy thing to do, really."

"Hmm. I heard that Martin studied art in college but have never known him to do anything artistically. Of course, that doesn't mean he doesn't—I just don't know him very well."

Alan's face lit up. "There you go! Fowler has an art background, so that all but confirms that he is the guy I'm looking for!"

She shook her head. "Wow, it just doesn't seem possible. Martin is such a nice guy—or at least he seems to be. I've probably only talked to him two or three times in my life. He's sort of a recluse, actually. In fact—"

Marcia looked away from Alan for a moment and back again. "You know, now that I think about it, the guy is pretty strange. I mean, he hardly ever comes into town and when he does, it's usually only long enough to attend some charity event or philanthropic project his family has been involved in. It seems like he spends most of his time in that mansion on the hill."

"A mansion you say? How big is the place?"

"Huge. I've never been inside and the only time you can actually see it is in the winter when the trees are bare. His grandfather built it a long time ago and Martin inherited it after his father passed away a few years ago."

"How far is it from here?" Alan asked.

"About ten minutes."

"Can you tell me how to get there?"

Her eyes brightened. "I can do better than that. I'll show you where it is if you can wait another fifteen minutes. Randy is coming in to take over at ten o'clock."

"That would be awesome, Marcia—thanks!"

"Don't mention it. But I can tell you now that you aren't going to see much when we get there. The place is like Fort Knox! There's a huge steel gate blocking the entrance to his driveway and an electrified fence surrounds the place."

"You don't think that's just a little suspicious?"

"Unusual, for sure—but I wouldn't say 'suspicious.' I mean, the Fowlers are a wealthy family that has always been treated like royalty around here. The fact that they owned that huge estate and all that land has been a given for as long as most folks can remember. Martin's father actually had a Rolls Royce, for crying out loud! And whenever he drove through town everyone would wave at him like he was the fucking pope or something—pardon my French. And his wife, Beatrice, was a sort of quasi-glamorous woman with her expensive clothes and jewelry. The whole family has always been respected and adored by the locals. They were sort of like the Kennedy's in a way."

"So where is the rest of the family? You say Martin's father died but where is the mother and the rest of the kids?"

"Beatrice and Robert—that was Martin's father's name—both died in a plane wreck in Italy. Martin had an older sister but I heard that she passed away about five years ago."

So it's just Martin living in this big mansion?"

"As far as I know. Like I said, he's a very private guy. There's also a man that works for him who spends a lot of time up there as well. Harold Branson. He's almost like a servant—the one that does all of the shopping and errands for Martin. I think he even cooks for him. Harold's an older man and some people think they may also be lovers. I don't agree, but that's just my opinion."

"So Martin is gay?"

She shrugged. "Who knows? Naturally everyone would think so since he's never been seen with any girls and Harold seems to be the only person he's close to. But it's hard to say what Martin's sexual preference is since he hasn't actually lived here most of his childhood. He was always sent away to private schools, which a lot of folks thought was pretty snobbish. I think he even went to college at Oxford. He didn't actually start living here on any kind of regular basis until after his parents died and he moved into the house."

"What does he do for a living?"

"Hell if I know. His father was the head honcho of an investment firm—he was constantly travelling to New York on business and I think he owned a place there, too. But I don't think Martin is involved in anything like that. In fact, I think all he does is live the wealthy life, period. It sure must be nice."

"Maybe not so nice—after all, money isn't everything. And if Martin Fowler doesn't fit the profile of somebody who could potentially be up to no good, then pigs fly. Seriously, let's consider what you just told me: this guy has nothing but time to kill and enough money to purchase his own island. He keeps to himself, lives alone in a mansion, and can at least be described as a bit of an oddball and eccentric. My question therefore is this: do you really think it impossible for Martin Fowler to be keeping several abducted young girls in his isolated uberhaus that happens to be fortified by a security gate, an electrified fence and located on top of a fricking mountain?"

Marcia grinned wryly. "I see what you mean. Perhaps there is a possibility after all."

"Well, all I know is that I need to find out. And the sooner the better." He looked at his watch. "Please don't tell your worker where we're going when he gets here, okay?"

"Don't worry, I won't."

Just then a man entered the bar and made a beeline over to where they were sitting. The guy looked to be in his mid-twenties, was short, bald and had a full beard.

"Hi Randy," Marcia said. "I hope you brought a good book."

"Been that slow?"

"Oh yeah. And to think it's Friday night, for crying out loud."

"It'll pick up—it always does after I come on."

"Are you trying to tell me I'm bad for business?" Marcia smiled.

"Now that's a laugh! I think they'd much rather be looking at you than at my ugly ass!"

"Oh I'm sorry. Randy this is Alan from Ohio. He's a photographer."

Randy offered Alan his hand. "Hi Alan. The Bucks are lookin' good this year, eh?"

Alan shook his hand. "Yeah, for sure. Our freshman quarterback is getting better each game. It's going to be interesting to see how he measures up against Iowa tomorrow."

"While you guys talk football, I'm going to get my things," Marcia said.

Alan felt a little awkward as he watched Marcia go back behind the bar, wondering how she would explain why they were leaving together. A moment later she was back.

"I'm taking Alan to the Peak so he can get some night shots," she told Randy.

"You'll like that view—I took some pictures of our fireworks from up there last Fourth of July."

"So you're a shooter, too?"

"Nah, not really. I just do it in my spare time."

"Well, nice to meet you, Randy," Alan said.

"Yeah, get some good shots."

"See you tomorrow," Marcia told Randy.

Alan and Pan followed Marcia out of the bar. When they reached the street, Marcia said, "You want me to drive or you?"

"I'll drive. I'm parked right there."

She followed Alan over to the Pilot. When he opened the door for Marcia, Pan started to jump in. "Whoa, you're gonna have to sit in the back, girl."

After Marcia was in, he opened the door for Pan then got in and started the car.

"Which way?"

Go down to the first street and take a right."

Alan followed her directions until they were on a two-lane road that was curvy and dark as pitch. He turned on his brights and kept his speed at around thirty-five.

"So how long have you been a PI, Alan?"

"Well, I've actually had my license for several years but gave up the practice a few years ago. In fact, this is the first job I've taken in all that time. My real job is a web designer."

"So why did you decide to come out of retirement?"

"I guess because this case really intrigued me. I've also been a little bored just doing websites all the time and sort of missed the action."

"Do you think you'll continue doing it?"

"I haven't given that much thought. I guess I'll just have to wait and see how this case pans out. I really want to nail these traffickers—you wouldn't believe how nasty these bastards are. No regard for basic human rights whatsoever. It's really been an eye-opener this last week seeing how they operate and the horrible way they treat their victims."

"Sounds like this has almost been a crusade for you."

"Hmm. I guess you could say that. It's always been pretty easy for me to avoid getting emotionally involved in cases I've taken on, but this one has been different. I mean, here's this poor woman who was deceived into thinking she was going to get a decent job in the West then discovers that both she and her little sister have been forced into what amounts to slavery. But we're not just talking about a couple of victims here—there at least six more that I know of who have also been trafficked into this country by the same group of thugs. There are at least two women's lives ruined by this gang and about to be more if I can't find these girls."

"That's horrible! I can see why you are so caught up in this now. But do you know the men who are responsible for this?"

"Yes, at least three of them—and there's probably more than that. If I can at least bust this guy who I think is the leader, I'll feel like I've done some good. The sad thing is that this would only be the tip of the iceberg. Every time I think of this sort of thing going on each and every day all over the globe, I get pissed because very little is being done to stop it."

"I have to admit that I didn't know the situation was that serious, or widespread. You read about this sort of thing in the news every now and then but I've always thought it was just sort of random. How did you find out all of this information, anyway?"

"One of my friends told me. She's an advocate for women's rights and the one who gave me the case in the first place."

"I see. You need to slow down after this curve then you're going to take a left."

"Okay."

Alan saw a small paved road branch off of the highway after he took the curve and pulled onto it.

"Only another mile or so to go and we'll be there."

"Is this some kind of private road?"

"Not really. It continues past the entrance to Martin's place for several miles then eventually comes out on Route 119. Now start slowing down—it's right after this curve."

Alan eased up on the accelerator until he saw a clearing off to the side of the road. Ten yards in was an enormous steel barred gate that was at least eight feet high. On either side of the gate was a chain link fence with three rows of barbed wire added on top.

Fort Knox, indeed— Or would Sing-Sing be more fitting?

"Damn, I see what you mean—this is definitely foreboding."

"I told you it was impressive. And that fence continues for a quarter mile in either direction."

"Are you sure it's electrified? Isn't that illegal?"

"Yes I'm sure, and apparently it's not illegal if you're a Fowler."

"I'm going to go check this out."

Alan pulled the Pilot onto the clearing until he was safely off the road and put the transmission into park. He got out and walked over to the gate.

The gate was actually comprised of two separate gates that met in the middle. There was no lock to speak of, just an inch clearance between the two gates. Alan went over and looked at one of the ends where the gate connected to the fence and could see steel arms on the other side that apparently moved the gates inward by some sort of motorized device, probably operated by a remote control that could be activated in Fowler's car or perhaps even from the house.

He glanced up at the right side of the gate when a bright light suddenly came on and bathed the area in white. He squinted his eyes and saw a video camera mounted on top of a pole just inside the fence aimed directly at the spot where he was standing. Spotting the camera prompted him to turn around immediately and get back into the SUV.

"The guy even has a closed circuit camera! Okay, I'm impressed. Martin Fowler not only has effectively secured his hollowed grounds but now he knows that I just stopped by to case out his digs. Shit!"

"I wouldn't worry too much about that. Folks pull in here all the time—especially the kids. There have been more than a few hecklers that come up here just to ham it up for the camera. And let's face it, once you see this gate, you can't help but want to know what's up with this place. So I'm sure plenty of cars routinely pull over to check it out."

"I see what you mean. Well, let's get out of here. It's pretty obvious that this is going to be a lot tougher than I thought."

Alan backed out and headed toward town. As he pulled away he felt his frustration mounting. Even in the daylight, it would be difficult if not impossible to enter Fowler's property without being seen. Although he had considered this a possibility from what Marcia had already told him, he now knew it for a fact.

Time for Plan B.

He was going to have to go directly to the cops. And hope he could somehow persuade them to check out Martin Fowler's home. This was he had dreaded might happen because the odds of getting the law on his side in time to save the girls were slim at best.

"Who has legal jurisdiction of this area?" he asked Marcia.

"Wayneston Police, I believe. This is still considered within the city limits."

"How well do you get along with the cops?"

"Pretty good . . . Why do I have a feeling you would like some help with this?"

He glanced over at her and smiled. "Because I think we both know there is no way in hell I'm going to be able to get into Fowler's place without some serious luck. And it's not going to be easy to get the cops to help either, unless you have some kind of positive rapport with them. They sure as hell aren't going to listen to an out of town PI."

"You're probably right. Bill Myers is pretty hardcore and does everything by the book—Bill is the Wayneston police chief. And although I'm not a lawyer, I would guess you'd have to obtain a search warrant to do something like that when there is no probable cause."

"You're right as rain about that. Do you think you could help me persuade the chief to do a little investigating without a warrant? Explain the nature of the crime and the need to be expeditious?"

"God, Alan, I don't know. Like I said, he's not a very flexible individual at all. Fair and honest to a fault but not likely to bend any rules for anybody. Not only that, you have to keep in mind that we're talking about harassing one of the town's most prominent residents. I just can't see the chief risking the flack he'd get for insinuating that Martin Fowler was some kind of criminal. If he sticks his neck out and it turns out that Martin is clean, I hate to think of how the citizens would react. Not to mention Martin himself, who as you can imagine has quite a bit of influence in this town."

"But we have to at least try—it's our only hope we have of saving those girls."

"I'll give it my best shot—just don't get your hopes up."

"I really appreciate that, Marcia. Any idea how early the chief comes into work?"

"No, but I'd say pretty early since he's the chief."

"Would you mind going in with me to see him first thing in the morning? I'll treat you to breakfast."

"Now you're talking; it's a date! And believe me, I want to help you in any way I can. If Martin Fowler really is holding those girls up there like you say, somebody needs to bust the son of a bitch."

"Oh, he has them—or at least _had_ them. I'm convinced of that. I can only pray we aren't too late. The men that are involved in all of this are already suspicious of me. If they have tipped Fowler off and he's on the lookout for me, we may already be out of luck."

"Let's keep our fingers crossed."

"Are you parked by your bar?"

She nodded. "Yes, you can drop me off there."

They drove the rest of the way into town in relative silence, lost in their own thoughts. When they arrived back at the bar, Marcia pointed to a gray Mazda 6 parked across the street.

"That's my car. I think I'll go in and see how things are going. You want to come in for a nightcap?"

"Sounds like a plan."

Alan parked, let Pan out and accompanied Marcia to Thirsty's.

CHAPTER 29

Yuri Popov disconnected from Hank's call and made a silent vow to himself: If it turns out that Alan Swansea has indeed been investigating him and had something to do with Nadiya's disappearance, he would call Mick and tell him to make sure that Hank Multer suffers a lot before killing him. That would be his punishment for fucking everything up.

But if what Hank just told him held true, that Swansea was nothing more than a website designer and probably had nothing to do with any of these strange coincidences, then he would let Hank live. He'd fire his sorry ass of course and warn him to never say anything about his business affairs or else, but at least the ex-cop could go on living his miserable life.

Popov devised a plan that would settle this mystery once and for all—and the beauty of it was that no matter how it played out, he would prevail. Scenario One: If Swansea was in fact the same man who had called Luka regarding the sale of the girls—using the alias _Gordon Davis_ —then he was most likely the same guy who had been snooping around and stolen Nadiya. Popov didn't really believe in coincidences and had a hunch that these events were tied together. And if this were the case, his plan would result in Swansea's capture and imminent elimination.

Scenario Two: But if Gordon Davis was truly legit and wanted to purchase the girls, he would be more than happy to take his money and deliver the goods. He would rake in a bloody fortune for such a neat and tidy package of young, unspoiled merchandise.

It was a win-win situation. And what could be better than that?

But first he had to call Martin Fowler. Despite the fact he seriously doubted Swansea would be able to track down Fowler and the girls, Popov saw all of this as a sign that his old friend needed to get those girls out of his house once and for all. He had kept them long enough to take his crazy photos and now needed to free them up so he could sell them. Renting the young girls as a group package had been a huge mistake in the first place. All it had done was cause headaches.

Live and learn.

Popov resolutely punched in the number for Luka Rusakov.

CHAPTER 30

It was after 1:00 a.m. when Alan finally returned to the motel room. He wasn't drunk—just buzzed and exhausted enough to want nothing more than to hit the rack and pass out. He gave Pan some fresh water, washed his face, brushed his teeth, took off his clothes and plopped down on the bed.

In spite of his fatigue, he managed a smile as he recalled the evening with Marcia. The girl was addicting, that much he knew. And the more time he spent with her, the more he could feel her chipping away at the thick wall of ice he had built around himself ever since Julie's death.

Was it possible for him to fall in love with somebody else?

Before today he had always thought not.

But now he wasn't so sure about that.

* * * * *

He awoke at seven a.m. He'd told Marcia he would meet her at the Main Street Diner at seven-thirty sharp. He jumped out of bed and bee lined for the shower.

After shaving, dressing and feeding Pan, Alan snuck her outside to relieve herself then told her that she would have to stay in the room until he got back. She was clearly having trouble understanding why a restaurant wouldn't allow pets. Alan promised her a bag of doggy treats if she would just let it go. With a huff, Pan eventually acquiesced.

It was chilly outside and Alan suddenly wished he had taken the time to get some coffee in the lobby. The shower may have woken him up physically but his mind was still in a semi-catatonic state. Thoughts of Marcia, the abducted girls and Martin Fowler came in spurts and needed sorting out—something he hoped a cup of strong coffee would help with. He drove quickly toward Main Street and noticed he was well over the speed limit. Letting up on the accelerator, he knew that the last thing he needed right now was to get caught speeding just before his meeting with the police chief to request a favor.

He spotted Marcia's car parked near the diner and pulled in behind it. He got out and saw her standing out front awaiting him. She looked even more beautiful than the night before. Her long chestnut hair was brushed out and fell onto her shoulders; she had no makeup on except for a little blush and was wearing a skirt with a navy sweater under an open leather jacket. She smiled as he approached.

"Morning, Mr. Swansea. Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee?"

"Jesus, I can't think of anything better!"

"Right this way."

He followed her inside and she led him over to a booth. The place wasn't crowded but the few customers that were present gave them a second look as they sat down. A waitress came over in record time.

"Morning, Marcia," she greeted.

"Morning, Maryanne. I'd like a coffee, please."

She looked over at Alan. "Me, too."

"I'll be right back," Maryanne said.

Marcia said, "This place has the best omelets you've ever tasted."

"Oh yeah? Then I guess I'd better check them out."

"So how do you feel this morning? I didn't keep you out too late, did I?"

Alan chuckled. "Not hardly. I feel pretty good, actually. I'm just in desperate need of some java. Not too swift until I've had at least a cup or two."

"I'm the same way. By the way, I went by the police station on the way here to see when the chief gets in and they told me he'd be in around eight. So that at least gives us time to eat. I hope you don't mind that I did that."

"Not at all—I appreciate it. So what do you think our chances are of the chief checking out Fowler's place? Seriously."

Maryanne returned and Marcia waited until she served their coffee and took their orders before replying. They both ordered ham and cheese omelets with wheat toast and orange juice.

"Seriously? Not too good. I thought about this while I was taking my shower and realized how bizarre it is. I mean, to think that there are actually several young girls up at Martin's right now that have been stolen from their families then brought over here to work as unwilling models for him is— _crazy!_ It just doesn't seem possible!"

"Oh, it's possible all right. And not only is it possible, it's for real."

"You're that sure of yourself," she said.

"Yup, I am." Alan took a gulp of his coffee. "And if it turns out that the girls aren't there, then Fowler has been tipped off by Yuri Popov. And if that's the case, I am royally screwed. That's why we need to get moving on this right away. I have a funny feeling that Popov is on to me and although I doubt he knows where I am right now, I'm pretty sure he isn't going to just sit around with his finger up his ass while there's a possibility that his trafficking empire could be brought down."

"I guess all we can do is try to persuade Chief Myers that this is important enough to justify a call to Martin to see what he can find out. That may be the most we get out of him."

"That's not going to do shit. All that will do is give Fowler time to lie his way out of this and hide the girls somewhere before the chief can do anything else. Nope, he has to go up there and blitz the guy. That's the only thing that will work—use the element of surprise."

"Hmm. All I can say is good luck. I doubt he'll go for it."

"That's sure not very inspiring. Well, I guess we'll just have to see what happens."

After the food came, Alan felt his anxiety building. That oh-so-familiar sense of self-doubt reared its ugly head as he considered the task at hand. The fact that Marcia described the chief as a play-it-by-the-book hardcore officer of the law made it look highly unlikely he would be willing to stick his head out on this. Alan wondered what he would do if this is the case and realized he had no idea at all. In a nutshell, it was imperative that he convince the chief to check Fowler out.

"That was delicious," he said after swallowing his last bite of omelet. "And it was the best I've ever tasted."

"Told you so," Marcia sang.

Alan chugged down the last of his coffee. "Guess we'd better get going."

Marcia glanced at her watch. "Yeah, you're right."

Alan looked at the check, pulled out a twenty and laid it down on the table.

"Let's do it."

The police station was only a couple of blocks away so they walked. When they arrived at the rather elaborate columned municipal building, Marcia led them across the main hall to the police headquarters. Alan let Marcia do the talking when they approached the desk sergeant.

"Hi, Tom. Is Chief Myers in yet?"

The officer smiled and replied, "Yeah. He just came in a few minutes ago."

"May we speak with him? This is the guy I was telling you about. Alan, this is Tom Maynard."

Alan nodded. "Nice to meet you, Tom."

"So you're the PI, eh?"

Alan glanced at Marcia, trying not to show his chagrin that she had already blown his cover to this rookie-looking cop. "Uh, yes—semi-retired, that is."

"Well, hold on a minute and I'll let the chief know you'd like to see him."

While he went over to the phone, Alan said, "Why did you tell him I'm a PI?"

"I couldn't see why not. I mean—they're all probably going to know eventually anyway. This is a small department, after all."

"Yeah, I see what you mean. I just sort of wish you would have—"

"He said for you two to go on back to his office. You know the way." Tom said.

"Thanks, Tom."

"No problem."

Tom followed Marcia as she walked around the desk toward a hallway that led back to several rooms. They reached an office with a large glass window and Alan saw a middle-aged man sitting at a desk. Marcia went up to the open door, stuck her head inside and knocked on the woodwork.

"Hello, Chief."

The chief smiled and stood up. "Why hello, Marcia. How have you been? Come on in."

The two entered the office and the chief shook Marcia's hand. "Chief, I'd like you to meet Alan Swansea. He's a private investigator. Alan, this is Chief Bill Myers."

"Nice to meet you, Chief," Alan said. He shook the man's hand, feeling his own being nearly crushed by the chief's death grip.

"Same to you, Mr. Swansea. So what brings you here today?"

"Please call me Alan, Chief. I guess you could say that I need to ask you for a favor."

The chief was around six-three, rock-solid and in good shape. He had short-cropped dark hair that was graying slightly at the temples. He cast Alan a look of curiosity and said, "Please sit down, you two. So ya need a favor you say? And what might that favor be?"

"I've been working a case that involves human trafficking and the forced prostitution of foreigners in our country. I've been hired to locate a victim's younger sister, who is also a victim and only thirteen years old. My investigation has brought me here to Wayneston, where I believe the victim's sister plus several other trafficked girls are being held against their will."

The chief stared at Alan intently, his curiosity clearly piqued. "And where are these girls being held?"

"I have very good reason to believe that they are being held in Martin Fowler's home, Chief."

Surprisingly, the chief didn't flinch at the mention of Fowler. "What are you basing this belief on?"

"It's sort of a long story but I will summarize. Mr. Fowler indirectly hired the girls from a man named Yuri Popov, who lives in New York and appears to be a major player in a gang of Russian traffickers. My investigation led me to Popov as a result of my client's account of how he had baited her in Germany with the promise of legitimate employment in the U.S. only to instead force her into sex slavery upon her arrival. After being sexually abused and beaten for several months, Popov sold the woman to her present pimp, another gang member who owns a bar that fronts a brothel.

"While investigating Popov I discovered yet another victim who was living in his home, also trafficked over here from Eastern Europe and used as a sex slave. She is now in a safe house in Manhattan. I found the phone number of the Russian man who had originally abducted both victims and gave him a call under the pretense of looking for young girls for sale after learning that the girls were being "put back on the market" so to speak. That's how I was eventually able to track down Henry Fowler."

"And what is Martin using these young girls for?" the chief asked.

"That's the only hopeful news that I can report in this whole case. Supposedly, they are only being used as models by Fowler. He is photographing them and then doctoring up the images to look like impressionist paintings. Although I'm a little skeptical that this is the only purpose he is using them for, it appears to be the case from what I've learned. We can only hope so."

"Are you saying these girls are being used for pornography?"

"No, at least not based on the images I've seen of them. Fowler is evidently obsessed with the impressionist painter Degas, who painted a series of works depicting ballet dancers. He is creating mockup scenes from Degas' paintings with the girls posing in ballet attire and then photographing them in identical poses. Then he manipulates the images in a software program to make them look like impressionist paintings."

"So tell me how it is that you viewed these images."

"Fowler has posted them online anonymously. That's what indirectly led me to investigating him in the first place."

"And how can you be so sure that it was Martin Fowler who posted those images if he did so anonymously?"

"Simply by doing some routine investigative work that essentially proves it is his work—I have no doubt whatsoever that he is the artist."

"Excuse me for saying this Alan, but surely you must realize how ridiculous all of this sounds. First of all, I know Martin Fowler personally, and although he's a bit on the eccentric side, I don't think he's likely to have committed the offenses you are accusing him of. Why in the world would he risk using girls that have been illegally brought into this country for an apparently legal purpose in the first place? There is no law against taking photographs of minors as long as they aren't in any way sexually explicit or for pornographic purposes. You even admit that you have no proof that this is the case. Seems it would be a lot easier for him to just hire some of the local girls to model for his project.

"Furthermore, I don't see how Fowler could possibly have pulled this off without anyone knowing about it. How long have these foreign girls supposedly been up at his place?"

"Six months."

" _Six months?_ And in all this time not a single soul in this town has seen hide nor hair of any of them? How many girls are there supposed to be?"

Alan's hesitant reply reflected his plummeting hopes. "Five or six."

"Five or six! I'm sorry Alan, but it just isn't possible. You just can't stash away five or six young girls for that length of time without somebody finding out about it—not in this little town! How the hell is he feeding them? Hell, where in the world is he putting them? I know his place is pretty big, but you're making it out as some sort of girl's boarding school or something. Nope, I just ain't buying any of this."

Alan mentally put himself into the chief's position and had to admit that this situation would seem far-fetched to anybody. It did seem preposterous to think that a man of Martin Fowler's public stature would go to such extreme measures of obtaining girls that have been trafficked into the country to model for him while he had a whole town full of potential models at his disposal. And accepting the notion that the girls could be stowed away for this length of time without anyone ever finding out was just as hard to swallow. Wayneston was a tiny town with lots of chatty residents. How could everyone miss it?

Nevertheless, all of it was absolutely true in spite of how crazy it seemed. He knew it and wasn't about to back down just because the chief wasn't buying into it.

"Okay, chief, I realize how incredible all of this must sound—especially coming from a total stranger you have no reason to believe or trust. But let me ask you this. What if it is true? What if there really are several young girls right now in Martin Fowler's house that have been abducted from their families and sold to him as merchandise? To be forced to do whatever he demands, whether those services are as innocuous as modeling for photos or something more sinister—like being used for kiddie porn or forced to perform sex acts. Don't you think that if there's even the slimmest possibility that this sort of human injustice could be occurring that it's worth taking a moment to check out, just in case?"

Chief Myers thought for a moment, then replied, "I see your point and you've made a legitimate argument. But here's the problem, Alan. Even if I were crazy enough to consider the charges you're making against Martin Fowler and decided to look into this, I couldn't do a damn thing without a search warrant. And as much as I hate to bust your bubble, that ain't gonna be happening. Not based on the thin evidence you've just presented to me, which is nothing more than circumstantial at best and more like a bunch of theories than anything else."

Marcia said, "But chief, couldn't you at least _ask_ Martin if he would mind your checking out his place? I mean, if he has nothing to hide, maybe he would be willing to comply."

"Marcia, you know as well as I do how much the Fowlers have contributed to this town through the years. They have literally made this town what it is with their generosity and support of so many programs. And if you think for one moment I'm going to publicly incriminate Martin Fowler for allegedly harboring abducted persons, you're out of your mind! Not only would he be offended and humiliated, I would suddenly find myself on the wrong side of the fence with him from here on out."

"Worried about your job, Chief? Is that it?" Alan said.

The chief's face went crimson. "Listen here, Swansea! That is not what this is all about and I resent your implying that! This is about protecting the rights of one of our most prominent citizens. And I am not about to jeopardize my relationship with Martin Fowler with any of this nonsense! Am I making myself clear?"

"Sorry, chief. That was a cheap shot and I apologize. And I really don't blame you for refusing my request based on the circumstances. I mean, there is an awful lot at stake here and the last thing we want to do is tarnish Martin Fowler's sterling reputation and stature in Wayneston. That would certainly be a tragedy compared to the possibility of saving the lives of several young girls who have been abducted from their homeland and forced into modern day slavery. God forbid that you inconvenience Mr. Fowler by asking him a couple of questions in order to prove his innocence. I now see the inequity here. Much more important to protect a citizen's rights."

Alan concluded this last ditch effort to appeal to Chief Myers' conscience and priorities by staring directly into the man's gray eyes, praying for a miracle. The chief returned his stare for a moment before he spoke.

"And what if it turns out that Fowler is innocent? Would you be willing to accept that and get the hell out of this town?"

"Definitely—you'll never see me again. That's a promise."

He turned to Marcia. "I assume that you are this man's biggest cheerleader, Marcia—otherwise you wouldn't be here. What are your thoughts? Do you think there's any chance that Martin Fowler could be involved in any of this?"

"My initial reaction was just like yours, Chief. It just seemed impossible to conceive of. But after hearing what could be at stake, that all went out the door. The sheer possibility that there could be girls up there right this moment being forced into submission is heartbreaking and definitely worth looking into. I also don't believe that Alan would have come all the way here making such seemingly bizarre accusations unless he had very good reason to.

"And as for Martin Fowler, the more I think about him, the more I feel like this may not be below him. Let's face it, Chief, the guy is a loner and a pretty damn weird. And when you read about all of these serial killers, you always find out that they were a lot like him: loners with opportunity who keep to themselves and rarely interact with people. That profile fits Martin to a tee, I hate so say."

The chief's manner became resigned. "Okay, you guys win. I can't just stand around and do nothing while there's a chance that this could be happening in our town, however slim it may be. But I'm going to go about this the only way I see fit. I'll take one of my officers with me and drive out to Fowler's place. I'll give him a phony reason for needing to pay him a visit. Assuming that he opens that gate for me, we'll go up and check the place out. If anything seems out of place or Martin seems in any way suspicious, I'll push as far as I can to case out the place. If he gets nervous and mentions anything about a warrant, we'll just take it from there."

"Any chance I could tag along, chief?" Alan said.

"Most certainly not. I want this to look like a friendly visit and nothing more. Your presence will only complicate things."

"Okay, I understand. How soon can you go?"

The chief glanced at the wall clock. "Twenty minutes. I want you guys to leave now and find some place to hang out. And not a word of this to a soul—not to anyone in this department or in this town. Understand?"

"No problem. When will we learn what you find out?" Alan asked.

"I'll call you—give me a number I can reach you at."

Alan handed him a business card. "Thanks, chief. I truly appreciate it."

"Just don't forget that promise. If Martin is clean, you split town and forget all of this ever happened."

"Fair enough."

"Now you folks move along so I can get started on this."

"Thanks a million, Chief," Marcia said.

"You've always found a way to break me down, Marcia, and that's the truth. Why do you have to be so darn gorgeous?"

"I guess you can blame my parents for that."

He chuckled and pointed toward the door. "Can't really blame them for that. Later."

On the way out, they saw Tom the desk sergeant awaiting them expectantly. Marcia managed to immediately squelch any questions he may have about their meeting with the chief.

"Coming to the bar tonight?" she said.

He glowed. "You tending?"

"Of course."

"Then I'll be there."

Marcia smiled, never breaking her stride as they exited the headquarters. She looked over at Alan. "That guy's been trying to get into my pants for two years."

"Nice move to get his mind off of things. But what are you going to do when you see him tonight?'

"I'll let him down easy," she smiled. "Just like I always do."

"Thanks for your help back there. I don't think he would have come through, otherwise."

"Well, the chief and I go back pretty far. He's always been good to me by keeping an eye on the bar and dealing with the occasional riffraff that goes in there. Bill's really a good guy that cares a lot about this town."

"I wouldn't have thought that after the way he was so adamant about protecting Martin Fowler like the guy is some kind of saint. But I'll give him credit for finally changing his mind. You were my trump card."

They arrived at her car and Marcia looked at her watch. "I hate to bail out on you but I have some important errands to run. Maybe you can give me a call after you've heard from the chief?"

"Yeah, I'll do that. I think I'll just hang out here for a while and check out your town square while I'm waiting. I'm going to feel like a fugitive if he doesn't find anything and I have to leave Dodge to honor my promise. I can only hope Fowler hasn't been tipped off by Popov."

"This is definitely going to be pretty nerve wracking for you, I'm sure. Try to stay cool and I'll be keeping my fingers crossed for you."

"Thanks. Oh, how about your phone number?"

"Right, I almost forgot."

She dug a scrap of paper out of her purse, wrote down her cell number and handed it to Alan.

"Great, I'll call you later," he said.

"Okay."

Marcia got into her car and Alan headed back to the restaurant for a coffee to go.

CHAPTER 31

Wayneston police chief Bill Myers sat back down at his desk after Marcia and Swansea left his office. He had half a notion to back out of this whole Martin Fowler affair but decided he may as well follow through with it. He was pissed at himself for letting Marcia with her irresistible beauty get the better of him. The PI's guilt trip hadn't helped much either. He was starting to get soft, he thought, after all these years of unyielding commitment and dedication to upholding the law. He wondered if going soft was standard fair after serving this many years on the job or if it was simply his age starting to show.

Although he didn't want Marcia or Swansea to know it, he didn't exactly consider it unthinkable that Martin Fowler could be mixed up in something like this. The man truly was strange, eccentric and spent very little time outside of the estate he had inherited from his folks. The chief had wondered on more than one occasion what the man could possibly be doing to keep himself occupied all alone and isolated on that hill.

Truth be told, he knew very little about Martin Fowler, period.

What he _did_ know was that Martin Fowler had spent a hell of a lot more time away from Wayneston than he ever had being here. He had never attended the local schools nor taken part in any of the community events or sports activities while growing up. Fowler's folks had sent both of their kids away to ritzy private schools in the Northeast, which was as ironic as it was telling about their loftier than thou attitude toward the rest of the town. Despite how much they had enriched and fortified Wayneston through the years they had shown very little interest in being a social part of it. They had lived here, donated tons of money for new buildings and parks, yet their heads were always elsewhere.

The chief could list all that he knew about Martin Fowler in a single paragraph. He knew that he was in his late thirties, had attended Oxford University in England and that he had been an art major. He knew that he had spent most of his time after graduating in Boston and New York, furthering his art studies and learning whatever it is that artists learn. He knew that whenever anyone in town asked him if he would consider doing an art show of some kind so that the locals could see his work that he would always decline, claiming to have not yet created anything worth exhibiting, yet adding that perhaps some day he would.

When Swansea had stated that Fowler was obsessed with the famous painter—that Degas fellow—and that he was photographing models to look like the artist's paintings, the chief had immediately taken stock. It was doubtful that Swansea knew Fowler was an artist, so this claim had a certain legitimacy to it.

He also knew another thing about Fowler. He employed Harold Branson to look after his grounds and most of his affairs. Branson was Fowler's right-hand man and errand boy, the one who did the shopping and schlepping for his boss. Like Fowler, Branson was an enigma—quiet, private and anti-social. What seemed so odd about the arrangement was Branson's age—he was over seventy years old. Their relationship reminded him of Bruce Wayne and his elderly butler, Alfred. This thought made the chief chuckle, picturing Fowler dressed up like Batman and leading a double life as a criminal instead of a crime fighter.

Branson, like Fowler, was a Wayneston native who had never married and lived alone. There had been talk that he and Fowler were lovers, but this had never been substantiated. And although the chief couldn't care less either way, he did wonder about the range and scope of their rather unusual relationship.

The chief let out a long sigh. He called the front desk and told Maynard to have Jeff Barnes meet him out in the parking lot in ten minutes. It was time to go see what Martin Fowler was up to.

When they reached the gated entrance to Fowler's property, the chief got out of the patrol car and walked over to the video camera. He stood there for a few minutes to see if Fowler would open the gate. He wanted to avoid calling him if possible, but after a few minutes it was apparent that nobody was monitoring the gate. He took out his cell phone, punched in the number he had scrawled on a small notepad and waited for an answer. Fowler had an unlisted number but his number was on file in the city records.

"Hello," Fowler said.

"Martin? It's Chief Myers. You busy right now?"

"Hello, Chief. No, not really. Why do you ask?"

"Somebody reported seeing a prowler in the area last night. While we were checking it out, I spotted some footprints near the south side of your property line that don't seem to go anywhere. Almost looks like the guy may have jumped your fence somehow—not the first time that's happened if you recall a few years ago. Anyway, I wonder if you'd mind letting me in so I can take a look around."

"Oh sure, no problem. When are you coming?"

"Actually we're outside your gate right now."

"I see. Well, sure—I'll open the gate for you as soon as I can get down to the switch."

"Great, thanks."

The chief disconnected and got back into the car.

"Well, it looks like we're in. He sure doesn't seem very suspicious to me, Chief," Barnes said.

"No, he's as cool as a cucumber. Looks like this is gonna be a red herring, just as I thought."

"I'm surprised he bought your story, actually. Why in the hell would a prowler risk getting fried jumping over that fence?"

"If a fellow is desperate enough, he will do anything. These crack heads don't give a shit what stands in their way if they're needin' a fix. And it's not like Fowler doesn't have plenty of potential money for crack up there."

"I reckon you're right. But how the hell could he climb over that fence and avoid the juice getting him?"

"A ten foot long two by six could be positioned over the top and used like a ladder—that's one way. A guy would have to be damn careful though."

"But wouldn't the board still be there if a prowler was on Fowler's land?"

"Of course. But Fowler doesn't have to know that," the chief smiled.

Suddenly there was a loud whining sound as the gates swung open. Barnes put the cruiser in gear and entered Fowler's property.

"Now remember, Jeff. Not a word of this to anybody. I picked you because you know how to keep your mouth shut."

"Don't worry, chief. My lips are sealed."

The chief gazed out the passenger side window as they made their way up Fowler's steep winding driveway. He thought back to the last time he'd been up at the Fowler place and recalled it had been nearly ten years ago. Old man Fowler had suffered a stroke and Beatrice had called 911. He had accompanied the emergency vehicle as a formality since the fire chief had been on vacation at the time.

A few minutes later, the Fowler mansion came into view as they rounded the last curve of the driveway. Barnes drove up to the front of the place and parked. The chief saw Martin Fowler come out of the door to greet them. He was tall and thin with balding hair that along with his wire rimmed glasses made him look older than a man in his mid-thirties. He wore khaki Dockers, a black polo shirt and a pair of new sneakers.

"Good to see you, Chief," he said.

"Back at you, Martin." The chief and Barnes got out of the car. "Sorry for the inconvenience, but I want to make sure this guy isn't lurking around somewhere up here."

"Who spotted him in the first place?" Fowler asked.

"Old man Jenkins. Said the guy was hanging around his garage like he was fixing to steal something out of it. When he turned on the outdoor floodlights, the guy ran like a bat out of hell up the road in this direction."

"Hmm. Well, I doubt he's around here—I just got back from my morning jog and covered most of the grounds. Didn't run into any prowlers along the way."

His flippant attitude rubbed the chief the wrong way. "Well, it's not like he would he would exactly make himself visible to you, Martin, would he? At any rate, we'll just take a quick look around and then be on our way if you don't mind."

"Be my guest, Chief." Fowler said. "I'll be inside if you need me."

"Thanks, Martin. We won't be long."

Fowler headed back into the house. Chief Myers gestured for Barnes to follow him over to the guesthouse to the south of the mansion. Once they were out of earshot, Barnes said, "Think he's suspicious, Chief? I mean, what he said about the prowler made me think that he's not buying any of this."

"I agree. But the guy's so weird that it's hard to get a read on him. Always got that standoffish attitude just like the rest of the Fowlers. Must be in the gene pool."

"What about the house? We going inside?"

"Not sure, yet. Let's poke around out here a little and then take it from there."

They stopped in back of the guesthouse on the way to one of three paths that fanned out into the wooded perimeter of Fowler's property. The chief peeked inside one of the windows and held his ear up to it, listening for any sounds. Satisfied that the house was unoccupied, they continued along the path.

Ten minutes later, the chief and Barnes returned to Fowler's house and rang the bell. A moment later, he came to the door and opened it.

"Find anything, Chief?"

"Nope, looks like all clear. Mind if we take a look inside?"

It was obvious that Fowler had been half-expecting this, even though the request was absurd.

"You surely don't think a prowler would be in my house!"

The chief's expression became stern. "I'm going to level with you, Martin. There is somebody who thinks you may be hiding something in your house and even though I think the man is wrong, I promised him I'd check it out. Now you can either let me come inside and take a look around or I can go back into town and get a search warrant. It's up to you."

"That won't be necessary, Chief. I have nothing to hide. But it would be nice to know what I am supposedly hiding."

"Young girls abducted from Europe," the chief replied matter-of-factly.

Fowler laughed heartily. "You're kidding me, right? Now what in the world would I be doing with girls abducted from Eastern Europe, Chief?"

"I didn't say Eastern Europe, Martin," the chief said, his eyes narrowed.

"Well, that's where they usually come from, isn't it? You read about that sort of thing all the time—people being scammed into coming to this country to have a better life— but I can assure you that I am not guilty of these charges. And frankly, I'm a little put off that you would think me capable of it, Chief."

"Nothing personal, Martin. I'm just doing my job. Why don't you just show me around the place and then we'll quit bothering you with this."

"Very well. But who may I ask has made this absurd accusation?"

"That's not something I can answer, Martin. The source is reputable, though, or I would never have given this a second thought. All you need to do is prove that he's barking up the wrong tree and this whole thing will be over."

"I understand. Well, this is the foyer and up ahead to the right is the library."

Barnes and the chief followed Fowler to the library. Along the walls were a few large oil paintings framed in hand carved frames. The chief knew very little about art, but enough to know that the paintings looked old, authentic and valuable. When they entered the library with its high vaulted ceilings, Myers noted no less than a dozen more paintings adorning those areas where there weren't any built-in bookshelves.

"This is more like an art gallery than a library, Martin. Are these paintings originals or reproductions?"

Martin Fowler cast the chief an incredulous look that bordered on contempt. "Why they are _most certainly_ the originals! The mere thought of exhibiting copies would be a travesty, Chief. Clearly, you are not much of an art aficionado or you would know better than to even suggest such a thing to a collector!"

"Sorry, Martin. I didn't mean to offend you. I guess it's just kind of hard to believe that there are so many valuable paintings in this place. I mean, you should have a public exhibit or whatever you call it. So maybe the folks in town could see all of this fine art."

"Not interested. In fact, you men are among a select few who have seen my art collection. That's the way I would like it to remain, as well. So I'd appreciate it if you would keep quiet about this. The last thing I want is for the wrong people to get wind of my collection and try to steal it."

"Hmm, I see what you mean. Well, don't worry about that. We won't tell a soul, right Barnes?"

"Right, Chief."

They walked along the perimeter of the library then continued touring the first floor. As they entered another spacious room that Fowler used as his formal gallery, the chief noticed that there were some paintings that hadn't been hung. They were standing up against the walls, spaced out randomly throughout the room.

"Looks like you still have some work to do in here, Chief Myers commented.

"Yes, it's actually a work in progress. I've been rearranging my artwork from around the house, trying to decide exactly what pieces should be put in here. It's an arduous process, actually. And something that can literally take weeks to accomplish satisfactorily."

The chief strode along the paintings as he made his way to the far end of the room. When he reached the first of two closed doors, he gestured toward it.

"What's in here?"

"One of the bathrooms. Why do you ask?"

"Mind if I take a peak inside?"

"Of course not. Here, I'll open the door for you."

Fowler opened the door and turned on the lights. The bathroom was enormous by any standard and looked like it belonged in a master suite.

"Whew, that's a big bathroom—how come it's so huge?"

"You're going to see that everything in the house is big, chief. When my grandfather built this place, he wanted everything to be as functional as it is elegant. No expense was spared. He imported all of the marble for the floors from Italy, the woodwork was handcrafted by European artisans and so on."

"I see. I must say it's a shame that such a wonderful place is so, uh, isolated from the rest of the town."

"It's no secret that my family has always been rather private, Chief. And with that sort of reputation, the rumors of course are always circulating. But we Fowlers have always believed that everyone is entitled to live as they see fit, as long as they are not doing something wrong."

"And I can appreciate that, Martin. What about this door?"

"Storage. Here, look for yourself," Fowler replied.

He opened the door and inside there were several shelves, mostly bare except for a few tools and framing supplies.

The chief nodded. They finished the tour of the ground floor and then ascended the stairway to the second floor. The chief was shown the master bedroom, Fowler's study, the extra bedrooms, the attic and all of the closets. Finally, they went up to the terrace on the roof. The terrace and the view were both very impressive.

"You have a basement, I assume," the chief said.

"Yes, of course. Follow me."

The basement was split up into a laundry room, a game room and an exercise room. After a quick inspection, the chief was satisfied that the house was clean. If Martin Fowler was harboring a half dozen young girls, it wasn't anywhere in this mansion.

"If you don't mind, could we take a look in your guest house?"

Fowler was visibly annoyed by the request but nodded. "Of course. Whatever you say, Chief."

Upon Chief Myers' suggestion, they went by way of the courtyard to the spare house. The courtyard was absolutely breathtaking in its Neo-Renaissance design. Among a rich variety of lush plants that either lined or hung from the stone walls were a large central fountain, several pedestal fountains and a pair of Italian statues. The subtle sounds of the gently running water were mesmerizing.

"This is wonderful, Martin," the chief said.

"Thank you. This is my favorite place on earth," he declared. "So quiet and tranquil."

They traversed the courtyard and passed through an arched entry that led into a garden. They walked along a stone path that eventually led to the one-story guesthouse. Like the Fowler mansion, it was also built of stone and had a tall gabled roof. Fowler took out a ring of keys from his pocket, selected one and unlocked the thick wooden door.

"After you, gentleman," he said, holding the door open.

Once inside, the chief let out a gasp. "This looks much bigger inside than I expected. But where are the beds and the kitchen? This looks more like a studio than a guest house, Martin."

"I converted this into my studio, Chief, not long after the folks passed. As you can see, there's a lot of natural light coming in through the windows. Perfect for painting."

"I see."

Most of the interior of the former guesthouse had been gutted, leaving only the hardwood floors and several thick wooden support beams that jutted up to the top of the high ceiling. Near the center of the floor was a spiral stairway that wound its way up to an area of the ceiling that had been cut out, exposing the attic.

"Mind if I take a look up there?"

"Be my guest, Chief," Fowler replied.

Chief Myers climbed up to the top of the staircase and stuck his head into the opening. He took out his flashlight and shone it around the attic. Like the space below, the attic was barren with nothing more than a couple of pieces of furniture and some old canvases leaning against the wall.

He came back down and walked over to an easel standing near one of the tall windows.

"What's this going to be?' he asked, seeing nothing on the canvas but several random pencil lines that looked more like doodling than any kind of sketch.

"Not sure yet. Just started the piece."

"Oh, I see."

The chief walked toward the rear of the space and observed a modest bathroom and a closet stuffed with artist supplies. To the right of the closet was a small hallway leading to a sparsely furnished kitchen and a utility room. After a quick look around, the chief re-entered the studio area and walked back over to where Fowler and Barnes were standing by the door.

"Is there a basement?"

"No, just a two-foot crawlspace. You want to see it?"

"Naw, not necessary," Myers replied. "Well Martin, it looks like this information was incorrect. I apologize for the inconvenience and hope you know that I am only doing my job."

"No problem, Chief."

"Let's go back to headquarters, Jeff," the chief said. "We've taken up enough of this man's time."

When they arrived back at his car, the chief proffered his hand to Martin Fowler. "Sure sorry about all of this, Martin. Barnes here can vouch for the fact that I was anything but thrilled at the prospect of coming up here to investigate this allegation. I've always had the deepest respect for your family and I can only hope you will accept my heartfelt apology for this fiasco."

Fowler smiled broadly. "No harm done, Chief. As you said, you are only doing your job. But now that you've toured my home, I must ask again ask that you don't tell folks about my art collection. I truly am concerned that this could put my property at risk of theft. Will you promise me that, Chief?"

"Certainly, Martin. Nothing will be said about this investigation, period, in fact. Barnes and myself are the only ones in the department that are aware of any of this and I plan on keeping it that way. Fair enough?"

"Yes, Chief. That sounds fair enough."

"Well then, we'll be on our way. Have a wonderful day, Martin. And thank you for your cooperation and hospitality."

"My pleasure, Chief."

Once they had pulled away, Barnes said, "That was sure a waste of time."

"No shit. I have to admit that Martin took it all pretty darn well, all things considered. At first, I was a little leery of the guy—that sort of condescending attitude and all. But it didn't take too awful long to realize that there were no girls anywhere on his property or any signs of any girls having ever been there. Swansea is basically full of crap."

Barnes chuckled. "Why do I have a feeling that he's gonna think we missed something, or that we didn't really search Fowler's home?"

"I've already prepared myself for that and I'm going to tell him that I don't give a flying fuck if he believes me or not. Fowler is clean and he might just as well pack up and leave town now."

"Wonder how in the hell Swansea ever got this false information about Fowler. If nothing else, the guy sure was certain of himself."

"Who knows and who cares? I just want all of this to be over."

"I hear ya, Chief," Barnes said.

CHAPTER 32

Alan had just sat down on one of the park benches when his phone rang. The caller ID read "Wayneston PD."

"Hello."

"Mr. Swansea—Chief Myers here. We just left Fowler's house and I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you. The place is clean. I mean squeaky-clean. No sign of any girls whatsoever."

Alan felt his heart sink like a stone. He couldn't be hearing this.

"I'm having trouble believing that, Chief. I mean, did you just poke around the grounds or did you actually investigate his home?"

"We not only cased out his home from stem to stern but his guest house as well. I'm telling you, Swansea, the place is clean. I don't know who your sources are or what you think you've discovered through your investigation but I can tell you that Martin Fowler is not involved in it."

Alan was reeling from this. How could it be? Charlie had traced the number to Fowler's home. Fowler had bought the girls from the Russian. All roads led to this place—

Popov! Just as he suspected might happen had happened: Yuri Popov had tipped Fowler off!

But even if this were true, how in the hell could Fowler have possibly cleaned up his place so thoroughly and in such a short time? To such an extent that there evidently wasn't a single shred of evidence indicating that the girls had ever been there? A thought suddenly occurred to him.

"What about his computer, Chief? Did you check that out?"

"No, I did not," the chief replied, clearly agitated now. "Listen Swansea, we were able to investigate Mr. Fowler's home only because the man was willing to let us do so out of the kindness of his heart. He did not have to do that, but he did. I had no search warrant and therefore I had no right to poke around in his computer or anything else that wasn't in plain sight. So look—we made a deal and that deal was if I checked out Martin Fowler's place and found nothing to indicate that he was involved in any wrongdoing, you would accept that and let it go. It is time you let it go, Alan. That was our deal, my friend."

"Alright, Chief. A deal is a deal and I will honor it. I appreciate your help and am sorry that you wasted your time doing this for me."

"No problem. I have to admit that at one point I actually thought there could be some truth to what you were alleging. Now we know it just ain't so. But there are no hard feelings—we did what we had to do."

"Thanks, Chief. So I guess I'll just be moving on. Thanks again for your time."

Alan disconnected, cursed out loud and stared at the screen of his iPhone for a full minute, his head spinning.

Now, what? he thought. Time to begin accepting the fact that he had screwed this whole case up royally? Go back to Columbus, call that poor woman stuck in that little room turning tricks day in and day out and tell her sorry, but he couldn't help her anymore? That he had done all he could but wasn't able to find her little sister?

Shit!

He looked at his watch—it was 9:35. What could he do at this point in time? Fowler's house had been given a gold star rating by the police chief and the place was virtually inaccessible, making it impossible to check it out for himself. And even if he could somehow manage to get past the electrified fence and video cameras, all he would probably end up doing was get himself into real trouble if he were caught trespassing on Fowler's property.

Alan sat back on the bench. He began reviewing all of the events that had led to his arrival in this little town in an attempt to decide what he could have done differently. He promptly came to the conclusion that there wasn't anything, except perhaps for his visit to Popov's house, which was what had led to the man's suspicions of him. But had he not cased out Popov's place and freed Nadia, he would never have gotten the Russian recruiter's phone number and in turn, Fowler's phone number. He would in essence still been on a dead end street in this case.

This rationale actually bolstered his spirits for a moment. He knew as sure as he was sitting there that Fowler was the one who had been keeping and using those girls all this time. But after Yuri Popov called to inform him that there was a chance he was being investigated, Fowler had taken the girls out of there pell-mell. How he had done so after such short notice and without leaving any traces was anyone's guess.

And all moot points at this juncture.

The relevant thing and ten thousand dollar question was where had he taken them? And was there any chance he could find them?

His phone rang. It was Marcia.

"I was just about to call you," he lied.

"Have you heard from the chief, yet?"

"Yeah. He said he didn't find a thing. He supposedly went all through his house and the grounds but saw nothing that indicated there had been any girls there."

"What do you mean, _supposedly?_ You don't believe him?"

"Hell, I don't know what to believe! I mean, I guess he probably did go check out the place but it was only a cursory search. He didn't check out his computer or dig into anything that could actually incriminate Fowler. So as far as I'm concerned, he didn't conduct a conclusive investigation."

"But even so, don't you think that there would be some pretty obvious signs that there had been a group of girls living there for the last six months without the chief having to scour the place? I mean, Martin Fowler had no forewarning that the police were paying him a visit so he couldn't possibly have had enough time to hide the girls and clean up the evidence. So, isn't there a pretty good chance that maybe they were never there in the first place?"

"Oh, I think Fowler had plenty of time to get rid of them and clean up! Because the mob's kingpin had already tipped him off of my possible arrival to this town. I'm certain that's what happened. And now I have to try and figure out where Fowler took those girls."

Marcia fell silent for a moment. Then she said, "Alan, I know how disappointed you must feel right now, but don't you think you ought to look at this rationally? I mean, even if everything you say has really happened, don't you think the odds of finding those girls at this point are pretty slim? I guess what I'm saying is that you need to lighten up on yourself and consider the possibility that although you have done all you can to try to save those girls, it may not happen."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear you say that, Marcia. No offense, but what you're suggesting is that I should simply give up on this case, which is pretty lame. I have not spent all this time in search of this guy only to let your police chief's slipshod investigation discourage me."

"Whoa, wait a minute, now—I wasn't saying that at all, Alan! I feel every bit as sympathetic toward these poor victims as you do and want nothing more than for you to catch these bastards and ship them off to prison. I was only trying to tell you not to be so hard on yourself in the event that you can't find them. I'm sorry you took it the wrong way."

"And I'm sorry too. I guess I'm sort of down right now and not thinking clearly. I honestly don't know what my next move should be."

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"How about the two of us going on a little picnic in the country?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious. I know of a gorgeous place not far from town where we could lay out a blanket and chill out for a while. I think it would do you good to get your mind off of this for a little while. Maybe it will give you a new perspective."

Alan thought a moment. The offer was tempting and he literally had no idea what to do with regard to the case at the moment. And the prospect of lying on a blanket with this beautiful girl was simply impossible to turn down.

"Okay, let's do it—to hell with this case for now."

"That's the spirit! Where are you right now? I'll come and pick you up."

"I'm on a bench in the park."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

After Marcia picked Alan up, they went to her place to get supplies for the picnic. Her home was a modest ranch with a big backyard located near the downtown area. Its furnishings echoed those of her bar to some extent—antique furniture and items of nostalgia throughout the house. Alan realized how real and down to earth Marcia seemed to be, not unlike Julie had been. It was little wonder why he felt so comfortable in her presence.

Once everything was packed up in her car, Marcia drove them to an area outside of town where a gravel road wound along a good-sized creek. A half hour later, they pulled off onto a narrow dirt road leading to a meadow. They parked and went down a steep bank and laid out a blanket on a sand bar. Marcia pulled out the bottle of chilled white wine and smiled, then handed it to Alan.

"Mind opening this?' she said.

"Got a corkscrew?"

"Right here," she replied, pulling one out from the bag.

Alan removed the cork while Marcia got out a couple of plastic wine glasses.

"At least they have the right shape," she said, holding the glasses while Alan poured.

"Nothing worse than drinking from an unshapely vessel."

She laughed. "You got that right!"

"I propose a toast," Alan said. "To the beautiful girl I just met who has somehow managed in a very short time to make me forget how lousy I was feeling an hour ago."

"Why thank you, sir." Marcia held out her glass. "And to the handsome man I just met who seems too good to be true."

They tipped their glasses and drank. The wine tasted slightly acidic and very dry, the way Alan liked it. "Very tasty."

"It's my favorite."

Alan took another sip and drank in their surroundings. The creek's current was swift and made a gurgling sound as it ran over some rocks jutting out of the water. The trees lining the creek were just beginning to change color in places, hinting the approach of autumn. A cool breeze made the branches sway amidst the rustling sound of leaves.

It was beautiful.

His eyes went to Marcia, who had been staring at him. She had a little smile on her face and her eyes seemed full of life. She put her hand on his leg and lay her head on his shoulder. Alan set his wine glass down and took her in his arms. She looked up at him and they kissed. It was the first time he had kissed anyone since Julie had passed away. He felt his heart thumping hard in his chest as he realized that this kiss had been just what he had needed all of this time.

Several moments later, they helped each other out of their clothes and made love. For the first time in two years Alan had forgotten how much he missed Julie.

CHAPTER 33

Alan had a decent buzz as he entered his motel room, the product of too much wine and the wonderful encounter with Marcia. He also felt a twinge of guilt and wondered if it was due to his final metaphorical break from Julie, or the fact that he had forsaken the case for the last few hours. He finally decided it was a combination of both.

After Pan nearly knocked him over in her excitement at seeing him, Alan fed her. He took off his jacket and shoes then sat down at the table with his coffee.

Throughout the drive back from the country, his mind had been awhirl with thoughts and emotions—some good, some bad. Despite the pleasant glow from his picnic with Marcia, he couldn't quit thinking about the case and the possibility that he had overlooked something. One moment he would glance over at the gorgeous girl sitting beside him and marvel at how awesome the afternoon had been. The next moment he would flash back to the vision of Elena in that starkly furnished room above Stokley's.

He couldn't help comparing the two women and realizing how different they were from one another. Here was Marcia, a vibrant American girl brimming with self-confidence, free to come and go as she pleased and possessing the ability to charm the pants off of anybody she met. Then there was Elena, a mere ghost of her former self who had been coerced into this country and forced to give her body away to countless strangers day-in and day-out. With no country to call her own, no friends to confide in, hers was a lonely life of absolute hell. Yet all she wanted for herself was assurance that her young sister would never be forced into a situation like her own.

He removed the lid from his coffee. Taking a sip, Alan resolved that no matter how this case turned out, he would see that Elena was freed from her captor. He still felt stung by the fact that she had basically coerced him into not reporting Viktor and busting his operation. How had he let that happen? Had he put the woman's fear of jeopardizing her family's safety before the more immediate need to get her the hell out of there first, and then worry how the chips might fall?

Yes, he had. A bad move, but was it the right move? He didn't know.

He must find Polina!

He knew he was close. He could feel it. It was clear as a bell what must have gone down.

After hearing from Popov, Fowler had gathered the girls up and whisked them off somewhere long enough to clean up any traces of them in his home. Somehow he had done all of this in less than forty-eight hours, the very soonest Popov could have known about his little visit to his Long Island home. Since Fowler hadn't had a whole lot of time to hide the girls, he guessed that they weren't too far away—otherwise, how could he get rid of them and still have enough time to clear up his tracks?

Then a thought suddenly hit him.

Branson!

Where in the hell was Branson through all of this?

Alan bolted upright in the chair. That's what he had overlooked! Fowler's right-hand man. He had failed to ask Chief Myers if Branson had been at the mansion during his investigation or if he had even questioned Fowler about his assistant.

It all suddenly fit: Fowler had ordered Branson to cart the girls off while he went about cleaning up every sign that they had ever been in his house. And now that he felt in the clear after the chief's visit, Fowler could now focus on transporting his former models to the people who would eventually determine their next gig.

He had to find out where Branson had stashed them. He took out his phone and started to call the chief but changed his mind. He didn't have time to haggle with the guy and had a feeling that the chief hadn't discussed Branson with Fowler. If he had, he would probably have mentioned it, had there been anything significant to report.

He called Marcia instead. She picked up after two rings.

"Hey, it's me. Do you by any chance know where Harold Branson lives?"

"He has a place out in the boonies. An old farmhouse, actually. Why do you ask?"

"I think he is the key to finding the girls. Could you show me how to get there?"

"Jesus, Alan! Are you serious? You think Martin Fowler has held on to those girls all this time?"

"I do. In fact, I'm almost certain of it. But I need to get moving. I think that Fowler had Branson ditch the girls somewhere nearby and if he lives on a farm in the boonies, I'm thinking that would be a great place to start looking."

"Shit, Alan, I wish I could help you. But I have to work the bar this evening. Randy called in sick and Tom's out of town."

"I understand—can you tell me how to get to Branson's farm, then? Is it hard to find?"

"It's a little tricky but you shouldn't have much trouble since it's still light out. All you do is take—"

"Wait a second, let me get something to write on."

He went over and fumbled around in his bag until he found his notebook.

"Okay."

"You take Route 119 north back towards Charleston for about five miles or so. Once you get to the old Gulf gas station, start looking for Hartford Road. Take a right on Hartford for a couple of miles until you reach Bentdown Hollow Road. Take a left onto Bentdown and Branson's place is another half mile or so on the right. You'll see a big barn and a grain silo there."

Alan said, "Great, thanks. Oh, do you know what kind of car he drives?"

"Hmm, let me think. It's blue and sort of old. A Buick, I think."

"Okay. Well, I better get going—I had a great time today, by the way."

"Me, too. You have to promise me you'll give me a call or drop by the bar later on, okay?"

"For sure."

"And please be careful."

"I will. This could be a dead-end but it's worth checking out. Whatever happens, I hardly think that some old guy is going to get the best of me."

"Don't be too sure about that. Harold Branson may be elderly but he's pretty damn chipper for his age," she said.

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks again, Marcia. Talk to you later."

Alan hung up and took another gulp of coffee. He felt a surge of excitement he hadn't experienced in years. It was indescribable and undeniable. Its mere presence was why he had always loved this job so much.

He was going to find those girls. And then Popov and the others were going down.

Alan checked his watch. It was 5:23. There was at least another hour of light. He packed up his gear and summoned Pan then left the motel room.

CHAPTER 34

Luka Rusakov stared out the window and yawned for what had to be the hundredth time since he'd boarded the plane in Moscow. Back in the states, he sighed. He freaking hated it here and already felt homesick. The last time he had been to this capitalistic shithole was over a half year ago; delivering what he had thought would eventually make him rich beyond his wildest dreams.

What a fucking laugh that turned out to be!

After he had acquired the last of the girls for the rich American artiste and delivered them to the man's incredible palace, he figured he was set for life. For not only had he just received six thousand American dollars on the spot for his efforts, but had been promised the option of getting the girls back again once the rich American pig was finished with them so that he could sell them outright for even more money than he had already earned.

It was what the westerners so fondly called _double-dipping._

But that promise had been broken. No sooner had he delivered the goods and boarded a plane heading back to Moscow, Popov called acting as though the original deal had never existed. He argued that he had already given him a huge break by letting him handle the transaction but never told him he would get the girls back in order to sell.

He had been _royally screwed_ , as they say.

Luka had half a notion to defy Popov—go pick up the girls and hide out somewhere until things cooled off. Then sell them to one of those rich pimps in Los Angeles or Vegas that he'd heard so much about. Make a killing then take the money and run.

But he knew that doing so would be absolute folly. The risks involved were much too great. Popov would find him eventually and kill him—after torturing him by the most painful means possible, of course. He had heard stories about a Brit named Mick who was Yuri's one-man personal death squad. Not a guy he ever wanted to meet.

So he would follow his orders and make Yuri happy. The only good thing about this whole deal was that he wouldn't have to stay in this country any more than a couple of days or so. Popov had arranged for the girls to be put up at some place in New Jersey until they were eventually sold. All he had to do was pick up the van, load up the girls and drive them to Teaneck or whatever the hell the name was. Then he could fly back to his beloved Russia, a few thousand dollars richer.

He also had to admit that this was much better than the original plan had been. Popov had at first told him that he was to give the man who called himself Gordon Parks a call and tell him that he was interested in selling him the girls after all. Yuri was hell-bent on finding out if Gordon Parks was the same man who had taken Nadiya and been snooping around Viktor's place. Luka was to land first in New York to meet a man named Hank and then call Parks again to arrange the meeting in a location that was far enough away from where Fowler lived to avoid suspicion. During this meeting, Hank would be hanging around out of sight in order to see if Gordon Parks was the same man he had seen leaving Popov's home. If Parks was the same guy, Hank was to suddenly appear and force Parks at gunpoint to go with him. He would no doubt take the unfortunate man to meet Yuri who would in turn have the guy eliminated, courtesy of Mick the Brit.

On the other hand if Parks was legit, Luka was to set up a time that they could meet again in order to view the girls. If Parks was satisfied with the merchandise and willing to accept the price Popov was asking, then the deal would be negotiated over the next few days.

But not long after he landed at Kennedy International to meet Hank, Popov called Luka on his cell phone and told him about the change in plans. Luka wasn't sure why he made the change and he didn't really give a shit. All he knew was that he wasn't meeting either Hank or Gordon Parks after all but instead was to acquire the van, go pick up the girls and transport them to New Jersey.

He glanced down at the road map spread out on his lap and calculated that he would reach his first destination in a few more hours.

CHAPTER 35

Alan spotted the abandoned Gulf station Marcia had referred to up ahead and slowed down. He drove past it doing around thirty-five, keeping his eyes peeled for Hartford Road. Within another mile he spotted it and took a right-hand turn as directed.

Checking his odometer, Alan kept his speed down and noted how dark it seemed all of a sudden. The sun typically set around 6:30 or so, yet it already looked like nightfall as he zigzagged through the thick woods lining the road. When he saw the sign for Bentdown Hollow Road, he realized he hadn't passed a single vehicle or a single residence in the last two miles.

He swung a left onto Bentdown and slowed down to a crawl, guessing that he would be able to see Branson's farm any minute. Sure enough, he suddenly saw a tall silo loom over the horizon a short distance ahead and then the barn Marcia had mentioned. He realized that he would be seen if anyone happened to be looking his way and debated where he should park. He braked to a sudden standstill and threw the gearshift into reverse.

Backing up on the two-lane road, Alan recalled a place he could park unnoticed back near the intersection. He continued in reverse until the top of the grain silo was out of view then stopped, turned the Pilot around and continued driving toward Hartford Road. He took a right and spotted the small clearing along the road he'd seen before and pulled onto it. There was weather-beaten hand-painted sign lying on the ground that read "Fresh Corn." The clearing had probably been used as a farmer's market at one time or another. He knew it was risky parking here but it was a chance he would have to take.

He turned off the engine and grabbed his bag. "How about a walk, girl?" he asked Pan. The dog was out the door the instant he opened it, her tail wagging furiously.

He had parked the car just in time—any waning daylight was now history. He took out his flashlight and switched it on for a quick moment then off again. He didn't want to take any chances on being seen by anyone if he could avoid it.

He headed up Bentdown Hollow Road wondering what he would discover, if anything, at Branson's place. He had already come to the conclusion that there couldn't be a more perfect place on earth to stash the girls than in this desolate area. Without a single home in sight and what appeared to be zero traffic flow, Branson could hide a Sherman tank out here and no one would be the wiser. The sheer isolation of the area bolstered his hopes substantially.

He arrived at the point where he could see the silo protruding up in the night sky and killed the flashlight. Pan was trotting a short distance up ahead, following what was probably the property line of Branson's land. He spotted a barbed wire fence several yards a head that continued along the road for as far as he could see. A short distance later, Alan reached a rise in the road and could see a farmhouse in the distance, well lit by a couple of floodlights.

"Slow down, Pan," he whispered. Pan glanced back and let Alan catch up to her. From that point on, she walked alongside her new master.

Alan covered another thirty feet and stopped. He opened his bag and pulled out a pair of high-powered binoculars. Bringing them to his eyes, he focused on Branson's house and looked the area over. The house was a two-story and appeared to be in good condition, as if there had been some renovation recently. Beyond the house was the barn, very large and not far from the silo. He didn't see any vehicles, making him wonder if Branson was at home. There were lights on in the house, however. Perhaps Branson's car was in the barn or out of his line of sight from this vantage point.

Alan stuffed the binoculars back into the bag and resumed walking. Since the farmhouse was a decent distance from the road—at least a hundred yards—he felt he could probably make it all the way there via the road without being seen in the darkness. He wasn't particularly crazy about the notion of jumping the fence—there was a chance of a watch dog hiding out somewhere just waiting to attack, although he felt confident Pan would give him a heads-up if that were the case.

After he'd gone another forty yards, he stopped again. He took out his binoculars and trained them on the rear end of a car jutting out just beyond the side of the house. It looked like it could be a Buick.

So Branson was home after all, or at least it appeared that way. He'd have to move carefully from this point on. If Branson were indeed hiding the girls somewhere on his property, he would sure as hell be keeping an eye out for any uninvited visitors. Particularly since earlier today the chief of police had let his boss know that somebody had accused him of harboring trafficked goods.

Alan felt a cold chill as he proceeded cautiously. For a moment, he considered the situation at hand and reminded himself again that this was one great big long shot. Taking into account the paper-thin evidence leading up to his being here in the first place, he almost felt the urge to laugh.

Except this was no laughing matter.

What had begun as a cryptic email pointing to a suspicious website containing nothing more than a few Photoshopped images of young ballerinas shamelessly copied in the style of Edgar Degas had now led him to Wayneston, West Virginia. To Martin Fowler—the man who had presumably imprisoned a prostitute's sister and several other victims for the last six months in order to create the images posted on a website that apparently no one ever visited.

Flimsy, indeed.

He now knew what made this whole adventure seem almost ludicrous: the word presumably. Most, if not all of this entire case was based on conjecture leading to a single presumption. Was it any wonder why it seemed nearly too impossible to be true?

Not long from now he would finally discover the truth. Either his hunch had been right all along or he had spent all of this time barking up the wrong tree. But at least he would finally know for certain.

He continued moving forward at a near crawl. As he drew nearer to Branson's farmhouse, he could make out the details of the car, which was definitely a Buick. He wondered how he should begin his search for the girls. Poke around the barn and the silo, then move on to the house? He would run the chance of blowing everything if Branson some how caught him lurking around, which would not be a good thing.

Peek into the windows first, then knock on the door? Use his trusty "ran out of gas down the road" ploy to gain access? This was the most promising route to take, seeing as neither Branson nor Fowler had any idea what he looked like as far as he knew.

Yeah, that's what he'd do.

As he approached Branson's driveway, he wondered if Branson owned a gun. If that were the case, it could present a real problem in the event that he grew suspicious of his nighttime visitor.

Pan was still keeping pace at his side and Alan marveled at how well behaved his plucky new pet was. She seemed to have a sense of what was going on and now it was imperative to be quiet.

He was grateful he'd brought her along.

A fairly tall hedge ran along the driveway and obscured him from the farmhouse. Alan took advantage of this and picked up his pace until he was only thirty yards from the front of the house. He saw the blue Buick up ahead and noted that it was an older model—the typical boat-sized car so many seniors have an affinity for. This reminded him of Branson's age and how unlikely it seemed that he would be hiding a bunch of young girls for his boss. It seemed almost too strange to be true—

Suddenly the porch light came on, bathing the front yard in light. Alan jumped back for cover behind the hedge and crouched down. Pan followed suit.

He saw the curtain in one of the front porch windows part slightly. The silhouette of a man peered out as Alan held his breath. He wondered if Branson had heard him or if he was waiting for somebody. The man continued looking out for a moment then closed the curtain and disappeared. The porch light remained lit.

Alan waited a few minutes to be sure Branson didn't look out again, then walked briskly up the driveway toward the Buick. He crouched down in the area between the car and the side of the house, debating his next move. If Branson was waiting for somebody, he may be better off waiting until the person showed up. On the other hand, Branson may have simply thought he heard something and was now satisfied that it was a false alarm. If that were the case, it would be better to make his move quickly and get this show on the road. The longer he waited, the less likely his plan would hold water.

He decided to wait ten minutes. And then if nobody showed up, he would proceed with Plan A.

He moved closer toward the front of the Buick and peeked into the passenger side window. The interior of the car was well lit from the backyard floods. Alan saw nothing inside but a folded newspaper on the passenger seat. He sat down on the driveway between the car and house, resting his back against the brick wall.

He felt a cold chill and shivered. He petted Pan as she sat patiently on her haunches beside him. He glanced back at the barn and saw that the double doors were closed. He was tempted to go take a look inside but decided against taking the risk. The house first, and then the barn if necessary.

He checked his watch, waited another five minutes then decided to make his move. If Branson was waiting for somebody, they would have come by now. Or so he hoped. He stood up, took a deep breath and headed toward the porch. He climbed the four wooden steps just loudly enough to seem natural, went up to the door and knocked three times. The sound was almost deafening in the still night air. A moment later, he saw Branson look out the same window that he had before then heard the floorboards creak as he came to the door.

The door swung open and there stood Branson. The man looked to be about seventy or so, distinguished with snow-white hair and a thin neat moustache. He was wearing a pair of black dress pants, a starched white shirt and looked like he might be getting ready for church. There was a look of surprise and curiosity on his face when he spoke.

"Yes, may I help you?"

"Hello. I really hate to bother you but my car ran out of gas about a mile or so down the road. I was wondering if I could borrow your phone."

"Well, I guess that would be all right. Have you no cell phone?"

Alan broke into his finest sheepish grin. "Out of range. Can't get a single bar on the damn thing!"

"I see. I've had the same problem myself. This isn't exactly the best place for phone reception, I'll give you that."

"Yeah, it's pretty dead any way you look at it around here. Would you believe I hung around my car for a half hour before I finally started walking, praying for a car to pass by? Didn't see a one in all that time. Sure glad I found you here—god only knows how far it is to the next house."

"Two miles, to be exact. Floyd Gribner owns the next farm over. Anyway, come on in and make your call."

"Thanks a million, I appreciate it."

Branson opened the door to let him inside.

"Stay, Pan," Alan ordered.

"He may come in. I love dogs."

"Oh, thank you. Yeah, she's a good girl. Only had her for a week or so."

"The phone is this way," Branson said, making a gesture for Alan to follow him toward the rear of the house.

"Appreciate it. Nice place you have here," Alan said, impressed by the clean, well-appointed living room they walked past.

"Thank you. It's comfortable and quiet—the way I like it."

"Have you lived here long?"

"Only a couple of years, actually. I originally bought this as an investment then decided to go ahead and move into it—to hell with reselling. Pleased that I did, actually. No one around here could afford it anyway."

Alan wondered how much the old man was worth. Was working for Fowler his only source of income or was Branson independently wealthy and didn't really need the job? Something told him that was the case. Branson had a very distinctive, refined countenance that hinted at someone who had never been without money in his entire life.

So if he didn't need the money, then why was he serving as Martin Fowler's lackey? Was there more to the picture than meets the eye? Could they be partners—or lovers?

They entered a den that was large and comfortably furnished in leather. Branson led the way over to an end table and pointed at the phone.

"There it is. I'll let you make your call privately, uh—"

"Jarells. Cliff Jarells," Alan said.

"I will return in a moment, Mr. Jarells."

"Thanks."

Branson turned and left the room. Alan picked up the phone, dialed a number, then pressed the talk button. He looked around the room for a moment and then began his imaginary conversation.

"Hello? Uh, yeah, I ran out of gas out here in the middle of nowhere and wonder if you could send somebody to help me out. What? Oh, okay. Just a second and I'll give it to you."

He pulled out his billfold, found the bogus AAA card and read off the number.

"Yes, I can hold."

Pan suddenly started growling. Alan looked toward the doorway and saw Branson standing there pointing a large caliber handgun at him.

"You need to hang up that phone now, sir," Branson said. The man was cool as a cucumber and spoke in an affected cordial tone of voice.

"What the hell—?" Alan exclaimed.

"Hang up the phone—now!"

Alan did as he was ordered. Pan continued to growl and for a moment Alan thought he might rush at the man who was threatening his master.

"Easy, Pan," he said, grasping Pan by his collar.

"Good thinking, Mr. Swansea. The last thing I want is to have to injure this beautiful animal."

"How do you know my name?"

"Let's just say that I know enough about you and leave it at that. I have been informed that you might show up and have orders to detain you in that event."

"And why must you do that, may I ask? I haven't done anything but request to use your phone."

"It's not about what you have already done, Mr. Swansea. It is what you intend to do."

"And what might that be?"

"I think we both already know the answer to that. Now, I'd like for you and your pet to go with me. Leave the bag here."

Branson brandished the gun that Alan now recognized as a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum—Dirty Harry's preferred bad guy killer. The choice of firearm seemed odd, considering its owner. Branson stepped aside and made a gesture toward the doorway. Alan comforted Pan until he felt he could let go of her collar and avoid getting herself killed. Then he headed toward the door.

"Let's cut to the chase, okay?" Alan said. "I don't know why you are doing this but I can assure you that you're setting yourself up for some serious trouble with the law. The least you can do is tell me who you got your orders from."

"I don't have to do anything, Mr. Swansea. You can see that I am the one holding a gun. My job is not to sit around and make idle conversation with you but to see that you are kept at bay until some other visitors arrive. Now don't get me aggravated enough to have to use this thing or we will both regret it, I should think."

They stepped into the hallway and Branson pointed the gun toward the rear of the house. "That way," he ordered.

Alan walked down the hall past a utility room and into the kitchen. Branson stepped past him, opened a door and flipped on a light switch. "Down these stairs."

Alan peered down the stairs at the cellar and said, "I think you're making a big mistake. Who ever is telling you to do this is involving you in something that could put you behind bars for a very long time. Have you thought about that?"

Branson smiled. "It never crossed my mind. Down you go."

Alan gestured for Pan to follow him down that stairs. He had gone down two steps before Branson closed the door. The next thing he heard was the sound of a deadbolt sliding home.

CHAPTER 36

He was searching for something other than Western trash on the radio when Luka's cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he saw that it was Popov calling yet again. He had half a notion not to answer, but knew that would only lead to big trouble.

"Da," he answered.

"Where are you now, Luka?" Popov asked.

Luka thought back to the last road sign he'd seen then referred to the map. "Almost to the border of Pennsylvania. It seems like I've been in this country forever!"

"It's a state, not a country. We have another change in plans and you're going to have to work fast. I want you to head back toward the airport in Pittsburgh. It's not far from where you are now."

"What is this Pittsburgh? Why am I going there, Yuri?"

"To pick somebody up."

"Who, Yuri? I thought you said it was just me going to make the pick up." Luka whined. He now wished he hadn't answered the phone.

"Don't give me any shit, Luka! I want you to pick up Mick at the airport. He will meet you near the security gate once you get there."

Mick! he thought. Not the killer! Oh shit, now what was going to happen?

"Why is Mick going with me?" Luka asked, the unmistakable tone of fear in his voice. But of course he already knew the answer. Mick was to eliminate somebody. It was what Mick did. Luka felt his blood pressure drop. Was this some kind of set-up?

"Relax, Luka. I have just found out that Mr. Gordon Parks is indeed a private investigator named Swansea and that he's been snooping around Wayneston looking for the girls. We have a pretty good idea where he will begin his search and somebody has to be there to deal with him. Now do you get the picture?"

"I thought that was what the Hank man was for. Why have you chosen Mick instead?"

"Because I didn't think I could get a hold of Mick in time. But I was able to pin him down after all. Now quit asking questions and do as you're told, okay?"

"Yes, Yuri, of course. How will I know what this Mick looks like? I've heard of him but never met the man."

"He'll find you, don't worry. Just hang around in the security area until he locates you. And don't screw this up, Luka. You need to pick up Mick and make up for lost time. Understood?"

"I will be there."

Popov disconnected. Luka started looking for the first exit where he could turn around at, wishing he had never returned to this wretched country.

He didn't trust either Popov or Mick the Brit any further than he could throw them.

CHAPTER 37

Alan stepped off the last step and looked around. Branson's basement was little more than raw space without a single window. There were very few contents except for a couple of boxes stacked in a corner, an old reclining chair and a freezer. It took him only a moment to realize that there was no way out of here and suddenly felt like a fish in a rain barrel.

He went over to the freezer and opened the door. It was functional and contained several packages wrapped in freezer paper. If he couldn't find anything else to defend himself, he could always pick out a frozen strip steak he thought acidly. He slammed the door shut and went over to the boxes. They were covered in thick dust and probably hadn't been opened in years. He picked one up to gauge its weight then tore off the packing tape. Inside he found nothing but clothes neatly folded in a pile. He checked the other box and found the same.

Alan walked around the staircase and noticed some items stored under it but it was too dark to make out what they were. He pulled out his mini-mag flashlight and switched it on, realizing at the same time that Branson hadn't even frisked him before forcing him down here. It was the first time in his life that he wished he carried a gun.

He saw nothing of consequence stashed under the stairs—an old Scott's seed spreader and a few empty wine crates. He cursed under his breath and looked down at Pan.

"Looks like we've got ourselves in a real mess, eh girl?"

Pan's tail wagged as she looked up at him imploringly. As though she hoped he would somehow get them out of this mess.

Suddenly Alan thought he heard voices upstairs. He walked over to the foot of the stairway and stood quietly. The floorboards were creaking under the weight of heavy footsteps and they were getting louder. When they suddenly stopped, not far from the top of the stairs, he strained his ears to listen.

"Down there," he heard Branson say.

Another voice said, "You go with Mr. Branson and get 'em loaded up. I'll be taking care of this little matter in the meantime."

The voice sounded British. He heard another voice further away say something, but he couldn't make it out.

The snap of the deadbolt suddenly echoed down the stairway. Then the door flew open.

Alan tore around to the back of the stairway. He realized it was too late to pick up that steak he'd considered for a weapon. In a panic, he turned on the flashlight again and searched desperately for something, anything to defend himself with that might be lying around under the junk in the stair well. But there was nothing viable.

He heard the clomping of footsteps as somebody came down the stairs at a determined pace. The sound was almost deafening where Alan was standing, paralyzed. He had never felt as defenseless and fearful of his life than at that very moment. He sensed impending doom and had a vision of someone coming down here just to waste him. One of Popov's men; the one who did the killing. He stepped behind the seed spreader and crouched down as low as he could, hoping to at least use the thing as a shield if nothing else.

The footsteps hit the concrete slab and Alan tensed up, aware that the unknown person would figure out in an instant where he was hiding. There was a shuffling sound before the footsteps came toward him.

What happened next was like a bad dream. Pan's high-pitched squeals filled the air followed by the scurry of paws upon the concrete floor. Then the blast of a gunshot so loud that Alan thought his ears had split wide open. At the same moment, he heard a blood-curdling cry that didn't sound human echo throughout the basement.

Then he heard the sound of something falling to the floor.

It sounded metallic, thank god—not like the sound of a dog's body.

Alan kicked the lawn seeder out of his way and bounded out from under the stairway. Looking to his right, he spotted a tall man clutching his arm just below the elbow, writhing in pain. A thin trail of blood was running down his arm and dripping onto the basement floor. Pan was behind the man pulling at his pant leg firmly set in her jaws. While tending to his wound, the man seemed impervious to Pan's tugging.

Alan noticed the gun lying a few yards away on the floor. The man must have dropped it after Pan rushed him and bit his forearm. He ran over and picked up the weapon, pointed it at the man and summoned Pan.

"Come here, Pan! You are such a good girl!"

Pan reluctantly let go of the man's pants and ran over to Alan. He gave her a quick look over and didn't see any blood. The gunshot must have either hit the ceiling or the floor.

"And who might you be?" he asked the man, who was around six foot six and built like an ox.

The man didn't seem the least bit concerned about Alan's presence or the gun pointed at him. "None of your fuckin' business, Mate. And you sure as hell better know how to use that thing or I'm going to kill both you and that bloody dog!"

"Oh, don't worry—I know how to use it all right. And since I'm the one holding it right now, I think you'd best do as I say. You got that?"

The man smiled in spite of the pain he was obviously in. "I got it—for now, anyway. But don't plan on this arrangement lasting much longer. In a few minutes, the posse's going to come back and take charge of things. You don't have an ice cube's chance in hell of getting out of this alive."

"Wouldn't count on that, buddy. Right now, I want you to just stay right where you are."

Alan went over and patted the man down. He found a six-inch hunting knife strapped to his leg above the ankle. He pulled the knife out of its sheaf and held it in front of the man's eyes.

"One might think you do this sort of thing for a living. I don't suppose you work for a Mr. Popov, do you?"

"Have no idea what you're talking about. And you sure as hell better not lose me knife. It has a lot of sentimental value to me."

"I'll bet," Alan said.

He looked around the basement, wishing he had something to tie the guy up with but there wasn't a thing. He'd just have to lock him up and hope he could locate the girls and split before it was too late.

He headed toward the stairs, the gun trained on the man still nursing his arm. When Alan reached the top of the stairs, he shut the door and locked it. He ran over to the window and looked out to see where the others might have gone. All that was visible from his vantage point was Branson's Buick and an older model white panel van parked behind it. The girls' taxi, he assumed. He ran over to another window where he could see the barn. Its doors were wide open and there was a light on inside. So that's where they are, he thought. He wondered whose voice he'd heard earlier. Another one of Popov's henchman no doubt, whose job it was to transport them to wherever.

He needed help and pronto. The man in the basement was a major threat and brawny enough to bust through the door if he worked at it. He remembered that his bag with his iPhone was in the room where he'd made the bogus Triple-A call. With Pan at his heels, he ran to the room. To his chagrin, the bag was not in sight. He did a quick search but couldn't find it. Screw it. He ran over to Branson's landline phone and dialed 911.

"Yes, I need you to tell Chief Myers of the Wayneston Police that Alan Swansea needs his assistance immediately. I'm at Harold Branson's farm with one suspect locked up and another one in the process of hauling the girls away."

"I'm afraid you need to settle down for a moment, sir. What kind of emergency is this?"

"A goddamn _kidnapping_ for Christ's sake! Will you please just contact the chief and tell him to get his ass to Branson's farm? I don't have time to play any bureaucratic crap right now. Just call him!"

He hung up, figuring it would be a miracle if Myers got the message.

He returned to the kitchen and entered the adjoining utility room. He discovered a door leading to the backyard, brandished the gunman's 9mm Glock and left the house.

The outdoor floods were blindingly bright and Alan knew he would be seen if anyone looked out from the barn. He sprinted toward the tree line and took cover in the shadows. Moving silently, he crept along the perimeter of the yard toward the barn.

He was only twenty yards away when he heard voices inside. He couldn't see from this vantage point so he made a beeline over to the nearest side of the barn and stood by.

"I wonder where Mick is. He's obviously done his job so what's keeping him?" he heard the unknown man say. He had a thick east European accent—like Russian. In fact, he sounded like the Russian recruiter's he'd called a couple of days before—Luka Rusakov or something like that.

"I don't know, Mr. Rusakov but my neighbor may have heard that gun fire. You men need to finish your business quickly and leave," he heard Branson say.

"Relax, old man. Have you got that key to work yet? This isn't helping matters any."

"I seem to have grabbed the wrong keys, I'm afraid. I'll be back in a moment."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to the house. The proper key must still be in the kitchen."

"Hurry, then! And tell Mick to come out here to help!"

Alan tore around the barn and stood in the doorway, Mick's gun drawn. Branson almost ran into him.

"Hold it right there, Branson—you, too!"

Luka was standing outside of what appeared to be a recently added storage room in the far corner of the barn. He reached inside his jacket.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Alan warned. "Get those arms up in the air and start moving this way—slowly."

The man did as he was told. Alan patted Luka down and found a small caliber pistol in the inside pocket of his coat. He then checked to see if Branson was still packing the Magnum, but he was clean.

"Where is Mick?" the Russian asked.

"Detained," Alan said. Without taking his eyes off of either man, Alan stepped over to the padlocked door of the storage room and said, "Is this where you hid them?"

"Who do you mean?" Branson said.

"Let's not play games, either of you. We all know that the girls are in here."

He pounded on the door a couple of times. "Can you hear me in there?"

He thought he heard a scuffling sound.

He stared at the men. "If you don't get this door open in about two minutes, we're going to have a real problem here. Branson, you lead the way back to the house to get that key. Either of you make one false move and I'll use this thing."

Luka smiled at him like an idiot. "Big tough American, eh? Mick will kill you if you try to harm either of us."

"Mick isn't going to do shit, Rusakov. Now get moving!"

Branson and Luka led the way out of the barn with Alan and Pan close behind. Alan wasn't sure how much longer he could keep them both under control and the possibility of Mick breaking out of the basement wasn't far from his mind. He needed to work fast before this whole thing went to shit, which he knew it very well could. It was three against one—not very good odds no matter who's holding the gun. He could only hope his bravado would hold out before he slipped up and let his guard down.

They reached the house and Alan ordered them to enter through the door he had used earlier. In the kitchen Alan said, "Get that key, Branson. And hurry—"

A loud thud suddenly came from the door leading to the basement. Then another one, much louder. Mick was apparently smashing his body against the door.

"I'm going to kill you, mate!" he heard Mick's muffled shout through the door. "But if you open this door right now, I'll make your death quick and painless. Spare you any torture or suffering!"

On impulse, Alan aimed the Glock six inches to the left of the doorjamb and fired a round. "The next one's for you!" he shouted.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then the sound of feet retreating down the stairs.

"Get that goddamn key now, Branson!" he snapped at Fowler's Man Friday.

The firing of the gun had a sobering effect on both men. Luka had turned a pasty pale white and Branson's hands shook noticeably as he fumbled around in a drawer. A moment later he pulled out a set of keys.

"Now, let's go!" Alan said.

The men were ordered outside again and Alan suppressed a smile when he noticed how Pan watched his captives like a hawk. She had been one lucky find.

When they arrived back at the barn, Alan ordered Branson to unlock the padlock. He noticed a bungee cord hanging from a nail in the wall and grabbed it. Keeping an eye on Branson, he quickly wrapped the cord around Luka's wrists behind his back several times until it was secure.

"That hurts!" he whined.

"Not near as much as it's going to hurt after your new comrades in prison start breaking you in," Alan said before forcing the Russian down to the ground.

There was crisp click as Branson freed the lock.

Alan went over, removed the lock and opened the door. In the light filtering in from the barn he saw the girls sitting on the ground huddled together. They were gagged and bound, their eyes filled with terror. Alan realized why they hadn't tried to make a sound earlier: they must have thought he was one of the bad guys coming to take them away to their next gig.

"Do any of you speak English?" he said.

They looked at one another and hesitated a moment before one of them finally nodded her head.

He went over to the girl and said, "My name is Alan—I am not going to hurt you. You're all getting out of this place and going back to your families."

There was a stunned silence and then what sounded like muffled sighs of relief. Alan noticed that the girls were all bound together by a thick rope secured to a corner post in the ground that prevented them from standing up.

He turned to Branson. "Get in there and untie them—now!"

Branson worked briskly and had the girls freed in a few moments. One by one they got up onto their feet, their legs stiff from the ordeal. Alan walked over and gently removed the gag from the girl who spoke English. She was thin but looked healthy and was probably around thirteen years old.

"He has Polina!" she cried in a thick accent.

"What's this? _Who_ has Polina?"

"Master! He wouldn't let her go with us!"

Alan quickly removed the gags from the remaining girls. They all started jabbering in Russian.

"Please, tell me about Polina. Are you saying that she is still with Fowler?"

"Yes! And he is going to kill her! He said that he was going to pour hot wax all over her so he could make a sculpture—please, you must save Polina before it's too late!"

" _Shit!"_ Alan hissed. This couldn't be happening. "Okay girls, come on out of there."

The five girls filed out and stood together in the barn. One of them suddenly marched over to Luka and kicked him hard in the groin.

"That's for what you have done to us!" she cried.

Luka cringed and howled in pain before doubling over in a heap on the floor. Alan went over the pathetic Russian and helped get him back up to a sitting position.

He looked over at the girl who had just kicked him and said, "Is this the man who forced you out of your country and brought you here?"

Her face was set in utter defiance. "Yes, that's the _pig!"_

Alan regarded the little group of young girls and felt a rage surface from his very core. He spun around, glared at Luka defiantly and smacked the Russian with the handle of the pistol so hard that he fell sideways onto the floor. Blood ran down Luka's cheek and Alan savored the sight. He wished at that moment the man would bleed to death.

He wrestled Luka onto his feet and looked over at Branson. "Both of you get inside."

After escorting the men over to the storage room, he pushed them inside, closed the door and locked it.

"Come with me girls, we've got to get moving."

"What a cute dog!" one of them said, kneeling down to pat Pan on the head. Apparently they all spoke English, he realized.

"That's Pan, and I'm certain that she is just as glad to see you as I am."

As he led them out of the barn at a run, it suddenly struck Alan how surreal this all seemed—five girls in tow, all from a world he'd never seen, taken against their will and brought to this country to be used and abused, their young lives already ruined, perhaps. He allowed himself a fleeting glance over his shoulder and saw their cherubic faces flushed with excitement and relief that their nightmare was about to end. It was at that moment he knew why he had taken this case—

To be a part of _this._

But along with their joy was grave concern for their missing friend. His heart sank. Polina was still a prisoner—the one he had sought in the first place. The irony was inescapable.

He had to find her.

They were almost at the house when the backdoor suddenly swung open and Mick leaped out into the lit backyard. Even from this distance, Alan saw murder in his eyes as the Brit raised Branson's Magnum and fired. He heard the bullet whizz past his ear and he turned in horror to see if anyone was hit. No, thank God. "Girls, get down! Don't shoot, Mick!" he cried.

The girls hit the ground as Alan stopped dead in his tracks. Mick had shot on the run and was now only a few yards away. Pan was growling fiercely and ready to rush Mick yet again but Alan managed to grab her collar and restrain her.

"Drop that fuckin' piece, Swansea or I'll let you have it in the nuts! And if that fucking dog knows what's good for it, she'll stay right where she is."

Alan dropped the Glock. Mick picked it up, examined it briefly then tucked Branson's Magnum into his waistband. He pointed his own gun at Alan. Pan continued to growl.

"Now my knife and anything else you're packing," Mick commanded.

Alan pulled Luka's pistol out of his pocket, dropped it to the ground then handed over Mick's knife. Mick grabbed his knife and thrust the barrel of his Glock into Alan's gut so far it hurt.

"Thanks, Mate. I hope you now see why you don't fuck with me—it just makes me angry. I've got big plans for you and your mutt but I'm also a gentleman. The last thing I want is for these young ladies to have to witness your execution. So let's do this in a dignified way. Girls, I want you to get up and start walking around the house to the van. Swansea, you go first with the girls following along."

Alan watched as the girls got to their feet, the exhilaration so evident only a moment ago now replaced by utter dread. Mick gave Alan an extra poke with his gun before gesturing for the girls to join him, When they arrived at the older model Ford van, Mick swung open the door and motioned for the girls to get inside. After the last one was in, he slammed the door shut, made sure it was locked and looked at Alan.

"Head back around the house, Swansea. I am going to assume you have the Russian and Fowler locked up in the barn, correct?"

"Yeah," Alan replied weakly. He had avoided being assassinated earlier when Pan saved the day but his luck had run out. As much as he didn't want to die, his thoughts were more on the girls' fate than his own at the moment.

"It won't hurt them to stay there a bit longer—I'm not particularly crazy about either of the blokes, actually. I do want you to know that I'm going to enjoy this, Swansea. There is hell to pay. Take a look at me fuckin' arm where your mutt bit me! Still hurts like the devil!"

"Good, maybe it'll fall off. Then you'll have to start killing left-handed."

The last word was no sooner out of his mouth than Alan felt the smack of cold hard steel against his jaw as Mick pistol-whipped him. Pan squealed and started to lunge but Alan managed to keep his grip on her collar.

"Smartass, eh?" Mick said, "I should think you would be begging for me to spare your life instead of getting' me more riled up, Mate! So shut the fuck up, ya got it?"

Alan held his broken jaw and nodded.

They rounded the house and Mick pushed Alan through the back door. "Back to the cellar, mate—it's time to take up where we left off earlier."

Alan saw the splintered doorjamb where Mick had managed to smash the door down. After forcing him and Pan downstairs, Mick said, "Have ya got any last words?"

Alan turned around, stood and faced him. "I just want you to answer one thing, Mick. Does it ever bother you what Popov does to all of these innocent women and children?"

He smiled. "No, not at all. What he does is his business and what I do is mine. It's all just a business, ya see."

"You have any kids?"

"That's none of your business."

"I was just wondering. Because if you had a young daughter, I wonder what you would do if someone like Yuri Popov or that idiotic Russian got their hands on her and forced her into a life of servicing any man who wanted it. Being forced to waste her life away while Popov and the pimps take the money, laughing all the way to the bank. I'm wondering how that would make you feel, Mick."

"Don't know and don't care since I don't have a daughter. Is that all you have to say?"

"One final question: do you ever feel bad about murdering innocent people? I mean, I'm sure the money is great but do you ever have trouble sleeping at night?"

"Nope, can't say that I have. As I told you before, it's just a business to me." He thought for a moment, smiled and said, "Now if you asked me how I feel about some of the things I've done just before snuffing someone out, that would be a different thing."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's just say that sometimes I get a bit carried away. Take this woman I blanked just a few days ago. She was a real looker and tried every trick in the book to sweet-talk me out of wasting her. Stripped off her clothes, offered to blow me, shit like that. I mean, this is the kind of stuff a man lives for—to have a woman like that on her knees, literally, at his fuckin' mercy! So I gave it some thought and figured, what the hell, might as well let her suck me off if she wants to do it that bad. So I let her do it. And after I blew me wad, I told her to get on her hands and knees. I think she figured I was gonna do it to her doggy style and obliged me. I stuck this gun up inside her and pulled the trigger instead. Gotta admit I felt a bit bad later on—leading her on like that. But that's the way it goes some time. You do what you gotta do."

Alan felt a chill as he realized what he was dealing with here—a sociopath clearly not capable of any kind of compassion or remorse. Prime criteria for the cold-blooded assassin he was.

Mick seemed to read his mind and said, "It's over, Swansea. You've spent your final moments worrying about this and that and trying to analyze me—what a bloody waste! Now it's time to get down to business. The first thing I want you to do is remove your belt."

Alan stared at him incredulously. What was he planning on doing?

Mick brought the barrel of the Glock up to his face and pressed it against his sore cheek. "Do it now!"

Alan removed his belt.

"Now, loop it around your dog's collar like a leash."

"What are you going to do?"

"You'll find out in a minute. Just do as I say!"

Alan held onto Pan's collar and slipped the free end of his belt under her collar and threaded it through the ring, tightened it up until it encircled her collar. The sudden realization that had he used his belt to tie up this madman earlier this would not be happening made him want to vomit.

"Very good. Now walk her over to that stair rail and tie her to it. Tie her good and tight."

He led Pan over to the railing and tied her to it, trying to think of a way out of this. Nothing came to mind.

"Nice job. Now listen closely to what I want you to do. I'm going to hand you this gun—" He brandished Fowler's Magnum tucked in his waistband. "But first I want you to stand right over there with your back to me and face the stairway like this."

He stood about four feet from the foot of the stairs. "Right here," he ordered, grabbing Alan's shoulders and positioning him.

"After I hand you this gun, you're going to take aim at your dog and fire. Make it a good clean shot in the head and she won't suffer any. Short and sweet. You got it?"

"Are you _crazy?_ I am not going to shoot my dog! Just go ahead and shoot me instead!"

Mick's eyes were cold and calculating—his voice rose as he spoke. "But yes you are going to shoot her, Swansea! You know how I know that? Because you have no fucking choice, that's how! You gave up your rights the moment you fucked with Yuri Popov and now you've fucked with me, too, which makes you fucked but _royally!_ So trust me here, you will indeed do as I say!"

"I'm not going to do it."

He smiled. "Fine, then. We'll do this a different way. I will shoot your dog for you. I will start with her front paws and blow them off one by one. Then I'll blow off her rear paws, making sure not to miss and somehow hasten her death or lessen her suffering. I'll let her thrash about on the floor, wallowing in her spilt blood, crying for mercy. Let her suffer a horrible, slow excruciating death while you look on. Is that what you would prefer, Swansea?"

Alan didn't know how he did it, but the next thing he knew he had kicked the gun out of Mick's hand. Then he lowered his head and rammed the Brit's gut so hard that he thought he'd broken his neck from the impact against his rock hard abs. Mick simply smiled cooly, unfazed, pulled out Fowler's Magnum and stuck it in Alan's face. Pan was barking furiously, straining against the improvised leash to get at Mick.

"Not very smart of you, Swansea, trying that kinda shit. Not smart at all."

He took a few steps backward, learned over and picked up the Glock, came back over to Alan, turned him around so he was facing Pan, stuck the barrel of the Glock into his back and said, "Take this fucking gun and shoot your dog. If you don't, I'm gonna make her suffer more than you can you ever imagine, and you're gonna watch. Then, I'm going to make you suffer before I kill you. You have no choice Swansea. Just fucking do it—I'm losing my bloody patience here!"

Alan felt the cold steel of the gun as Mick placed it in his hand from behind. He already knew what he was going to do, and that did not include shooting Pan. He could only hope that he could move quick enough to get a shot off before Mick pulled the trigger and killed him—

A shot suddenly rang out before he could follow through with his plan. He could feel the bullet rip through his back, burn a path through his rib cage and explode in his heart—

Or so he thought he could.

Then he realized that he wasn't hit at all; he felt nothing! He turned around just in time to see Mick raise his hand like he was waving at somebody, his gun falling to the floor with a clatter. He saw a small patch of blood a few inches below the assassin's left shoulder as the force of the shot caused him to fall flat on his back onto the concrete floor with a hard thud, all in slow motion. Pan was barking wildly now like she had also been shot. But when he turned to look, Alan saw that she was still standing on her rear legs, straining to get to her master.

The next thing he saw was a man bolt down the stairs, two at a time, gun drawn. Alan didn't recognize him at first. He had half-expected to see either the Russian or Fowler.

But instead, he saw Chief Myers.

The chief nodded briefly then brushed past him. He stood over Mick and examined the wound, then brought his walkie-talkie to his ear. "Get an ambulance out here pronto, Barnes. The suspect's down and bleeding pretty bad."

There was the cackle of static followed by a tinny voice. "Ten-four, Chief. Swansea okay?"

The chief glance back at Alan. "Seems to be. Call in again for some backup. We're definitely gonna need it now."

"Ten-four."

Alan went over and stood beside the chief. Mick was grimacing in pain and barely conscious as Myers took out a handkerchief from his back pocket, wadded it up and pressed it firmly over the wound in Mick's chest.

"Looks like this fellow was trying to kill you."

"Yeah, but he was waiting until I killed my dog first. You made it here just in the nick of time, Chief."

"I was probably here a bit sooner than you think but it took us a while to get a fix on what was happening."

"Did you find the girls?"

"Yup, they're fine. They showed us where you locked up Branson and the Russian—good work, by the way. We'll arrest them as soon as we get them out of that room. I assume you have the key?"

Alan pulled it out from his pocket. "Here it is."

"Great."

Mick was coming around and glared at the Chief. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Right now, I'm your worse nightmare, buddy. And if I were you I'd save my strength and not yap my trap—you've lost a lot of blood."

"Fuck you, Mate."

"I'm not your mate, trust me."

Mick glared once more at the chief, winced in pain and shut his eyes.

"How were you able to get a bead on this bastard, Chief? That was one hell of a shot!"

"After I came inside the back and saw the basement door practically busted off its hinges, I figured the two of you might be down here. I stood at the top of the stairs for a good minute or so, just waiting for this guy to come into my line of fire. After he handed you the gun, I finally got my chance."

"All I can say is thanks, Chief."

"Don't mention it, Alan. I'm just sorry I didn't do my job before like I should have. I—"

"Polina! She's still with Fowler!" Alan said.

"I know, the girls already told us. I radioed Jacobs and Carter five minutes ago and ordered them to get up to Fowler's place on the double."

"Did the girls tell you about his plan to kill her?"

"Yup. That sick son of a bitch had me fooled, I can tell you that."

"We need to get up there, Chief. It's obvious he has her hiding somewhere that you missed when you were up there before. We've got to find her!"

"Hold your horses, man! I've got three felons, five young foreign girls and only myself and Barnes to handle all of this. Nobody is going anywhere until backup arrives."

"But you'll let me tag along, right?"

He nodded slowly. "I reckon that's the least I can do. For now, I need you to take that key out to Barnes while I keep an eye on this suspect, okay?"

"Sure."

The chief got back on the radio. "Barnes?"

"Yeah, Chief."

"Swansea is bringing the key to the storage room out to you. Think you can handle placing them in custody?"

"No problem. It would make my day."

"Okay, then. Hear any sirens yet?"

"I think I hear the emergency squad heading this way as a matter of fact."

"Good. Tell them where I am, Jeff."

"Ten-four."

Myers looked at the blood soaked handkerchief. "Go get me a clean towel if you can find one. This guy's going to bleed to death if the medic doesn't get here quick enough."

"Wouldn't break my heart if that happened."

"I don't expect it would. Not a very pleasant fellow for sure."

Alan went over and untied Pan. "You have been one brave girl, Pan."

Pan responded by jumping up and smothering him with kisses.

Alan slipped his belt on as he ascended the stairs. He found a clean dishtowel in the kitchen and took it back down to the chief before leaving the house. He spotted Barnes and the rescued girls standing outside of the barn and ran over to them.

"Here's the key," he told the officer.

"Thanks. It sounds like the emergency squad should be here any minute."

Alan turned to the girls. "So what are your names?"

"I'm Nina. That's Katya . . ."

After all of the girls introduced themselves Nina said, "Have they heard anything about Polina, yet?"

"I only know that the police chief has sent two officers out to Fowlers' and he expects to hear back from them soon. Do any of you have any idea where he might be hiding her?"

Katya and Daniela looked at one another and Katya said, "The time-out room—I'll bet that's where she is!"

"Where is that?" Alan asked.

"It's in the cellar—Master always put us in there if we ever acted out."

"What does it look like?"

"Like where you would put crazy people! It's got thick rubber over all of the walls and it's very stuffy. I was in there for an hour one day and I thought I was going to suffocate! There are no windows or vents and it's very tiny – just room enough for one or two people to stand in."

"So it's soundproof?"

"Oh, yes. Nobody could hear if you screamed bloody murder!"

"How often did Fowler put you in there?"

"Quite a lot, at least when we were first taken to his home. He had no patience with us and got angry often. We didn't understand what we were supposed to do for him and had much to learn."

"Did he ever hurt any of you—I mean, physically?"

"No, not really. He was nice to us most of the time."

Alan was relieved to hear this. Elena would be, too. "So where in the basement is this room located?"

Daniela said, "It's not very far from where the furnace is. You can't see it unless you know where to look. There is no entrance you can see; there is just a wall. Master did something to open up part of the wall."

"It's like a hidden door?"

"Yes, that's it—the door would open up after he went into the furnace room and did something. There must be some kind of switch there, I guess."

Officer Barnes had removed Branson and Luka from the storage room and was handcuffing them. After reading their rights, he led then out of the barn toward the patrol car that was parked behind the panel van. Harold Branson had lost most of his dignified demeanor and Luka Rusakov looked like a dead man walking. The girls leered at him as he went by.

"He is the man who tricked us into leaving our country. I hate him!"

Alan said, "I don't blame you for that. What was it like coming over here?"

"Very bad," Nina replied. "We had to wear the same clothes and never got to take a bath."

"And they hardly gave us anything to eat! They kept us in the most disgusting places and treated us like animals!"

"Did they ever hurt you—like beat you or anything like that?"

"You mean did they _rape_ _us?"_

Alan was stunned by the girl's bluntness. "Well, yes—that or anything else physically harmful."

"They were pretty rough and pushed us around a lot. But they never raped any of us."

"Because they wanted us to remain virgins, is the only reason!" Olga said. "Once in a while one of the men would try to make us to do something but then somebody else would warn them not to. They knew that we would be worth much more if we were virgins so everyone involved must have been told not to abuse us in that way."

How thoughtful, Alan thought. Damaged goods equals less profit.

The wail of the sirens suddenly grew louder and everybody turned to see an emergency squad vehicle pull up the driveway followed by another police car. Barnes was standing beside the patrol car talking on his radio, perhaps to the chief. Alan saw him turn and motion for him and the girls to head back.

"Let's go, girls," Alan said.

The paramedics had already rushed into the house by the time they met Barnes, who was now talking to the other officer. He said to Alan, "We just got a call from Jacobs—they're going to have to bust through Fowler's gate. The chief will be out here in a bit."

"You mean they haven't even reached his house yet?"

"No. They said that the gate is like cast iron and won't budge. So they had to radio in for a wrecker with a winch to pull the thing down They're waiting for it to show up."

The officer who had just arrived said, "I'm going to take you girls into the station. We'll get you something to eat and keep you comfortable while we sort everything out. This way, please."

The girls started following the cop over to his car. Suddenly Nina turned to Alan. "Thanks for saving us, Mr. Swansea. Please find Polina before Master hurts her!"

"We'll do everything we can, Nina. My hope is that Fowler has planned on letting things settle down a bit before doing anything else. If we can get in there and locate that room soon enough, she should be fine."

She ran over and kissed Alan on the cheek. "I hope so. Well, then—good-bye," she said, blushing.

Alan watched the girls climb into the police car, aware that he had just lied to Nina. Fowler wouldn't spare Polina any longer than he had to. The man was unpredictable and compulsive—and would waste no time dealing with Polina.

CHAPTER 38

The Collector stared at the video monitor, his face drawn in a frown. He had a pretty good idea why the police had suddenly shown up and knew that they wouldn't be getting past that gate any time soon. He strained his eyes and recognized the bigger cop from somewhere. He had been working security at one of those trifling dedications he had attended. Jacobs—that was his name. Officer Jacobs was now joining his partner and pulling at the gate mercilessly, as if their combined efforts could actually force the old thing open somehow. But Father had been very careful to hire the best contractor money could buy to ensure the security of his beloved home on the mountain. And it would take a lot more than the strength of a pair of Wayneston cops to gain access to the Fowler estate.

It took but a moment of pushing and pulling before Jacobs and his partner gave up. Now Jacobs was getting back into the police car while the other man stood by. Jacobs was pulling forward slowly while his partner gestured the distance between the car and the gate with his hands. Once the cruiser's bumper was pressed firmly against the gate, Jacob paused a moment before giving it the gas. All this action succeeded in doing was to cause the wheels to spin out uselessly on the gravel and the car's rear end to sway sideways. After a minute or so more of this vain attempt, Jacobs backed off the gas and threw the gearshift into park. The Collector could imagine the frustration on his face.

Jacobs got out of the cruiser and chatted again with his partner, apparently to discuss Plan C. The Collector had seen enough. As formidable as the gate may be, it was not invincible. He didn't have much time.

Had he thought for even a moment that Alan Swansea would actually find out where Harold had stashed the other girls before they had been picked up, he would never have kept Polina. The chief of police had seemed totally satisfied after his investigation that nothing was amiss. In fact, as the two officers finally left his property, the Collector could almost hear the chief really letting Swansea have it for making such horrendous accusations of Wayneston's most prominent figure. That should have been the end of it.

But somehow, some way, the tenacious investigator had evidently managed to screw everything up. Whatever had happened, he would have to wait to find out. He knew better than to try calling Harold now. The last time he'd spoken to him was after he'd apprehended Swansea and locked him up in his basement. He'd told him that the Russian and Yuri's hired assassin were only a few miles away from the farm and would be arriving any minute. Everything was under control, he'd promised.

But something had gone wrong and now the police were coming to get him. Had he not become selfish and opted to keep the girl, there would have been a chance, however slim, that he might somehow beat any serious charges they could file against him. After all, he had never really harmed any of the girls and the only crime he was guilty of was harboring trafficked goods, for lack of a better term. He could have hired the best lawyer money could buy and maybe received nothing more than a slap on the wrist since he had no criminal record. He could have put all of the blame on Harold, poor fellow, who (he would say) had insisted that he obtain the girls illegally instead of helping him obtain some of the locals. After all, it was _Harold_ who had carried out all of the negotiations to get the girls in the first place and it was on _Harold's farm_ that they found them, not here. Harold was the culprit in all of this and all that he had done was pursue his art and try his best to keep the overbearing Harold Branson happy.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda—

But now none of this would float. All because he had kept Polina. The other girls no doubt had informed the cops that he still had her and now he was about to be caught red-handed with the girl. That would be enough for them to put him away for a very long time—

So what could he do to get out of this situation? Take the girl hostage and threaten to kill her if they didn't back off? And what good would that do? It would only delay the inevitable.

The more he thought about it, the more frustrated the Collector became. All his life he had been handed practically anything he ever wanted. He'd had a great life for the most part, one of great privilege and prestige. He was a _Fowler,_ by God! Not some ignorant hillbilly redneck like everybody else around here.

He deserved better. He simply couldn't go to prison. He _would not_ go to prison! He was going to have to come up with something—

Or die trying.

CHAPTER 39

While Chief Myers oversaw the loading of Mick's stretcher into the ambulance, Alan led Pan back into Branson's home and made a quick search for the nylon bag containing his iPhone. It only took two minutes to locate it on the coffee table in the living room. He snatched the bag up and returned to driveway just as the ambulance was pulling away. The police car with the rescued girls had already left the scene, leaving Barnes, the sheriff and a pair of highway patrolmen there besides himself and the chief.

He went over to Chief Myers and said, "Can we go now?"

The chief nodded. "I think everything is pretty much under control here. The feds have been notified and should be here within an hour. Barnes, you stay here and fill them in on the details. They will no doubt try to take over this investigation since it's technically a federal matter. But not before we pay Martin Fowler another visit."

Barnes nodded, "Okay, chief."

Alan sat in the front seat while Chief Myers turned the cruiser around and sped down the driveway to the road. After switching on the siren, he brought the radio's microphone to his mouth and called for Jacobs.

"Yes, Chief," Jacobs replied.

"What's your position?"

"We're almost at Fowler's house, Chief. I think—whoa! What's that?"

"What's _what,_ Jacobs? What's happening?"

"Smoke, chief! Lots of it. I think that—holy shit! The whole place is on fire!"

The chief glanced over at Alan. "How bad is it, Jacobs?"

"Wait, we're just rounding the corner now— Holy mother of god—Fowler's house is almost totally engulfed, Chief! We need the fire department up here on the double!"

"Shit! Okay, I'll radio for them while you stand by."

The chief threw a switch on the car's radio and spat into the microphone, "We need the fire squad up at Martin Fowler's home pronto! The house is totally involved. You read?"

"Ten-four, chief. I'll contact them immediately," the dispatcher replied.

The chief got back to Jacobs. "They're on their way. What's happening now, Jacobs?"

Jacobs spoke as though he was out of breath. "We're standing outside at the east side of the house, near the courtyard. The fire has already engulfed the entire west side and is spreading quickly this way. Should we try to look for victims, chief?"

"Negative, Jacobs! Unless you actually hear somebody calling for help, I want you stay out of there and wait for the fire squad to arrive. Do you copy?"

"Yes, Chief. I sorta doubt anybody is in there, anyway. Alive, that is."

"Let's hope they got out in time. I want both of you to search the grounds for Fowler and the girl. Start with the guesthouse then cover the entire perimeter. There's a chance that Martin may have staged this fire just to throw us off."

"Ten-four, chief. You on your way?"

"Be there in about fifteen minutes."

The chief called the dispatcher again. "I want you to send every man we have out to Fowler's and tell them to surround his property. Tell them to set up a roadblock three miles either way in case he's trying to flee the scene. You got that?"

"Ten-four."

"You really think Fowler may have set this up, Chief?" Alan said.

He shook his head. "I don't know. But I sure hope so if that fire is as bad as Jacobs says it is."

"But if Fowler set it in order to escape, isn't there a good chance he'd just leave Polina in there?"

"My hope is that he set the fire and took her hostage in case he needs her. Or at least has the heart not to leave her there to die."

"I'm not so sure about that, Chief. It seems that Polina would be nothing but a burden to him if you ask me. Not only would she attract attention while he's on the run but he also reminds me of the kind of guy who cares about nothing but himself."

"I hate to admit it but you may be right—knowing now what he's capable of. Jesus, this whole thing has gotten way out of hand. I'm still trying to get over the fact that I let that bastard off earlier today. If I hadn't, none of this would have happened. Knowing that is gonna stick with me for the rest of my life."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Chief. I hadn't really given you that much on Fowler to go on in the first place. Plus, you deserve credit for at least going up there and checking things out. That's more than most would have done based on the lack of evidence."

"Thanks, Alan—I'll try to keep that in mind. The main thing now is to get our asses up there and see if we can find them."

As they approached the intersection of the road that would lead them to Martin Fowler's property, Alan saw a police car parked with it's emergency lights on. The chief slowed down and pulled up to where an officer was standing in the middle of the road.

"Anybody see anything yet, Chip?"

"Nothing, sir. We've set up roadblocks like you ordered and been questioning the drivers of all the vehicles traveling in either direction. But so far none of them have seen any sign of either Fowler or the girl."

"Has the fire department arrived yet?"

"Went by around five minutes or so. They should be up there by now."

"Okay."

The chief pulled away and made a left onto the road. As the chief sped toward the entrance to Fowler's property, Alan wondered if Martin Fowler was really stupid enough to think he could escape along this road without somebody noticing him. Not only would the man be travelling on foot, odds were that practically everyone traveling this relatively obscure road were locals who would immediately recognize him. There was of course a slim chance that he could get lucky and flag down a stranger and ask for a ride, but that seemed unlikely.

And if he had Polina with him, Fowler's odds of escape were even slimmer. Not only would he have to explain why the girl was with him but he would also be running the risk of Polina either spilling the beans to somebody or giving him the slip. Of course there was always a possibility that he had a weapon, which would help him keep the girl under his control.

Alan had a funny feeling about all of this. Something didn't seem right. He finally decided that one of two things had to have happened the more he thought about it. Either the fire was not set by Fowler intentionally and both he and Polina may still in the house—which was the least likely case—or Fowler had intentionally set the fire with some sort of elaborate backup plan in place. The man seemed too intelligent and exacting to have risked everything on the single hope that he could run away from this without getting caught. He was virtually trapped on his own property with no way out by vehicle with cops guarding the only entrance. That left him with only way to travel: by foot. Unless . . . A thought suddenly occurred to him.

"How far do the woods go beyond Fowler's property, Chief?"

"What do you mean?"

"From what I've gather, access to Fowler's property is only from this road. But how much further beyond his property on top of the hill do these woods go?"

"Hmm. I'd say as far as the hill runs east, which is for a few miles at least. What are you getting at?"

"I'm just thinking that if he were to flee along the top of the hill, is there a possibility that somebody could land a chopper somewhere up there and pick Fowler up—theoretically?"

"There's a possibility, I reckon. I've never been very far past his land up there to be honest so I don't really know what the terrain is like. Good thought, though. But who in the hell could he contact that would be able to do a pickup on short notice?"

"Who knows? All I know is that Fowler has money and connections, which makes anything possible. In theory, if he knows somebody who lives nearby that is capable of flying a chopper, he could have called and offered to pay him handsomely if he picked him up. I mean, it's not inconceivable is it?"

"No, it's certainly not. And even if that isn't the case, I should get somebody up there to investigate from the air. And I think I know just the man who can do it."

The chief grabbed the microphone. "Taylor?"

"Yes, chief," the dispatcher replied.

"Give Tom Wiltshire a call and see if he'd be willing to help us out by doing a flyby around Fowler's place, ten-four?"

"Ten-four."

"Better yet, tell him to give me a call on my cell phone as soon as you reach him."

"Will do, chief."

The chief glanced over at Alan. "Tom Wiltshire is a friend of mine who freelances as a traffic helicopter pilot for one of radio stations in the city. He also owes me a favor or two."

"That sure can't hurt. I just hope he gets up here pretty damn soon."

They were not far from the entrance to Fowler's property and Alan could smell smoke from the fire. He opened his window and stuck out his head. Even in the darkness he could see thick smoke as it rolled and billowed through the breaks of the trees at the top of the hill. He recalled the image of Elena's little sister in her tutu on Fowler's website and made a silent prayer that she was not at this moment trapped inside the madman's "time-out room," burnt beyond recognition. This very real possibility suddenly made his blood turn to ice water.

If Fowler left Polina there to die, he would personally see that he suffered once they caught him. That was a promise he made both to himself and Elena.

When they arrived at the entrance to Fowler's estate, there was a police cruiser blocking the road. Off to the side was the iron gate that had been totally extracted from the ground, its concrete supports still attached. The chief pulled up to one of the officers standing by and lowered his window.

"How many men working the road, Tom?"

"Three, chief. Everybody else is up there searching the grounds."

The chief nodded and pulled away. As they ascended the road, Alan noticed how the smoke got heavier the higher they climbed the hill. They hadn't gone very far before they could see the eerie orange glow of the fire in the night sky. After several turns, they reached Fowler's estate and both men let out a simultaneous gasp.

Fowler's entire mansion was a blazing inferno. The firemen had cordoned off the perimeter as two of them stood fighting the blaze from a safe distance. Alan knew that there was only so much water in the two fire trucks, making the firemen's efforts seem all the more hopeless. Flames licked the sky from the caved-in roof and belched out from the windows, the stone structure still standing defiantly despite the obvious destruction to its insides.

Alan recalled what Jacobs had said and knew he was right. No one caught inside this place had any chance of survival.

His heart sank. Polina might very well be dead.

He simply refused to believe that, though.

The chief pulled up behind one of the fire trucks and parked. Alan let Pan out of the back and followed him over to where the fire chief was standing, a middle-aged man named Caruthers.

"How bad is it, Sam?" Chief Myers said.

The other man shook his head. "About as bad as it gets, Bill. This structure is a like a damn tinderbox. When Robert Fowler designed this place, little effort was made to use flame retardant materials in its construction. Instead, he insisted on using imported hardwood—not only for nearly all of the floors but for most of the interior walls too, in place of sheetrock. But what have really helped fuel the flames are those oil paintings hanging all over the place. The combination of wooden walls and oil-laden canvases mounted in wood frames equals excellent fuel for a blaze. You're looking at the outcome of this dangerous combination."

"Any theories yet of how it started?"

"No. All I can say for sure is that it started on the west side near where the courtyard is. Then it spread like crazy in this breeze that's coming out of the west. No sign of any accelerant being used so far, but it's too early to rule it out. We'll need to get in there to investigate once the fire's been contained."

"How long before that happens?"

The fire chief stared at the scene and let out a long sigh. "Not until it burns itself out, I'm afraid. About all we can do at this stage is try to keep it from spreading to the surrounding vegetation and the guesthouse. There's no damn water up here to speak of—another oversight on Fowler's part—and by the time we get enough water flowing to do us any good, most of the damage will have already been done."

At the mention of the paintings, Alan said, "What kinds of paintings are they?"

Chief Myers answered. "Works by several famous painters, according to Martin. I'm not much of an art person but I'd say that at least some of them were originals—I guess you could call them masterpieces. You know, like really valuable old things."

The fire chief added, "My daughter Jenny was an art student at the university and told me that Martin once bragged to her about having an original Matisse in his collection. When she asked him if he owned anything else, she said he suddenly clammed up and didn't want to talk any more about it."

"How come you never told me about the paintings before, Chief?" Alan asked.

"I didn't think it was of any importance, Alan. What difference does it make if Martin Fowler has an art collection or not? He is, after all, an artist."

"It is of importance, Chief. Because it suggests that Martin Fowler would never have started this fire himself and deliberately destroyed all of his valuable art. I don't think any serious artist could do that, no matter how crazy or desperate he may be. Which means that this fire may very well have been an accident. And maybe nobody got out of there in time."

"I see what you're getting at. Well, the only way to know for sure is to comb the area and see if we can find any signs of either of them."

"I'll talk to you later, Bill. I've go to see how the men are doing," Caruthers said.

Alan followed the chief over to where one of the police cars was parked. There was an officer getting something out of the trunk.

"Find anything yet?"

"Nothing, sir. We went over every inch of the guesthouse like you suggested but didn't find a thing. Not much inside the place to begin with. We've been scouring the grounds ever since and fanning out all the way to the road and quite a ways into the adjoining woods. So far, it's been a complete bust."

The chief's cell phone suddenly rang. Alan gathered that the caller was the man who the chief wanted to fly over the area in his chopper.

After he disconnected the chief said, "That was Wiltshire. He told me he could be here in about half an hour or so."

"That's good."

"So where do you want to start looking, Alan?"

"I don't care. Just tell me where to go and I'll start."

The chief handed him his flashlight. "Okay then, I'll head out toward the woods and keep an eye out so I can flag down Caruthers. Why don't you start here and work down past the guesthouse to the road? Just in case my men have missed something."

"Will do," Alan replied.

With Pan now panting eagerly at the prospect of a long walk, Alan turned on the flashlight and began moving slowly in the direction of the guesthouse. He was still reeling from just learning that Martin Fowler evidently owned a large collection of famous artwork. The moment he had heard this, he felt he had a little clearer picture of what Martin Fowler was about. But this knowledge only managed to raise more questions about him.

Here was a guy who came from a wealthy family that virtually owned this small West Virginia town. A man who had been pampered most of his life and seemed to thrive on being perceived as a loner type—a bit of an outcast. An eccentric man who had decided to study art perhaps with high hopes of some day becoming an artist of note himself. Fowler clearly admired and perhaps even worshipped Edgar Degas, the French Impressionist. This was evident in his unabashedly copying of the artist's work and then attempting to make it his own. What was it about Degas that apparently fascinated him—that would make him want to emulate him?

And what about his procurement and exploitation of six young East European girls? Why had Fowler used these girls instead of girls he could have hired legally? Why would he go to all of that risk just to shoot a series of photographs? And then take over six months to do something that could certainly have been done in a fraction of that time? Why did Fowler keep those girls for so long, and in the process take an even greater risk of being caught—just to stage and photograph images originally created by another artist?

What did Fowler expect to achieve as a result of his odd actions? What did he expect to gain from any of this?

And what was the connection between Martin Fowler and Yuri Popov? Besides serving as the source for providing Fowler with the girls, was there more to their relationship than just business?

All of this nagged at him as he walked along slowly, head down, eyes peeled on the ground as if expecting the answers to these questions to leap out at him. He thought about Martin Fowler and Yuri Popov, wondering what the two men might have in common. Something that would explain why the two men did the things they did. Fowler, the eccentric master artist wannabe and Popov the human trafficker/exploiter of women.

What did Fowler's and Popov's occupations have in common? Not money—Fowler would never stand to make a cent from his studies of the Degas copies. He clearly didn't need the money, anyway. Fame? No, neither man stood to become famous in the classic sense of the word. Sex? There was undoubtedly a sexual angle of some kind for what Popov did. But from what he could gather, Fowler's actions didn't include any sort of sexual motive.

So what, if anything could be the common denominator between Fowler and Popov?

Control.

This was certainly something both men thrived on. In Yuri Popov's case, the evidence was crystal clear. He literally had control of every person he had ever bought and sold in the human sex trafficking game. He literally had their lives and futures in his hands. He played God, in a sense, as he proceeded to rob them of their self worth and forced them into a life of utter despair. And in some cases, resulted in permanently damaged goods that were beyond repair.

Martin Fowler's situation was more subtle but not any less obvious. Like Popov, he thrived on having control over somebody—specifically the six young girls. In obtaining them from Popov, he had become their only source for food and shelter, the overseer of their day-to-day activities, the absolute ruler of their very existence. He had become their Master—the term the girls had used when addressing him—no doubt at his insistence.

So profound, that title. Fowler fancied himself the master and the girls his slaves. He was in essence trying to make up for his lack of this or that by ordaining himself lord and master of young impressionable girls who had no choice but to become sheep in his fold.

Fowler, the girls and Branson had all been living in a world that Fowler himself had created and reigned supreme over.

Absolute power.

As Alan considered these things, he came to realize something that until just now hadn't fully crystallized: There was no way on God's green earth that Martin Fowler would have set fire to his own home and given up his beloved art collection. Nor would he have left Polina behind to perish in the fire to be found by the authorities. Because both of these actions would suggest total lack of control on his part. Fowler wanted it _al_ l—he wasn't about to give anything up.

This theorem gave Alan new hope that Polina was still alive and could still be rescued. His pace quickened and his senses sharpened proportionally.

He was only twenty yards or so from the guesthouse. He wondered how far the chief had travelled into the woods by now and how much longer it would be before Wiltshire showed up in his chopper. If he were to place any bets on where Fowler had fled, they would be on the broad expanse of woodland adjoining his property. It was the only option that made any sense.

He estimated how much of a lead Fowler had on the search party and figured not much more than thirty minutes. That wouldn't give him much time to travel very far, especially if he had taken Polina along to slow him down. But it would give him plenty of time to run into the woods and hide out somewhere.

Pan had been trotting a few yards ahead to his right, nose to the ground like a bloodhound. Although he hadn't had much time to think about it, he was well aware that his new pet had been invaluable to him since leaving Columbus. Not only had she saved his life by equalizing Mick, she had been a tireless companion through it all—an unconditional partner. He promised himself when this was all over that he would he treat her to something special as a reward—like a rawhide bone or something like that.

Alan arrived at the guesthouse and swung open the thick wood door, anxious to see what the place looked like. The lights were turned on and the moment he stepped inside, he immediately recognized the three floor-to-ceiling windows seen in one of the images Fowler had recreated. It was the shot of the dance studio, with the spiral staircase off to the left in the foreground and the solitary ballerina positioned in front of the center window in the arabesque position.

He pulled out his iPhone and checked the battery and signal strength. He had about a quarter battery power and one bar of AT&T's signal. He opened Safari, located the bookmark for Fowler's website and waited for the page to load. The page filled the tiny screen as Alan scrolled down to the image in question, and used it as a reference to estimate where Fowler would have been standing in the room while taking the photo of the ballerina, who he now recalled had been Polina. Viewing the girl in the photo at that moment and knowing that she was still missing sent a chill down his spine. He zoomed in on the Photoshopped image of the girl and studied it closely. He peered at her auburn hair, pulled back and tied with a pink ribbon that matched her slippers and the ribbons flowing from around the waist of her white tutu. Her long thin arms were each outstretched in front of and behind her respectively as she stood on the toe of her slipper with her left leg outstretched behind her. She looked so young, so pure, so innocent. He shut his eyes for a moment, opened them again and looked over at the same window she had been standing in front of, imagining her standing there again now, this time with a big smile on her face.

" _Thank-you for saving me,"_ she would say. _"Please, may I go back home, now?"_

A lump came to his throat and Alan swallowed hard. Nobody deserved to be treated like these girls had been. Each one had lost a healthy slice of her childhood—all because of the self-serving bastard who wanted to play God and the greedy bastards who had abducted them in the first place.

Alan slipped his phone into his pocket but the image was still in his mind. He sat there for a moment, trying to imagine what had been going through Fowler's head as he stood there with his camera, studying the scene, directing Polina how to pose. How demanding had _Master_ been? Had he shouted at her when she didn't do exactly as he said or was he gentle and patient with her?

What went on in Polina's head? Was she afraid, mortified of Fowler? This man who had taken her freedom away, forced her to live in his home, to perform for him on demand? Was she able to block out all of the bad things from her mind long enough to do as he said, to keep him from getting angry at her—her young smiling face a mask that hid the terror and sorrow she was feeling inside?

He walked around the relatively barren guesthouse that Fowler had evidently modified for the sole purpose of providing a dance studio for his Degas project. He checked out the small bathroom and then the storage closet. There was nothing inside but painting supplies—no photo equipment, which seemed odd. Perhaps Fowler simply carried his lighting gear back and forth between here and the main house?

He went through the hall to the kitchen, noting that with the exception of a table, two chairs, an old gas stove and a coffee maker, there were no other furnishings or appliances. He checked out the empty utility room and then went over to the side door. Through the window he could just make out the edge of the tree line that skirted the grounds in the darkness.

Alan returned to Fowler's studio, took one final look around and then decided to move on. He noticed Pan sniffing around the bathroom door.

"C'mon girl, let's get out of here."

Pan glanced over at him then resumed sniffing along the woodwork running adjacent to the doorframe. The dog was so intent that she ignored Alan altogether after he beckoned her a second time.

Wondering what was so important for Pan to get this excited, Alan went over and crouched down beside her.

"What is it, Pan? I don't see or smell anything that would get me this worked up! You sure you—"

Pan suddenly pulled out a small length of yellow silk ribbon with her teeth from the wall molding where it joined the hardwood floor. She continued to tug at the ribbon until she had pulled several inches out from under the woodwork.

Alan nudged Pan off to the side and gently took hold of the piece of ribbon between his thumb and finger. He pulled until a few more inches came out from under the molding, like a magician pulling a scarf from his pocket. He continued to pull until he had collected nearly a yard of ribbon in his hand.

He stopped pulling as he realized this wasn't making sense. How could a piece of ribbon of this size have gotten stuffed into this tiny crack between the baseboard and the floor? The crack was only a fraction of an inch—it would be impossible for anyone to stuff anything that long into it and out of sight.

There was really only one way he could think of that the ribbon had gotten there. He stood up and walked the length of wall between the bathroom and storage closet, a distance of about ten feet. He wanted to tap on the wall to see if it sounded hollow but thought better of it. Instead, he got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the baseboard, examining the area where the floor butted up against the molding. A crack between the molding and floor that was approximately one-eighth-inch wide ran the entire length of the wall.

When he reached the area where the molding running up along the closet doorframe met at a perpendicular to the baseboard, he noticed a slight gap between the wall and the molding all the way up to the ceiling. It was then that he realized there was a solid piece of ornately etched wood located between the top edge of the doorframe all the way to the crown molding that ran along the entire perimeter of the studio.

He went over to the closet door and saw a gap running the length of the doorframe there as well. There was also a similar piece of etched wood joining the top of the closet door to the crown molding.

Was it possible that this entire section of wall could slide up? That would explain how the ribbon had gotten inside the tiny crack. Instead of being stuffed into the crack—which was virtually impossible—it may have been caught under the section of wall molding after the wall panel had been lowered to the floor. The hidden room Nina had told him about suddenly came to mind. _The timeout room._ The secret room in Fowler's basement that could only be accessed by way of a remote control device located somewhere in the furnace room.

What was to keep the builder of Fowler's mansion from adding some kind of hidden room to the guesthouse as well?

Alan entered the bathroom. He looked around for any kind of lever or device that might control the wall section. He searched inside the medicine cabinet, under the sink, behind the door, along the ceiling and the floor but saw nothing suspicious.

He went over to the storage closet and began removing the contents, searching for any sort of suspicious control device of some kind. After five minutes, he gave up the search. Whatever it was, it wasn't here.

He went back over to the wall and put his ear up to it. He couldn't hear anything unusual. He crouched down and listened through the floor. Nothing.

He stood up and made his way through the hallway to the kitchen. He went over to the wall that would serve as the rear wall of the mysterious hidden room if it indeed existed, realizing that the length of the hallway could provide the depth needed to comprise a hidden room. Glancing around the kitchen, he noted that the only molding in the entire kitchen besides that which ran around the side door was the baseboard. Crouching down, he examined the area where the floor and baseboard met. There were no cracks or gaps. This wall was solid as a rock—secured to the foundation. So the only way into the secret room was on the other side of this wall.

Alan returned to the studio and motioned for Pan to follow him over to the front door. He opened the door, stepped outside and pressed the button for recent calls on his iPhone. After locating Chief Myers cell phone number, he hit the call button.

"Myers," the chief said.

"Chief, this is Alan. I'm at the guesthouse now and you'd better get some men over here on the double. I think I know where they are."

"What are you saying—that they're somewhere in the guesthouse? But they've already been through that place with a fine-toothed comb."

"Not fine-toothed enough I'm afraid, if my hunch is right. I think there's a hidden room in the guesthouse that Fowler and Polina is holed up in. It's between the bathroom and the closet. I actually think the entire wall panel moves up and down somehow. Please, chief. I'll stand by until you send me some troops to check this out. What do you say?"

"Alright, I'll send somebody right away. Hold on a minute."

Alan could hear the chief on his radio talking to someone. A moment later he got back on the phone. "Jacobs is nearby and will be there in a couple of minutes. I'm about a mile away on the hillside now, waiting for Wiltshire to show up. Stay where you are, Alan, until Jacobs gets there."

"Okay, Chief. Thanks."

Alan stared in the direction of the burning mansion, expecting Jacobs to show up any minute. He thought about his theory and realized how ludicrous it must have sounded to the chief at first. But he sensed that once the chief recalled the hidden room the girls had told them about, the possibility of another hidden room didn't seem that much of a stretch after all.

If there was indeed a hidden room inside and Fowler and Polina were in it, this situation was still far from being over. Fowler could have a gun or another weapon of some kind and threaten to kill Polina. Even if he didn't have a weapon, it was doubtful that he would give up without some kind of fight.

Alan felt a bead of sweat on his brow. He knew there was no guarantee that Polina was even with Fowler now, which was a sobering thought. She could still be trapped inside somewhere in that house, presumably dead. The thought made him feel queasy. He tried to push it out of his mind.

Suddenly he saw a policeman emerge from around the corner walking at a quick pace toward him, backlit by the glow of the burning mansion. Jacobs, no doubt. Not far behind was another cop catching up with him. The two officers were walking side by side when they approached him.

"You must be Mr. Swansea," the taller cop said. "I'm Officer Jacobs. And this is Officer Carter. The chief says you think that you may have found something here."

Alan nodded. "I think Fowler and Polina are inside. It looks like there's a hidden room of some kind between the bathroom and the closet."

Jacobs shook his head as if this were impossible. "No way. We checked this place out thoroughly about a half hour ago. There wasn't anything in there that looked like a secret room."

"I know, the chief already told me that. But how well did you check things out? I found a piece of ribbon that was stuck between the floor and the baseboard that's at least three feet long. That made me wonder how it could have possibly gotten there. And the only way I can figure is that it got caught under the wall after it was lowered down to the floor."

Jacobs glanced at Carter before replying. "We didn't find any ribbon."

"My dog actually found it while she was sniffing around the woodwork. She managed to get a hold of the end of it in her teeth and pulled it out."

"I see. And you think this ribbon belongs to Fowler?" Carter said.

"Not Fowler but the girl! She was probably wearing the ribbon when Fowler forced her into the room."

Carter's face flushed. "Oh, right."

"Will you go in there with me so I can show you what I'm talking about? According to the other victims, Fowler had a hidden room in the mansion and its entrance was controlled by some sort of remote device. I was hoping you could help me find it."

"Okay, Mr. Swansea," Jacobs said. "The chief gave us our orders and we will carry them out. But don't be too surprised if this "hidden room" you're talking about is nothing more than your imagination getting the best of you."

"Fine. And if that's the case, I'll be more than happy to eat humble pie."

"Let's go in, then. But first we'd better plan this out in case Fowler is actually in there and can hear us. John, why don't you help Mr. Swansea look for this control device? I'll go back up into the attic again to see if I can find anything. It shouldn't be very hard to locate where that wall is attached to the floor joist in the attic. And if this wall really moves up and down like you say it does, there has to be some space there in the attic for it to travel."

"Good idea, Jacobs," Alan said. "We should check out the crawl space, too. There may be something there as well."

"Okay, then. We need to keep our conversations to a minimum once we're inside. Let's go."

Jacobs went over to the door and opened it. Alan followed the two policemen inside.

Alan motioned the others to follow him over to the wall and showed them the length of ribbon spread out on the floor. Then he pointed out the gaps between the woodwork and the walls and the sizable crack between the baseboard molding and the floor. After he examined the entire perimeter of the wall, Jacobs looked directly at Alan and nodded.

"I see what you mean," he whispered.

Jacobs motioned that he was going to go up into the attic and headed toward the spiral staircase. Alan got Carter's attention and pointed toward one of the windows.

"I'm going outside to go check the crawlspace while you look for the device, okay?"

Carter nodded and then Alan led Pan through the kitchen to the side door.

Alan walked around to the back of the house and located the entrance to the crawlspace. He turned a piece of wood nailed to a board that was keeping the door from swinging open clockwise and pulled on the door handle. It was dark as pitch in the musty space. He trained the flashlight's beam inside, trying to see past all of the massive thick cobwebs. All he saw were sections of old insulation sagging down everywhere from the floorboards. The place was virtually obscured and the only possible way he could imagine being able to examine the crawlspace would be to take a machete and start whacking away at all of the obstructions—something he was not about to do at this juncture.

Alan closed the door and led Pan back into the house. When he entered the studio, Jacobs was descending the spiral staircase with a look of determination. He came over to where Alan was standing.

"You were right—this wall moves. I found a pair of motors mounted on either side of it concealed under the plywood floor. It looks like there's some kind of rack and pinion gear system that moves the wall up or down. Judging by the height of the pitched attic ceiling, it looks like it can only go up as far as three or four feet before it hits the ceiling."

"That's great, Jacobs," Alan said. "But how do you control the thing?"

"Not sure, but I followed the wires running from the motors to where they run down between the wall studs. My guess is that they terminate somewhere in the kitchen or utility room from the way it looked."

"Let's go case them out," Alan said.

The men went into the kitchen and spread out. Jacobs went over to the sink. Carter took the utility room while Alan chose the wall with the side door. He pulled out the table from the wall and looked around but saw nothing. He had just gotten down on his knees to check out the electrical outlet when he heard Carter from the utility room.

"I think I found something!"

Alan and Jacobs ran into the utility room.

"What do you make of this?" Carter said. He had opened the fuse box and was pointing at something. Alan and Jacobs went over and peered inside the box.

"I noticed that one of the fuses was screwed out a bit, so I removed it. And this is what I found behind it."

Alan looked at empty fuse socket and saw what appeared to be a small plastic push button where the brass contact for the fuse would normally be. "Definitely a switch—let's see if it works!"

Jacobs said, "Wait a second. Before you push that button, Carter and I will stand outside the wall so we'll be ready. Give us a little time to get there."

Alan nodded. "Okay."

The two men left the kitchen, drawing their guns along the way.

"Okay," he heard Jacobs call from the other room.

Alan pressed the button, half expecting to hear the sound of the wall moving from the other room. But there was nothing but silence. He pushed it again. Nothing. He ran out to the studio and saw Jacobs and Carter standing on either side of the wall, which hadn't moved an inch.

"Did you push it?" Jacobs mouthed when he saw Alan. Alan nodded. He started to ask Jacobs if there had been any sound at all coming from the wall when he suddenly thought of something. He held up his hand as if to say, "wait a second," then ran back into the utility room.

He realized that each time he had pushed the button he had immediately released it—he hadn't kept it pressed for any length of time. He stuck his finger into the fuse socket again and pressed the button but this time didn't release it. Ten seconds later, he heard a resounding click as if a circuit had suddenly closed. Then he heard a low droning sound come from the direction of the studio. He wanted to run out of the room but decided to continue pushing the button until the droning sound ended. Once it stopped, he removed his finger and ran out into the studio.

Instead of seeing Jacobs and Carter pointing their guns at Fowler, he saw the wall raised four feet or so and the two cops standing on the other side of it. The hidden room was totally empty—nothing but its walls. The men were staring at the floor as he ducked under the wall and joined them. He noticed the piece of yellow ribbon in Jacob's hand.

"They must be down there," Carter said, pointing to a trapdoor set in the floor.

"But there's nothing but a crawl space under this place," Alan said. "There isn't even enough room to stand up down there."

"That doesn't mean they couldn't be squatting down or standing on their knees," Jacobs said.

"Yeah, that's true. But something tells me that isn't the case," Alan said.

"Well, there's only one way to find out."

Jacobs motioned for Alan and Carter to stand back. Then he crouched down, grasped the thick metal handle with both hands and pulled up on the door. It swung open with relative ease before coming to rest against the nearest wall.

All three looked down and saw a stairway that descended into the darkness a lot further than two or three feet. Jacobs switched on his flashlight and pointed it down the stairs. Carter gasped.

"They must go down a good twelve feet or more!"

"And there's a floor at the bottom—this is freakin' crazy!" Jacobs cried.

Alan felt his hopes soar. There was light at the end of the tunnel.

"Let's go down," he said.

"I'm going to check in with the chief, first," Jacobs said.

He pressed the button of his radio. "Chief, are you there?"

"Yes, Jacobs."

"We found a hidden room, just like Swansea said. And now we've found a door that leads down some stairs to God only knows where."

"I thought there was only a crawlspace under that house."

"Apparently this was dug out when they originally built the house. It looks like this may have been designed as some kind of underground hiding place or something. Anyway, I just wanted to bring you up to speed before we investigate any further."

"Okay. Go ahead and check it out but keep someone outside just in case this is some kind of trap or the place caves in. Is Carter with you?"

"Yes. We'll have Swansea wait up here while we go down."

"No way—I'm going with you." Alan said.

"Let Swansea go with you, Jacobs and have Carter stay put. I want somebody there unless we lose radio contact while you're down there. You copy?"

Jacobs wanted to argue, but didn't. "Ten-four, Chief."

"Let me know what you find ASAP."

"Ten-four, Jacobs out."

"Why is the chief letting _him_ go?" Carter whined.

"Because I'm the only reason we are standing here right now and the chief knows it," Alan replied. "You might say he owes me one."

Jacobs sighed. "You'll get over it, Carter. Just wait here for us."

Jacobs stepped down and Alan followed behind, Pan bringing up the rear. When they reached the bottom, both men were stunned at finding themselves in a narrow tunnel that ran for ten yards or so and then terminated at another door.

"Looks like that could be some kind of bomb shelter," Alan whispered.

Jacobs brandished his pistol and moved forward slowly, his flashlight trained on the gray metal door at the end. They arrived at the door and stopped. Jacobs took hold of the doorknob to see if it would turn. He glanced back at Alan and nodded, then slowly pushed the door open.

A shaft of light spilled out into the tunnel, growing longer as Jacobs continued inching the door open. Once it was open far enough, Jacobs peered around the door. Suddenly Alan heard someone shout something and then heard the cry of a female, followed by the thud of a muffled gunshot.

Jacobs flung the door open and took cover off to the side. "Police, drop your weapon!" he shouted. _"Drop it now!"_

"You shoot at me and I'll kill the girl!" Fowler shouted back.

There was another shot and Jacobs jumped back from the doorway. He looked at Alan and said, "That son of a bitch has the girl locked under his arm!"

"Don't hurt her, Fowler!" Alan cried. "Please just let the girl go!"

"And why should I do that?" came the reply from inside. "What are you offering in return?"

"Less prison time, Fowler," Jacobs shouted. "So far, you haven't killed anybody that we know of. And if you cooperate, we will see that leniency is given at your sentencing."

"Yeah, I'll bet you will. And in the meantime, you'll sell off my home or somebody will loot it. No, you're going to have to do a lot better than that, Officer."

_He doesn't know his house is on fire!_ Alan thought. He shouted, "I hate to break this to you, Fowler. But nobody is going to be interested in your house while you're doing your time."

"What do you mean?"

"Because your house is toast! Totaled!"

"That's bullshit and you know it! You're trying to trick me somehow."

"I'm serious, Fowler! The fire started on the west side and spread like wildfire. There's nothing left but the foundation!"

Fowler fell silent. Surely they were joking. Some kind of ruse to get him to give himself up. There was no way a fire could have started—

Suddenly he remembered something and his gut began to heave: _the wax!_ He had been heating up wax in a large cook pot before the cops had shown up at the gate. He was preparing the wax so he could pour it over the girl in order to create a mold of her. He had thought it over and the temptation to create a bronze statue similar to Degas' masterpiece had been too much for him to resist!

While the wax was heating up, he had ordered Polina to model the cream-colored bodice and gauze tutu he had hastily created, closely resembling what Degas had used for _The Little Dancer of Fourteen Years._ She had looked absolutely perfect for the sculpture, right down to the yellow ribbon in her hair! She would of course have to be nude for the actual wax application and the clothes added later after the bronze statue of her was cast. But he wasn't going to inform her of this or her tragic fate until the wax was ready to go.

But then he had gotten distracted by the sound of the cops' voices coming from the video monitor. He had just locked up Polina in the basement and cranked up the heat to high on the stove burner to speed up the melting of the wax in the pot.

But could the wax have started a fire? At first he thought not since wax wasn't flammable—or was it? Then he recalled reading somewhere that although wax melted and evaporated at relatively low temperatures it became highly flammable at high temperatures. In fact, once it reached its flash point it burnt like gasoline!

Please, God, tell me it isn't so! Not my collection! Tell me they are lying!

"Hey Fowler!" he heard the same person shout.

Could that be the investigator who had been tracking him down and started this whole nightmare— _that fucking Swansea?_

"You want proof that your house is burning as we speak? I've got a photo here on my iPhone!"

"I want to see that photo now! Show it to me!" Fowler shouted.

Alan looked at Jacobs for his consent to go inside. Jacobs shook his head. "I can't let you go in there while a suspect is armed, Swansea. You know that. Let me try a little bargaining here."

Jacobs moved in closer to the door. "If you put down your weapon, we will show you the photo."

"No way! Listen, Officer—I'm the one holding all of the cards here, not you! So we do things my way. Bring up the image on the phone and hold it up where I can see it."

Alan looked at Jacobs and waited for his decision.

"I'll do that if you promise to let the girl go. That's the best I can offer."

"If my house has truly burnt down like you say it has, Officer, you might as well just go ahead and shoot me. Because my reason for living will have gone down with it."

"Fair enough."

Alan took out his iPhone and located the best of the four shots he'd taken earlier of Fowler's burning mansion. Jacobs reached for the phone, looked at the image and said, "I'm going to hold the phone where you can see it now, Fowler."

Jacobs was careful to hold Alan's phone close to its base so the screen would be visible just past the edge of the door.

There was silence for a moment. Then they heard the shuffling of footsteps as Fowler came closer to the door. Then, a gasp.

"This can't have happened! You have manipulated this image to make it look like my home is on fire!" Fowler cried, his voice now coming from just inside the door.

"Sorry Fowler, but this is the original—not Photoshopped!" Alan said.

"But my paintings! My priceless collection! They—they must be—"

Suddenly, a young girl bolted through the doorway. Jacobs quickly pushed her toward Alan and jumped into the shelter, gun drawn. Alan embraced the sobbing girl in his arms. There was the sound of a brief struggle and a moment later the sharp metallic click of handcuffs.

As Jacobs read Fowler his rights, Polina continued embracing Alan in a bear hug, somehow knowing that her nightmare had ended but not truly believing it yet.

"I know somebody who is going to be very happy to know that you are safe now," Alan said gently.

She pulled away from him and looked up into his eyes. "Who?"

"Your big sister."

"You've found Elena? You know where Elena is?"

"Yes, I do. And if things work out the way they should, she will be taking you back home some day soon."

Polina smiled broadly before suddenly breaking down and sobbing. But they were tears of joy.

CHAPTER 40

Nearly a week later, Alan stared out his window at the leaves blowing in the wind.

"You're shitting me, right?"

"I wish I were Alan, believe me," Beth replied. "But it's true. Unless a full-scale, no holds barred investigation is put into place by the prosecution, there is a good chance that every one of them could be back in business in two or three years. Maybe even sooner."

"So what makes you think there won't be a full-scale investigation? I mean, every one of those bastards is clearly guilty as sin! There's plenty of evidence, too. And with Nadiya agreeing to testify against Popov, this should be an open and shut case."

"You're forgetting our legal system, my friend. Money talks in the courtroom and Yuri Popov is rich enough to afford a defense team that could rival OJ's dream team. I'm afraid that this will be anything but an open and shut case."

"But what if Elena changed her mind and decided to testify—wouldn't that tip the scales?"

"First of all, no one can really blame Elena for refusing to testify nor will they push her to do so. Her state of mind is much too fragile to handle reliving all she's been through. What Elena needs is to take her little sister back to Russia and try to reclaim her life. But to answer your question, yes, Elena's testimony would help, certainly, but probably not as much as you might think. In fact, it could actually hurt the case. Keep in mind that Elena would be seen not only as an illegal immigrant but a working prostitute as well. And no matter how tragic and pathetic her story is, there could still be jurors that will still see her as nothing more than a whore who got what she asked for."

"Jesus, this really pisses me off. So what damn good is it to have busted these creeps, then? What have we accomplished?"

"Now don't start getting all bent out of shape and negative, my dear! Focus on what has been accomplished. And that is to say that you have rescued six young ladies from an unspeakable fate, freed two more ladies from an unspeakable existence plus helped put practically the whole operation that committed these horrendous crimes behind bars! That is nothing to sneeze at, Alan. You have changed several lives for the better, and the world is a better place because of it. You can sleep well at night knowing this. It's time now to let the wheels of justice do its part now and pray for a good outcome."

"Hmm. First of all, I didn't do all of these things single-handedly, not by a long shot. I had help all along the way, especially from my best friend sitting right here on my lap."

"And I am sure you have praised your pooch many times over, right? Good deeds deserve praise. So don't deny yourself what is rightfully due you."

"Whatever," Alan replied. "So what about Martin Fowler? And Branson? I suppose you're going to tell me that they will get off scot-free somehow? What does your lawyer friend think about their day in court?"

"She seriously doubts that they'll get off scot-free. But the charges brought against Fowler and his assistant could be disappointing. There could even be a plea bargain instead of a trial. All of the material evidence was destroyed in the fire, which won't help the prosecution's case at all. And now that Martin Fowler has already hired one of the country's top defense lawyers, you can bet that he would try to convince a jury that his client hadn't harmed any of the girls and in fact had provided for them throughout their stay with him. Gave them food and a roof over their head in return for services rendered as models. Fowler's lawyer would try to convince a jury that Fowler had in a sense saved those girls from a much more horrific fate, such as prostitution. Of course, what his lawyer won't be focusing on is the irreparable emotional damages his client had caused to every one of them."

"But this is so wrong! Fowler incarcerated those girls, forced them to do whatever he told them to do and punished them if they disobeyed them! What jury is not going to see that this is called _slavery_ and put the lunatic away?"

"And that could well be the case, Alan. None of this is set in stone—just theories. There is also a good chance that all of these cases will go to trial with jurors sympathetic to the victims who will see that justice is served. We'll all just have to wait and see."

"One last question: is anything going to be done to put pressure on the powers that be in order to push the scales in the right direction? I mean, surely those human rights organizations that you work with could turn up the heat on this couldn't they? I would think that their cause could get a lot of exposure from something like this."

"Oh, _that_ you can be assured of! Both Maddie Fulton and myself are in the process of assembling every activist group we can think of to make the most of this whole affair and lend a voice for the victims. Maddie is a master at using the media to her advantage and she's already busy mounting an attack in the New York press as we speak.

"What people don't understand is that this sort of thing is happening every day in our this country yet there is nothing in place to allow the cops to catch the violators before it gets out of hand. To nip human sex trafficking at the bud. In many states, there is nothing in the law books listing human trafficking as being a stand-alone crime. That means that the police can't effectively investigate situations that appear suspicious of human trafficking.

"So what happens is that their hands are essentially tied when it comes to people like Viktor Skipetroff, who is seen as little more than a loathsome pimp running a brothel—not somebody who is purchasing and exploiting trafficked women for sex.

"You can clearly see how this sort of apathy toward trafficking has escalated and spread to include our own citizens in this country. Right now, there are literally thousands of people being sold into modern day sex slavery—and most of them are children. This has become a huge problem all over our country, not just in the big cities but _everywhere_ , Alan! Kids are being sold by their parents, runaway children are plucked off the street by pimps and promised legitimate work only to be forced into prostitution through the use of drugs, abuse and threats. This is no longer a problem that happens "somewhere else," it's happening right here at home for crying out loud! And nobody seems to be doing much about it."

Beth Lindsay's words left Alan feeling even more frustrated. He wanted to know how this country could stand by and let such heinous crimes continue without doing anything about it. Who was to blame for this? And whose responsibility was it to see that it was righted?

"Well, all I can say is hats off to people like you and Maddie who work hard raising awareness to this problem and trying to make a difference. We can only hope that the ones who should be listening to your charge pay heed and do what's morally right," he said.

"We will never give up the fight. And it goes without saying that I can't thank you enough for your decision to follow up on this, Alan. This will sound presumptuous of me but I don't care. I knew you as soon as I sent you that email that you would give this a shot because I know what a bleeding heart you have for people who are being bullied and pushed around. That's why I love you so much!"

"Thanks, Beth. I'm not so sure about the bleeding heart rap but I must say that this case has certainly been an eye opener. All I want to see now is the whole lot of them in prison where they belong. Then I'll truly feel like I've done something worthwhile."

"You are much too humble, dear boy. But we'll leave it at that. So what are you going to do about the whole PI thing, now that you've gotten back into it? You going to stick with it?"

"That's the ten thousand dollar question and the answer is, I don't know yet. Right now, I need to get back to work on a backlog of websites waiting to be built. Pay some bills and watch some football. Basically see how much boredom and drudgery I can withstand before I get a wild hair and wish I were doing something else. Then I guess I'll take it from there."

"Sounds logical. Well, I'll keep you informed of anything happening from my side of the fence. And you be sure to do the same."

"I will, Beth. Take care."

"You too."

Alan disconnected and took a slug of beer. Although it had been a week since the cops arrested Martin Fowler, he was only now starting to feel like he could relax a bit.

After his return to Columbus, he had basically sat around waiting to see how things would play out in this case. He sometimes wished he were a cop so he could be privy to what was going on instead of being an outsider. Even though he had a vested interest in the case, his work was basically done as far as the authorities and lawyers were concerned. He would no doubt be called in to court to testify at some point down the road, but until then he would have to be content to stand by while the wheels of justice turned slowly around.

As he watched Fowler being led to the police car, Alan had felt absolutely elated. The bad guy had been caught and the innocent victims were set free. He had patted himself on the back thinking of how he had busted Yuri Popov, Viktor Stipekoff and their cronies. At last, or so he had thought, Elena would be free to go home and Stokley's Pub would become history.

But the more he learned about the reality of the justice system from Beth Lindsay, the less victorious he felt. The thought of any of these players getting off easy literally made his skin crawl. It just wasn't right.

He knew that the more he dwelled on this, the worse he would feel. And the more powerless he would have to admit that he was to do anything about it. As Beth had advised, he needed to just sit back and let fate take its course. And that he would try his best to do.

He had taken Marcia out for a drink the night before leaving Wayneston. They had talked for three solid hours, at first about Martin Fowler and the case and then about their own respective futures. It was during their conversation that Alan realized he wasn't ready to start something new with another woman. He still wasn't over losing Julie and doubted that he ever would be. By the time he had said goodbye to Marcia and returned to the motel, Alan just wanted to get away from Wayneston, West Virginia and go back to Columbus and his bittersweet memories of Julie.

He petted Pan and took another slug of Michelob. Looking around the den, he thought of how empty the house was without Julie in it. Just as he had done a hundred times before. He had hoped that taking this case would make him feel better about himself and more optimistic about the future. But it hadn't worked.

As good as it had felt working again at what he loved so much doing, there was still that elusive void that couldn't be filled. There was always something robbing him of any sense of fruition. For instance, why did he have the feeling that every one of these creeps was going to for all intents and purposes beat their raps? Why did it seem like the system didn't work, that there was always someone with money and power running everything—seeing to it that their needs were met? Lawyers, politicians—the "haves," as George W. had referred to them. There were always going to be people like Yuri Popov out there calling many of the shots in this world. People that were admired and respected in the public eye but every bit as corrupt and greedy as Popov behind the scenes.

And what about Marcia—a woman who was knock-down gorgeous, easy to talk to and genuinely interested in starting a relationship with him? Someone who could have made this whole story end happily ever after, had he allowed it?

But he hadn't. He couldn't.

Why was that?

Nothing seemed to fit right now. He wondered if it ever would.

He was about to go get another beer when his iPhone rang. He looked that the caller ID and at first didn't recognize the number. Then it registered—

It was Elena!

"Hello?" he said.

"Alan, it is Elena. Do you have a moment?"

"Elena! Of course, are you kidding? How are you?"

"I am well, thank-you. I just wanted to let you know that I am flying home soon."

"Back to Russia? That's great! When are you leaving?"

"The flight is in an hour. I am at the airport now. I want to thank you for finding Polina before I leave. And to thank you for everything else. The Human Connection has been very good for me. They are paying for my flight home. I am, uh, so grateful, Alan—"

She started sobbing. Alan said, "Elena, I am so happy for you! And proud of you too, for being strong enough to let them help."

"I, I have somebody here who would like to talk to you," she said.

"Hello, Alan," the girl said. It was Polina. "I also want to thank you for everything you have done."

"You are more than welcome, Polina. I'll bet you're both looking forward to seeing your family and friends again."

"Oh yes, we are! We were able to talk to Mother last night on the phone. It was so wonderful to hear her voice!"

"I'll bet."

"Alan, I want you to know that I will never forget you and what you have done for Elena and I. Not for as long as I live. I know that my sister will need help when we get back home, and she has promised my parents that she will talk to counselors that the organization has set up for her. This makes me very happy because she has been through so much but she never thinks of herself first. She still feels so much shame and so unworthy. But she promises that she will try to become whole again."

"I am very happy to hear that, Polina. My thoughts will be with the both of you."

"And the other girls wanted me to thank you for them as well."

"Where are they now?"

"All but Nina flew back home a couple of days ago. Nina I am not sure about. She has not kept in touch with any of us because she was flown to Boston instead of New York because she has an uncle living there. She has probably left too, though."

"I see. Do you think you'll be seeing any of the girls again once you're back in Russia?"

"Oh yes! I found out that Sveta and Daniela actually live not far from St. Petersburg! We are going to all get together soon for a reunion!"

"That's great!"

"So Alan, I am wondering if you would mind if I write to you once in a while?"

"I would be delighted! Better yet, just go ahead and use that phone I gave Elena and call me whenever you want to. You will have unlimited international minutes!"

Polina laughed. "You are so nice! Okay, I will do that. I am going to put Elena back on now. Goodbye, Alan."

"Bye, Polina. Take care and have a great flight."

Elena came back on. "I didn't think she was going to let me speak again—she is such a chatterbox!"

"Typical teenager."

"I want to say that I'm sorry I am not going to testify, Alan. I know that you want me to, but I just want to go home and try to forget all of this. I hope you understand."

"I totally understand, Elena. You need to worry about yourself and get well—that's the most important thing. As for Popov and Viktor, they will get what they deserve. Our justice system will see to that."

Alan knew this wasn't likely the case but she didn't have to know it.

"They will never get what they deserve! But I will just have to try to live knowing that."

"Time heals all, they say. I'm a big believer of that saying."

"I like the sound of that. I will try to believe it, too."

"You can do it, Elena. And I want you to promise me that you will stay in touch and let me know how it's going, okay?"

"You and your promises!" she chuckled. "Yes, Alan, I promise. I must go now. They are announcing our flight, I think."

"Okay, Elena. You both have a safe trip and know that I'll be thinking about you."

"Thanks, Alan. And we will be, too. Goodbye."

"Bye, Elena."

As he touched the _END CALL_ button, Alan had a smile on his face. Suddenly, despite all of his doubts and fears, he knew that everything would be fine. Hearing from Elena and Polina made it all worthwhile. Nothing could change that.

He stood up, went over to the fridge and pulled out a cold Michelob. He knelt down on the floor beside Pan, put one arm around his faithful friend and held her tight, then raised his other arm in a triumphant toast.

"To Elena and Polina. Cheers!"

And then he downed a great big slug.

THE END

**PREVIEW:** _THE BARCODE MURDERS_

Book 2 of the Alan Swansea Mysteries

CHAPTER 1

The killer still felt a bit unsteady from the night before. He'd had entirely too much to drink and knew he needed to quit. It was affecting his efficiency.

Not acceptable.

He stood in the dim light, his senses on overload, keenly aware that at any moment his next victim would emerge from the apartment building. James Wielding was predictable to a fault, yet the killer had to admit that he admired the man's work ethic. Little wonder why he had gone so far at the company in such little time, with a yearly income of 175K.

That figure enabled his young family to thrive in an economy that was not so good for the millions of others less fortunate who were struggling just to make ends meet.

But that would all change very soon.

The entrance to Wielding's ailing father's apartment building was a little over two hundred yards away from where the killer now stood. Through the scope of the high-powered rifle the place looked so close it seemed like he could lob a rock from where he was standing and hit the door handle with pinpoint accuracy.

Every Wednesday evening, Wielding dropped by his father's apartment on the way home from work to check in on him. Like clockwork, the younger Wielding arrived no later than six o'clock and promptly left at seven.

The old man had a weak heart and would probably croak within the next year—he had buried his long-ailing wife only a couple of months ago. Losing a spouse often did that sort of thing to the survivor.

The killer brought his eye away from the scope just long enough to check the time. It was six-fifty-seven. James Wielding didn't know it yet, but he had only three minutes more of living to do. Enjoy it while it lasts, Jimmy-Boy.

This was definitely the best part of all. After all of the research, planning and plotting finally reaching this magical climactic moment. The last few minutes before the hit—that moment when everything in the world suddenly felt right. If only that feeling would last forever! He would be in heaven. Knowing that it was the man's swan song on earth was absolutely awesome. Indescribable ecstasy. But all too short-lived.

He would need to get back that feeling again. And the sooner the better.

The door suddenly opened. The killer rested his finger on the trigger just firmly enough to avoid shooting prematurely. James Wielding came into view as he exited the building. He had a glum expression on his face. Pops must not be having a very good day.

The killer took aim so that Wielding's nose was dead center in the crosshairs. He had two seconds to fire before the man would turn left and head down the street to where he had parked his shiny new Mercedes.

Pop!

The killer saw the bullet strike its mark, pulverizing Wielding's head into tiny fragments that literally sprayed outward symmetrically by the sheer velocity of the hit. What was left of the man dropped like a sack of potatoes onto the pavement.

A direct hit. A perfect kill.

A thin trail of smoke wafted from the rifle directly in front of the killer. He breathed in the cordite vapor like it had come from the business end of a hash pipe. So sweet the smell.

He ejected the spent shell and caught it in his latex gloved hand before it hit the ground. But instead of hiding it away, he held it in his palm as he fished in his coat pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a tiny strip of paper and deftly peeled the barcode away from its adhesive backing.

He then pinched the rifle's spent shell between his thumb and index finger and meticulously applied the barcode, keeping the label perfectly aligned with the base of the casing. After examining his handiwork closely, he tossed the shell in the nearby bushes, retrieved his rifle and walked away.

_I'm back baby_ , he thought to himself as he headed to his car.

CHAPTER 2

Alan Swansea switched off his iPad and set it on the end table with a sigh. Since purchasing his new toy a month ago he had dropped the local newspaper, purchased a half dozen ebooks, and no longer watched the evening news on the television. Yes, he conceded, technology had changed his little world in a big way and he was okay with that. But he still winced whenever he tried to imagine what life would be like once technology became an even bigger presence in everybody's lives in the not so distant future.

He glanced down at Pan lying between his outstretched legs on the recliner, the rescue dog who had literally saved his life while on his only major case. Since Julie's passing two and a half years ago, the lively mutt had become a welcome addition to this quiet home in Clintonville. Alan reached down and patted the dog's head affectionately, causing her to pant in her sleep.

He checked the time and realized he had only fifteen minutes before he had to leave. He dreaded cases like this one, but they paid the bills. It had been quite a while since he'd taken a case that was the least bit interesting and it was times like this that he questioned his decision to give up his web design gig to return to private investigating. Granted, he didn't miss pounding away on the computer all day and he was doing a bit better financially speaking. But cases that really mattered were few and far between.

He reached down for the recliner's lever.

"Time to get up, girl."

On cue, Pan hopped off the chair and followed her master into the kitchen. Alan topped off his coffee and carried it into his living room office. He had decided to work out of his home to avoid having to pay rent for a space downtown. Not only was it economical and convenient, there wasn't anything happening in the house anyway so why not? He had no wife, no kids, no real social life to speak of. Since losing Julie, he had more or less avoided the dating scene altogether. Julie had been the love of his life, his soul mate that had helped him build this home and made him so happy those precious few years. The mere thought of her could still bring a lump to his throat and he knew he would never love anybody like her again. And quite frankly, he didn't care to.

He double-checked the battery strength on the video camera and packed it into its case. He wouldn't need his Nikon tonight—this would be action surveillance instead of still photography. He had already discovered where Weller's wife went and when she and her lover got there. All he had to do was capture some of their festivities on film and this case would be history.

He went into the garage, pressed the door opener and fired up the Honda Pilot. As he backed out of the driveway, he wondered how Greg Weller would take the news. Alan had been through this sort of thing a dozen times, but it never got any easier. Discovering the truth inevitably resulted in anger and pain, yet people sought the truth nonetheless. And he was the messenger—the one being paid to deliver the goods for better or for worse.

Somebody had to do it.

Bluetooth connection confirmation for his iPhone appeared on the screen as he turned up the volume on the car's stereo system. He scrolled through the tunes until the Fixx's _One Thing Leads To Another_ blared out of the speakers. Alan settled back in the seat and tuned into the sounds, his driving on autopilot.

Twenty minutes later he reached his destination. Snow began to fall as he searched for a safe place to park, pulled over and turned off the engine. He grabbed the video camera bag and walked in the direction of the apartment complex. A moment later he turned and headed down the first street running along the side of the complex, looking back to make sure no vehicles were approaching. George Stillman would be coming down the street in five minutes or so and he wanted to be settled in before that.

He approached the rear of the complex and headed for the dumpster located on a pad across the alley from the apartments. There was a streetlight nearby but the dumpster stood in its shadows. He looked around again to make sure nobody was in sight and then crept behind the dumpster.

He took out the video cam, switched it on and peered around the dumpster through the viewfinder. He had a perfect vantage point to both the parking lot and Stillman's apartment. He zoomed in on the kitchen window and in the dim light could make out a clock on the wall. The snow was falling harder and he grew concerned that visibility might be a problem. He dug into the camera bag, found a lens hood and slid it on to help keep the lens clear and dry.

Headlights approached and he ducked back behind the dumpster. A car pulled into the parking lot, idled for a moment then shut off. He stole a glance around the dumpster—it was Stillman's Volvo. Alan pressed the record button on the camera and angled the LCD so that he could watch without being seen. The car's interior lights come on as the driver's door opened and George stepped out. Always the gentleman, he walked around and opened the door for his female passenger, who just so happened to be Allison Weller, Greg Weller's cheating wife.

Allison giggled as she stepped out of the car. Although she was wearing a heavy wool coat, Alan could see her bare legs as she stood by and waited for George to close the car door. Then the couple walked arm in arm up the walk to the apartment entrance.

There was already enough video footage to break Greg Weller's heart but Alan knew from experience it wouldn't be enough to convince the man that his marriage was in serious trouble. He kept the camera trained on the couple as George searched for his key and opened the apartment door. An instant later Alan zoomed out to include the kitchen window in the viewfinder as the overhead light switched on.

He zoomed in on the window just in time to capture George entering the kitchen to get a bottle of wine from the fridge. Allison entered the frame and watched George as he took two wine glasses out of the cupboard and set them down, popped the cork and poured. He handed a glass to Allison; she took a sip and chuckled on cue before the two headed out of the kitchen and out of sight.

George's apartment was a two-story town house and Alan knew that the couple was now taking the stairs to the second floor. A light suddenly came on in the window above the kitchen. It was George's bedroom. Although the windows had mini blinds, George didn't seem to mind leaving them open, even when he had a guest over for a little wine and sex. Alan zoomed in until the frame was filled with the window, waiting for Act One to begin.

Suddenly Allison came into view. Sure enough, just as the night before, she wasted no time removing her clothes. Alan could see her in perfect profile as she unbuttoned her blouse, let it fall to the floor and gracefully slipped out of her skirt. She had a big smile on her lovely face as she unhooked her bra and held it for a moment before dropping it to the floor. Incredibly, she shook her head just as she had last night, her coquettish expression telling George, who was still off-camera, to hold back for a moment—she had something she wanted to do. Alan could imagine George standing there with his tongue hanging out as Allison proceeded to cup her perfectly rounded breasts in her hands and gyrated her hips until she was certain she had her partner well primed. Then she motioned with a finger for him to join her. A naked and obviously ready George Stillman quickly entered the frame and embraced his date for a moment, then led her out of Alan's sight.

For a moment Alan simply stood there with the camera still rolling, aimed at the window. He thought about his client and how this would devastate him. Throughout their initial meeting Alan could tell that Greg Weller was absolutely smitten with his beautiful, much younger wife by the way he had endlessly shared the trite details of their wonderful life together. That was up until he began suspecting that his dear Allison was having an affair. Although his suspicions were based on sound reasoning, Weller still had doubts that she was heartless enough to cheat on him so he wanted to make sure.

Well Greg, this videotape confirms your greatest fears, Swansea thought.

Alan lowered the camera and rewound the tape. He watched it play through, certain that any doubts Greg Weller ever had about his wonderful wife would be gone for good.

He returned to his car and made a mental note to call Weller in the morning to set up an appointment. He had just scanned the playlist for a new song when his phone vibrated. He looked at the caller ID but didn't recognize it. As he pulled away from the curb he pressed the answer button on the steering column.

"Alan Swansea," he said.

"Hello Mr. Swansea, my name is Janice McPherson. Do you have a moment to speak? Your ad says to call anytime so I hope I'm not bothering you."

"No bother at all, Ms. McPherson," Alan replied. "How may I help you?"

"Do you by any chance remember when a little girl was abducted last year—Chloe McPherson? And they later found her body in a ravine? That was my daughter."

"Yes, I do remember. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. I was wondering if I might meet with you regarding my daughter's death."

"Of course." He thought for a moment and added, "How would tomorrow morning at say, nine o'clock be?"

"That would be perfect. I see here that your office is in Clintonville. Is it far from High Street?"

"Just a couple of blocks east. I'll give you the directions."

As he told the woman how to find his place, Alan recalled the Chloe McPherson murder case. It had gotten a lot of press but the murderer had never been found.

"Okay then. I'll see you tomorrow morning, Ms. McPherson."

"Janice, please. And thank you Mr. Swansea."

"Alan, please. You are most welcome."

During the drive home, Alan could feel his pulse quicken. His guess was that Janice McPherson wanted to hire him to find Chloe's killer and if that were the case he would be more than obliging. However, he had doubts that much would come from his investigation. As he recalled, there had been virtually no clues disclosed in the police's investigation and the case had gone cold after only a couple of months. After nearly a year and no breaks in the case, there was little chance he would be able to learn any more about the killer than the homicide detectives had.

But he would certainly give it his best shot.

He returned to the playlist and chose a classic Stones tune. . .

Find out what happens next in _The Barcode Murders_ , available at all e-book retailers and in paperback!

Also available by the author:

The Wall

_Double Trouble_ – An Alan Swansea Mystery

_The Barcode Murders_ \- An Alan Swansea Mystery

_The Collector_ – Debut of the Alan Swansea Mystery Series

Greshmere

See Tom Run

Katherine's Prophecy

The Story Behind The Images

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Scott has published ten novels including his most recent, _The Wall_. Other titles include the Alan Swansea Mystery Series ( _Double Trouble, The Barcode Murders,_ and _The Collector_.) Scott has also written a non-fiction photography book entitled _The Story Behind The Images_ and is host of the popular photography podcast, Photography 101. Scott resides in Worthington, Ohio with his wife, Marilyn.

Connect with the author online:

ScottWittenburg.com

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Twitter

If you enjoyed _The Collector_ , please consider reviewing it on your online review site. Thank you!

