Five hundred! Bree thought. If what Salazar believed was true—that each victim could generate as much as a million dollars a year—then the fashion designer could have pulled in several hundred million dollars in the past five years.

  “How did they get your lawsuit squelched and sealed?” Bree asked.

  Jessup said, “Bought off the judge, who, sickeningly enough, was a woman.”

  “I saw that.”

  “I can overnight you some of the other material we were able to dig up,” the attorney said. “But I want no part of this. As far as I’m concerned, the seal stands. I will, however, give you some advice. Once you go down the rabbit hole into Frances’s world, it’s complicated, almost overwhelming. I suggest you find someone to guide you.”

  “Smart. But a whistleblower on the inside might be hard to come by.”

  Jessup said, “Then find one on the outside. Someone who knows how Frances and Watkins work. Even better, someone who holds a grudge. Or two. Or three.”

  Bree thought about that and smiled. “That’s a really good idea.”

  “I have them now and then,” Jessup said. “And you should know one more thing about this entire affair. Perhaps the most troubling aspect of all.”

  Chapter

  39

  Walpole, Massachusetts

  It was almost three p.m. when I left the prison, feeling more confused than I had when I’d entered it. After Herman Foster asserted his innocence, he grew irritable and increasingly unresponsive to my questions about the case.

  About the only thing I could pin him down on was his beliefs about Thomas Tull.

  “Thomas is a tough, fair guy with a cop’s mind and a penchant for self-promotion,” Foster said. “But he’s no killer. I’d trust that man with my life.”

  “Looks like you already have,” I said, which pretty much ended the conversation.

  Vic Daloia was waiting by his car in the prison parking lot, drinking his fourth or fifth cup of Dunkin’ coffee. “That was fast. You talk to him?”

  “For a bit, then he went quiet on me,” I said, climbing into the back seat.

  Daloia got behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled out. “He give you anything good, Doc? Anything new?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “Tull would have known if he said anything new.”

  Even though that annoyed me, I knew the Uber driver was right. “I should have brought Tull with me, I guess.”

  Daloia laughed. “Maybe next time, huh? Meantime, where to?”

  “Head toward Boston,” I said, picking up my phone and looking in my notes for a 617 area code number. I found it and called.

  “Boston Homicide,” a man growled.

  “I’m looking for Detective Jane Hale.”

  “Good luck—she’s on her honeymoon in Australia. Be back in three weeks.”

  Before I could say anything, the line went dead.

  In the front seat, Daloia said, “No go on Hale? She would have been good. But you would probably have needed Tull there too.”

  “Right again,” I said. “So I think I’m done here. Take me to Logan, please.”

  “Really?” the driver said, sounding disappointed. “Nowhere else?”

  “Just the airport,” I said. “I’m going to catch a late flight to Charleston.”

  Daloia waved one finger in the air as we pulled onto Route 128 heading north. “Doctor’s Orders, am I right?”

  “Can’t get a thing past you, Vic,” I said.

  He shrugged and smiled. “Another crazy case courtesy of Thomas T., but you know I Googled you while you were in with Foster. You’re no slouch yourself, Doc. Very impressive. And you’re on those Family Man murders, so I figure that’s why Tull’s down in DC and why you’re up here checking on him. Right?”

  I had to admit that he was making substantive leaps with relative ease. “You missed your calling in life,” I said.

  That seemed to upset him. “I tell my girlfriend, Leigh, that all the—”

  His phone rang. He glanced at it. “There she is, like she’s clairvoyant.” Daloia answered. He had a Bluetooth in his ear. “Leigh, what do you know?”

  His girlfriend evidently knew a lot because he listened for quite a while as we drove toward the Massachusetts Turnpike. When we were within a half a mile, he said, “Hold on, pumpkin.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “You sure you got nothing else to do here?”

  Before I could answer, my phone rang. Paladin.

  “Dr. Cross, how are you?” Ryan Malcomb said.

  “Excellent, and you?”

  “Excellent as always,” he said. “I wanted to tell you that the search is going on as we speak.”

  “Even better. Any commonalities come up?”

  “Several.”

  I glanced at my watch, saw I had nearly five hours before my flight.

  “I’m not thirty miles from you,” I said. “Can I come see for myself?”

  After a pause, Malcomb said, “It would be wonderful to meet you, and what we do is better explained in person anyway.”

  Chapter

  40

  Manhattan

  When Bree walked through the front door of Tess Jackson’s store on Lexington Avenue, she was startled.

  Just two days before and three blocks away in Frances Duchaine’s flagship store, she’d seen few shoppers and fewer customers waiting to pay for purchases. But here there were scores of eager shoppers jamming the aisles and the checkout queues of Tess Jackson’s new flagship store, which was remarkably designed.

  The interior lines of the store were simple, almost industrial, but overhead hung a colorful and whimsical depiction of hundreds of small fairies with gossamer wings flying among treetops laced in fog. Bree could not help grinning as she looked up, seeing how each of the fairies was unique, almost magical.

  Remembering something she’d heard two evenings before, Bree climbed the stairs to a mezzanine, where shoes and accessories were on display, and then continued up a third flight.

  At the top, behind a desk, Ella Martin, a female security guard with linebacker shoulders, said, “The store stops down on the second floor, ma’am. These are corporate and design offices.”

  “I know,” Bree replied. “I’m looking for a friend who works behind those double doors. I wanted to surprise him.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Phillip Henry Luster,” Bree said.

  That changed the guard’s attitude. “And how do you know Mr. Luster?”

  “We had dinner together the other night at a fundraiser at Frances Duchaine’s home in Greenwich.”

  “Okay,” Martin said, picking up her phone. “Who should I say is here?”

  “Evelyn Carlisle,” Bree said. “From Newport Beach.”

  The security guard made a call. A few minutes later, the doors opened and Luster emerged, giving her a look that mixed amusement with disappointment.

  “My dear Evelyn,” Luster said, taking her hands. “Wherever did you get to the other night? Paula said you had terrible news and had to leave but she wouldn’t be specific.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t,” Bree said. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private? Where I can explain what really happened?”

  “What really happened? Oh God, you had me at hello. As I told you, I love mysteries and secrets.”

  “I remember,” Bree said. “And I’m full of both.”

  The fashion designer seemed to take great pleasure in that and asked the security guard to open the doors. Martin winked at her as she followed Luster through the doors into a short hallway that ended in a large open room surrounded by smaller rooms with glass walls.

  The center room housed the design team of one of the top fashion brands in the world. Artists, designers, cutters, and seamstresses all created a happy buzz of creativity; Bree and Luster walked through to a small office in the corner with a workbench, a drafting table, and a mannequin wearing a flowing lavender dress.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Bree said as he closed the door.

  “Do you think so?” Luster said, pleased, and gestured her to a couch.

  “I love it,” Bree said, sitting. “Whose idea was it to have the fairies downstairs?”

  “That was Tess’s four-year-old granddaughter, Eliza.”

  “I think it’s enchanting. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I’ll tell Eliza that the next time she’s in,” Luster said, taking a seat at the other end of the couch and shifting to face her. “So? What’s the dish?”

  Bree said, “The main dish is that I am not Evelyn Carlisle, newly widowed gazillionaire from Newport Beach. My name is Bree Stone. Until quite recently, I was chief of detectives for the DC Metro Police.”

  Chapter

  41

  Luster acted taken aback and then fascinated. “My, my, you are like an onion, aren’t you? What’s the next layer you’ll peel back?”

  “I currently work for an international security and investigations firm in Virginia called the Bluestone Group.”

  “You’re some high-dollar private investigator?”

  “I am,” Bree said.

  The fashion designer’s eyes shifted left and down slightly before returning to Bree. “You’re investigating Frances Duchaine.”

  “And Paula Watkins.”

  “For whom? I hope you’re not going to say Tess.”

  “No. I mean, I have no reason to believe so. It’s complicated.”

  “Entertain me.”

  Bree explained about the deep-pockets anonymous client who’d provided her with public, private, and sealed documents that hinted at Duchaine’s involvement in criminal activity. Luster studied her intently, his fist at his lips, his eyes revealing little.

  “What kind of criminal activity?” he asked.

  “Human trafficking.”

  The fashion designer’s shock was complete. “What? No. That can’t be true. I know her and—”

  “You mentioned she might have cash-flow issues.”

  “I did, but—”

  “When was the last time you worked for Frances?”

  “Seven years ago?”

  “You should know that there is a detective here with NYPD who believes Frances might have generated several hundred million dollars through the trafficking, cash that has allowed her to stay afloat despite the debts.”

  “Several hundred million?” Luster said. “How can that be?”

  Bree laid it out for him in detail, describing the lawsuits and the allegations made by multiple young men and women who’d managed to escape the clutches of the prostitution ring but were bought off before cases could go to trial.

  “This is terrible,” the fashion designer said, shaking his head.

  “It gets worse,” she said. “An attorney in North Carolina told me she believes that some of the victims were never exploited as high-dollar escorts. They were sold off to buyers in the Middle East and taken out of this country.”

  Luster’s lips curled in disgust. “You’re saying sexual slavery?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Phillip, and I need your help to end it and free those young men and women who might have been sold.”

  Luster looked down at the couch for several long moments before shaking his head. When he raised his chin, his eyes were wet.

  “I have always prided myself on my instincts and my understanding of human nature,” he said. “But I never thought Frances could ever be so ruthless and callous. If it’s true, Paula Watkins had a big hand in it.”

  “I agree. And maybe someone with that hedge fund she’s involved in.”

  The fashion designer’s features shifted, as if he’d whiffed something foul.

  “Ari Bernstein runs it. I can’t stand that sanctimonious ass.”

  “Then help me shine a light on Mr. Bernstein and Frances and Watkins and what they may have done in the name of business.”

  Luster paused and then squeezed his hand into a fist again. “What do you need, Bree? I’ll help in any way I can.”

  Chapter

  42

  Haverhill, Massachusetts

  Paladin’s facilities were as I remembered them—spread out through a quiet, wooded campus with plain concrete-and-glass buildings a few miles off I-495.

  Vic Daloia parked in the visitor lot and I went to the largest of the buildings, which sat at the center of the campus by a small pond where ducks swam.

  I entered a tight lobby with concrete walls. Behind a desk surrounded by bulletproof glass sat a woman in her forties with impressive biceps. A name tag on her blue polo shirt read RIGGS.

  “Welcome back, Dr. Cross,” Riggs said, smiling.

  “Thank you for remembering,” I said, passing her my credentials through a drawer.

  “You and your colleagues were memorable,” Riggs said. “My day-to-day job is actually quite boring, so I notice people like you.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “I believe Mr. Malcomb is going to see me today.”

  She nodded and began copying my credentials. “Ryan’s office just called down.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “You can. Don’t know if I’ll answer,” she said, waiting for the copying to finish.

  I pointed at the bulletproof glass. “Why the security box?”

  “I’ll answer that one,” Riggs said, putting my credentials back in the drawer. “Mr. Vance says it’s probably overkill, but we handle sensitive information here and the company is getting known for its role helping law enforcement and Homeland Security. From a terrorist perspective, I guess we would be what you’d call a soft target.”

  “Makes sense,” I said, taking my credentials from the drawer.

  Riggs buzzed me into a larger, more welcoming reception area with a stacked-granite weeping wall. Beside the seeping fountain hung an understated logo, the word PALADIN superimposed over a faint number 12.

  From my prior visit, I knew the company’s name and logo were references to French literature, where the twelve paladins, or “twelve peers,” were said to be the elite protectors and agents of King Charlemagne, comparable to the Knights of the Round Table in the Arthurian legends.

  Paladin had been launched five years before by Steven Vance, a Silicon Valley CEO, and Ryan Malcomb, a brilliant tech guy who’d started and sold four companies before he turned forty. Vance and Malcomb’s most recent venture involved deep data mining using artificial intelligence.

  Paladin’s ingenious algorithms, written by Malcomb, allowed the company to scour and sift through monstrous amounts of information with astonishing speed. The system had yielded investigative targets of interest to various U.S. law enforcement agencies that increasingly looked to Paladin’s unique and accurate product.

  A door opened on the other side of the weeping wall.

  Sheila Farr, a short redheaded woman with a bowl haircut, exited wearing a blue puffy coat, jeans, and low hiking shoes. I’d met her on my last visit. She was the company’s chief legal counsel.

  She smiled perfunctorily. “Dr. Cross, how good to see you again.”

  “You as well, Ms. Farr,” I said.

  The attorney led me back through the door into a series of familiar hallways kept cold enough to see your breath because of the huge banks of supercomputers that Paladin had churning day and night. We climbed three flights of an unfamiliar steel staircase to a nondescript door; Farr knocked and opened it.

  The office we entered was almost identical to the one Steven Vance had received us in the year before, with glass walls, floors, and ceilings—a block of glass, really, suspended above a much larger workspace that teemed with activity. The bigger space was set up with clusters of desks and computers interspersed with screens hanging from steel cables.

  The people down there ranged from the seriously buff to the somewhat nerdy, like Ryan Malcomb, who sat behind a glass desk in the sleekest, coolest wheelchair I’d ever seen. A lanky man with longish graying hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee, Malcomb wore a look of genuine interest as he used a joystick to bring the silver wheelchair around the desk to me.

  “So interesting to meet you at last, Dr. Cross,” Malcomb said, brushing his hair back and giving me an elbow bump. “Steven was so impressed when he worked with you last year. He will be disappointed to learn he missed you.”

  “Vacations are important.”

  “So they are,” Malcomb said, gesturing me toward a couch and two chairs arranged around a glass coffee table with cups and a pot of steaming coffee waiting.

  Chapter

  43

  The cofounder of Paladin brought his chair forward while his corporate counsel and I sat on the couch.

  “I’ve never seen a wheelchair like that,” I said.

  “Because it’s a prototype built for me by an old friend. Six independent wheels, remarkable suspension—it can do three-sixties in the parking lot.” Malcomb laughed and then leaned forward to pour our coffee with a slight awkwardness to his shoulder and arm movements and a tremor to his hands. But he performed the feat without spilling a drop.

  “I still got the knack,” he said and laughed again. “You’re thinking, What exactly is wrong with him? Aren’t you, Dr. Cross?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Malcomb smiled. “Muscular dystrophy. I was lucky and did not begin to develop symptoms until I was in my teens, because it is degenerative. I get very, very slowly worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Everyone has challenges. I fight mine every bit of the way and remain happy because my mind is completely unaffected.”

  “You wrote the algorithms that the supercomputers run?”

  “I had a lot of help to get them where I wanted them,” he said with a slight wave at the bustling floors below and behind him. “Most of my engineers are far more sophisticated at the intricacies of looking for a needle in a haystack than I am. Steven and I had the vision, but they really wrote most of the code to achieve that vision.”