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“I started on the set crew, but after a few weeks, I became a sort of everything guy for the owner. I ran errands, oversaw deliveries, and verified IDs and stood guard outside a room where… sex parties took place.”
“Nothing illegal about that if it’s not in a private home and they have the proper licensing.”
“Unless the female participants were there against their will.” My jaw tightens. “Unless the men paid to have sex with minors. In that case, it goes from a group of kinky consenting adults to sex trafficking.”
Donovan’s brow lowers, and he leans back in his chair. “You were a part of that?”
“At the time, I didn’t have hard evidence of what was happening. As I’ve studied further since I left that place, I’ve learned more.”
“It’s going to be hard to prove a bunch of strippers weren’t consensual participants in a sex club.”
“With all due respect, sir, burlesque dancers are not strippers, and exotic dancers are not automatically prostitutes.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Sounds like you have a personal interest in this matter.”
I look at my hands, thinking about my response. From the start, I’ve done everything in my power to keep the girls off the radar. It’s getting harder the deeper we get, the more they run.
Donovan interrupts my thoughts. “So this Esterhaus was a member?”
“I saw him there a few times. He claimed he got out because he didn’t like the way things were being handled.”
“And now he’s dead.”
“Yes, sir.”
On the train, Esterhaus told Lara he’d divested his interest in the New Orleans club because he didn’t agree with the decisions, but Molly hunted him down and killed him anyway. The level of violence indicated rage, revenge.
I’m willing to bet Esterhaus didn’t get out before they molested a thirteen-year-old girl, who’s now on the trail of every man involved in her abuse.
Guy. They have to be searching for Guy. He’s the only one I haven’t been able to find, and he was arguably the leader. He had more power than Gavin. He was the one who hurt Lara, who had me beaten almost to death when I tried to save her. A wince passes through me at the memory.
“Fitz?” I blink up to see Donovan leaning forward on his desk. “You still with me?”
“Yes, I was just remembering some information. I’m sorry.”
He grins and nods. “I like it when my men are passionate about the cases they work on. It means they’re more likely to get results.”
“So you’ll approve the trip?”
He nods. “Keep in touch, keep your expenses to a minimum. Let me know what you find but don’t cross any jurisdictional lines. You’re officially traveling to see your kid. This isn’t your case down there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roland plays at a popular piano bar a few blocks northwest of where the theater used to be. He’s halfway through a raucous version of “Piano Man” with the entire drunken crowd singing along when I enter the dim-lit room.
It’s a smaller bar off the main building with dark-wood paneling on the walls and vintage furnishings. Small tables are scattered throughout with the piano on an elevated stage in the center.
An enormous fishbowl is placed at the side of the piano, and patrons walk forward and drop napkins in it constantly. I check my watch. It’s five minutes until two a.m., which makes this the last song of the night.
All the tables are full, so I stroll across the red-brick breezeway separating the smaller bar from the open-air patio out back. A large fountain is in the center, and the tone is quieter, more relaxed.
“May I take your order?” A waitress wearing a uniform of dark green shorts and a white shirt with a green bow tie waits expectantly.
“I’m just meeting someone, thanks.”
She nods and continues on, and I realize this part of the establishment is open all night. Leaning against the black wrought-iron fence, I wait for the final strains of the Billy Joel classic to end and the cheering to die down.
Twenty more minutes pass before the place has almost completely cleared out, and I step inside to see Roland disappearing through a side door.
