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The girl had her mother’s good looks and eyes that were as innocent and empty as blue water. Leslie turned on the television and inserted a video underneath. SpongeBob sprang to life on the screen. The girl made a mewing sound.
“Come into the kitchen,” Leslie said.
“I never got your last name.”
“Rosenberg.”
The house was old, but all the furniture, rugs, curtains, and appliances seemed new. I sat at the breakfast table. She opened the refrigerator. “I make Elizabeth a snack before bedtime. While I do that, you can tell me why you’re here. Then you leave.”
“You know anything about Adonis’s stepdaughter? Her name is Isolde.”
“I don’t ask him questions about his family.”
“That’s convenient.”
She gave me a look.
“You’re just a tennis partner?” I said.
“You’re about to get yourself invited back out the door.”
She cut a piece of pie and put it on a plate with a spoon, then went into the living room. I knew I probably couldn’t imagine the amount of care she had to give her daughter, which I was sure involved changing diapers and bathing and feeding and dressing her, never having enough asleep, and ultimately accepting exhaustion as a way of life. In other words, I believed Leslie Rosenberg had her own Golgotha. She came back in the kitchen and washed the plate and spoon in the sink.
“I’m not out to nail Adonis, Miss Leslie. I need to find Isolde. I think she’s a victim of human trafficking.”
“What’s with the ‘miss’ routine?”
“It’s a leftover courtesy from a gentler time.”
“A little of that Aunt Jemima stuff goes a long way. Isolde Balangie is a victim of human trafficking? One of the richest teenage girls in New Orleans? Where do you get this stuff?”
I had the feeling Leslie Rosenberg didn’t take prisoners. She sat down across from me. “You see all this? The house, everything that’s in it? It comes from the Balangie family.”
“You work for them?”
“I’m a cashier in one of their restaurants. They’re not white slavers.”
“You and th
e other two ladies at the tennis courts bear a lot of similarities.”
There was a beat. “You’re saying we’re collectibles?”
“Adonis doesn’t do anything for free.”
“How’d you like a slap across the face, cop or not?”
“I think you’re heck on wheels, Ms. Rosenberg.”
She rolled her fingertips against the heel of one hand. “You’re not going to be a problem, are you?”
“No, ma’am.”
She paused. “Want a piece of pie?”
“Sure,” I said.
She got up and took the pie from the oven and set in on the counter, then sliced it with a knife, her back to me. She had the physicality of a working-class woman, as well as the confidence. She handed me a piece of pie on a plate.
