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Chapter 7
“Seriously guys.” Gretchen slid onto the vacant barstool between Neil and their newest recruit, Jackson Shepard. A plate piled high with a burger and fries sat waiting. “I’m working undercover in a club. Couldn’t we have met somewhere other than a bar on my first night off?
Jackson grinned. “At least you won’t have to dance for your drinks tonight.”
When she shot him a glare, the smile slid off his face.
Neil tapped on the tabletop to get her attention. “Have you looked over the information I sent you?”
“That whole lot of not shit, you mean?” She’d read the files. Other than Raymond Carlisle, no one else at the club had done anything to warrant the attention of the feds.
“I know.” Neil waved her off. “For the most part, Carlisle surrounds himself with low-key players or intelligent ones. Did you notice what wasn’t in the information I sent you?”
Gretchen dug out her phone and pulled up the file Neil had sent, scrolling through the list of possession, solicitation, and assault charges. “Ronnie Sinclair,” she muttered. How had she missed that? Probably because she’d been so relieved Finn only had a couple of assault charges that’d been dropped.
“Give the lady a prize.” Neil leaned in closer, until the scent of his cologne settled around her. Under the table his leg bounced.
“Why does this excite you so much?” Gretchen asked. “She’s not there, which means you found nothing.”
“Exactly.” He sat up straighter, energy thrumming off him. “Nothing, not even a freaking library fine. Who doesn’t have a library fine?”
“People who don’t read,” Jackson replied dryly.
“Responsible citizens who return their books on time,” she offered.
Neil rolled his eyes. “No. People who don’t exist.” He slid his phone across the gleaming table to her. “Ronnie Sinclair’s real name is Elizabeth Smith.”
Gretchen studied the mugshot on Neil’s phone. The girl was young with dark circles under vacant eyes. Long, dull hair in need of a thorough washing obscured most of her features. Neil reached passed Gretchen and swiped the screen. An image of a vibrant redhead with stunning blue eyes replaced the gaunt young woman.
“There’s a lot more of her.” Ronnie’s chest had to be at least two cup sizes larger than Elizabeth’s.
Neil nodded. “Miami’s third in highest number of plastic surgeons per capita.”
Gretchen and Jackson stared at him.
“What?”
Jackson shook his head. “Why do you know things like that?”
Neil lifted a broad shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Miami’s expensive. So’s cosmetic surgery. What does she do?” Gretchen steered them back to the topic.
“That’s the thing. According to my sources her title is companion search specialist. Unfortunately, the companions she finds are young, sometimes reluctant, and not always legal. The feds think she’s a human trafficker.”
“Whoa. What?” Gretchen put down her burger without taking a bite. “Human trafficking? Are you sure? Carlisle and his guys aren’t into that. He sells drugs and sex, not people.” In the months she’d been at the club, there’d been nothing to indicate Raymond Carlisle forced women to have sex for money.
“I know,” Neil conceded.
Gretchen studied her partner for a moment. This would be so much easier if she could read his mind, instead of having to pull information out of him. “So, what’s she doing with them?”
“She started as one of Carlisle’s girls,” he replied.
One of Carlisle’s girls? “She was a hooker?”
Neil nodded.
“So how does the student surpass the teacher?” How did a woman go from a young, beaten down hooker, to a madame who forced other women to do the same?
