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“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 ASI 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.
