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“A computer search,” she said, jerking like something jabbed her spine. “If they are making these movies, would they be online?”
“Could be.”
“Who wants to trawl through porn like that?” her brother muttered. “You said these women are tortured.”
And at that, she scraped together the pictures of the victims and held them out to him wearing a smile. “You want to make yourself useful?”
“No,” he almost groaned. “Why would I want to—”
“You wouldn’t want your sweet, innocent little sister to sully herself watching that filth, would you?”
Though he sneered, he snatched the pictures. The guy was there anyway, might as well take on the cause.
“If it’s for private collections, it won’t be online. The johns want confidentiality.”
“I get that. It’s worth a shot.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Sersha agreed. “And maybe if we can get a look at the location background of the Manzani porn that is out there, we can figure out where it’s being filmed. They’d be keeping the women close to the set I’d bet. Doesn’t help without a point of reference though. Manzanis have sites all over their territory.”
“Maybe it’s not in their territory.”
“Outside it, they don’t have protection. They’re targets. It will be somewhere they feel safe, somewhere with protection. Ideally, with lots of loyal eyes and not a lot of questions.”
“There’s a hotel equidistant from where each of the bodies was found.”
“You’re talking about the Carlyle,” Sersha said. “That’s a building full of selfish indulgence. There were whispers about things going on in there. Less of the simple sex for cash transaction, but that was about blackmail, not murder.”
“Maybe the two go hand in hand.”
“We can’t eliminate the possibility. It would be perfect for privacy. Sex is already going on, so people don’t react to anything they might hear. It’s fully controlled by the Manzanis and has been for a long time.”
“Good, so we have a plan. Ford’s on the porn. Strat’s going to call around and—”
“Can I talk to you, Scamp?” Strat asked, striding toward the bedroom without waiting.
Saying nothing, Sersha left the table to follow him.
They couldn’t be intending to do anything intimate, could they? With the door perpendicular to the breakfast bar open, the bed made an ominous sight just as the door closed. A plan. A team. Focus. The story mattered, not her dad’s sex life. The Chronicler. Murders. Her job, at least, was straightforward… sort of.
TWENTY-SEVEN
WHILE SHE WAS AT SERSHA’S dining table, Ford lay on the couch somewhere in the living room behind her.
“I don’t want to hear you enjoying that, whatever you’re watching.”
“Ah, bite me. This is your bullshit.”
So far there hadn’t been any sex noises. While Strat and Sersha were still in the bedroom, if there was any moaning or grunting, she’d tell herself it was Ford’s porn. Not that thinking of her brother having sex was appealing.
Lach strode through the front door, his tee-shirt half off over his head. When his arms dropped, fabric in hand, he spotted her and stopped.
“Im.” No one could claim Lachlan was a stereotypical donut munching cop. Not with a physique like that. Distracted by it, she just sat there, staring. “Immie, what are you doing here?”
Snapping out of her daze, she shook her head. “Working. What are you doing here?”
“Did something happen? I thought you were staying with Ford, if you need somewhere—”
“He’s back there,” she said, tipping her head back. “Somewhere.”
