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“Her pimp picked her up. After. She services oil workers. Lotta interest with itinerants too.”
“You can prove it how?” she said waspishly.
He turned his phone to her again, showing her a video. It was a cringe-inducing home movie. Inappropriate for the first few minutes, and Rachel tried to only watch the faces involved.
But then the sexual escapades were interrupted by a loud, barking voice.
The camera panned, turning to spot a large, muscled man with multiple tattoos striding toward them.
“Time’s up!” the man was saying. “You only paid for the hour.”
There was some grumbling from the camera’s speakers, but then reluctant motions.
The woman hastily got dressed, grabbed a small purse, took a couple of bills from the men in question, and, adjusting her miniskirt, hastened toward the large, musclebound goon.
Rachel leaned in, studying the image. The footage was grainy as the two figures moved off in the direction of a waiting car.
She couldn’t make out the license plate, but the make and model were clear enough. Rachel jotted down the details in her notebook, then turned back to Mark.
“You’re telling me the pimp picked her up in that car?” she asked, holding up the phone.
Mark nodded, looking relieved that she seemed to believe him. “Yeah. That’s his car. I never saw her again.”
Rachel stared as the video played out. The car drove away in a cloud of dust, taking the victim with it.
And Mark remained behind, holding the camera and uttering a string of colorful obscenities at his mid-coital interruption.
Rachel checked the timestamp on the video.
The same night the woman would’ve died judging from initial medical reports. Mark wasn’t the killer.
“What’s the name of that pimp?” she said firmly.
He just shrugged at her. “Dunno. Never got it.”
Rachel let out a long breath. “I’m going to check this video,” she said.
“Fine. Do it. It’s real.”
“It better be,” she murmured, and then she turned and hastened to the door.
If he was telling the truth, then the last person to see their victim alive likely was the muscled man with the tattoos.
So now… the question was how to lure a pimp out of hiding.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The full moon cast a silvery glow over the vast expanse of desert, a landscape dotted with cacti and rocky outcroppings. The wind whispered through the night, stirring up a fine mist of sand that danced around their feet. It was midnight, and there, in the heart of this desolate domain, stood the man, his tall figure looming over his captive.
Her wrists chafed against the rough rope binding her to the trunk of a twisted Joshua tree. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching for any avenue of escape.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the wind.
The man looked down at her, his cold eyes showing neither sympathy nor malice. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm and collected, like a snake slithering through the underbrush. “This is not your fault,” he said softly. “But it must be done.”
“Who are you?” she demanded, struggling to keep her voice steady. “What do you want from me?”
“Shh,” the killer soothed, his tone almost gentle. He could feel the bitter tang of sadness as he watched her. She didn’t deserve this. But it would all end eventually. “Soon, you’ll understand.”
