Mr. Kiss and Tell (18 page)

Veronica shifted her weight on the carpet. “Okay. What do you remember about the session itself? Could you identify Bellamy if you saw him?”

Grace exhaled loudly. “I really don’t remember anything after the bar. I wasn’t lying about that. I remember going into the stairwell and starting down the stairs. And somewhere in there my memory just kind of…fades out. I must have at least gotten to the guy’s room, but I don’t remember it. I remember this, like, bodily sensation of being knocked down. And I remember something clenching around my throat. But they’re really disjointed memories—I don’t remember it as part of a chain of events.” She took a sip of water. Veronica could tell how hard she was fighting to remain steady and matter-of-fact. “Then there’s nothing else until I woke up in the hospital, three days later.”

Veronica nodded. It had been the same for Keith after his accident. He remembered talking to Jerry Sacks in the car outside his house, but he’d never been able to recall the crash itself, or the first days afterward.
Brain trauma’s a bitch.

Grace continued. “I just kind of panicked when I woke up and realized the cops were asking questions.” She looked down. “If I hadn’t been injured so badly, I might not have even reported it. But I didn’t really get a choice in the matter; my body was a crime scene. The docs had the police in there before I even woke up. I knew they’d be looking at the surveillance footage, talking to the staff, and they’d know I was around the Grand all the time. All I could think to do was make out like I had some high-powered sugar daddy I wouldn’t name. I figured that’d sound better than telling them I was an escort.” She sighed and looked toward the single window. The yellow light in the parking lot flooded through the pane. “I’m sorry. For all of it. For lying. For not being able to remember more. I mean, I know it sounds strange. Who’d want to remember something like this? But I really, really wish I could. Because not knowing what happened is so much worse.”

Veronica hesitated for a moment. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

Grace’s pale blue eyes widened. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Grace leaned forward and, surprisingly, grabbed Veronica’s hand.

“That’s the whole truth. I promise. And I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

Veronica went straight from Grace’s apartment to Mac’s building and pulled out her phone before starting up the stairs. It was almost eight. Logan would be home, maybe fixing dinner, or walking Pony. She jotted him a quick text.

Then she took the stairs two at a time up to Mac’s apartment. Mac opened the door before she even had a chance to knock.

“What happened?” Mac asked. “Did he confess?”

Veronica had called her on the way, saying only that she needed her help. Now she stepped into the apartment without preamble and asked, “How hard is it to retrieve a website once its admin has taken it down?”

Mac shut the door. “Well, most stuff on the Internet gets cached. It’s pretty easy to find. If you really want to make a website go away there are ways to do that, but most people don’t bother. It’s kind of a headache.”

Veronica threw her jacket on one end of the oversized sofa. The rugs and curtains had bright, geometric prints, and the air smelled like chai from the teashop downstairs.

“I need to find a webpage for someone named Chloé Huston.” She pulled her laptop from her bag and handed it to Mac. “It would have been taken down in late March or early April.”

“Sure,” Mac said, her brow furrowed. “What’s this all about?”

“Best to just show you, I think. And uh, be warned—there’s probably going to be some adult content on there.”

Mac blinked, but didn’t comment. She sat down on the sofa, opened the laptop, and started to type.

Working late with Mac always felt vaguely collegiate. They ordered pizza—half olive oil and eggplant for Mac, half cheese and pepperoni for Veronica. She hadn’t eaten since before San Diego, and was surprised at the surge of energy she got from righting her blood sugar. Before long she was pacing the living room, trying to determine what their next step should be, while Mac worked steadily at her computer.

It was an hour and a half before she found anything.

“Respect to the girl. She covered her tracks pretty well,” Mac said, exhaling loudly. “But I’ve got the site up if you want to take a look.”

Veronica sat next to her. On the screen, a black-and-white photo depicted a young woman sitting demurely on an outdoor terrace in a lace dress with a plunging neckline. Her face was turned away from the camera to gaze off over the city, but Veronica recognized Grace easily enough. There was a studied elegance in her posture.

Cursive script across the top of the page read
Chloé Huston
. Beneath that, in smaller font:
Your fantasy come true
.

“ ‘Welcome to my world, gentlemen. I’m ready to share it with you,’ ” Mac read out loud. “ ‘Refined, sophisticated…looking to share romance and adventure with generous, discerning men…enjoys intelligent conversation about art, music, philosophy, and
spirituality
’? ” She looked up at Veronica. “What are we looking at?”

“Grace Manning’s alter-ego,” she said. “Or, rather, her former alter-ego.”

“She’s a hooker?” Mac gasped.

Veronica took the laptop from Mac and kept reading.

I’m a cosmopolitan but approachable paramour who can provide a natural, satisfying girlfriend experience, whether we choose to go out or stay in. I also specialize in different kinds of role-play. I can make your dreams come to life. Contact me for details.

“Nope,” Veronica said. “She was a high-end escort. Trust me. There’s a difference.”

A gallery section had a collection of photos showing Grace, always looking away from the camera or with her honey-blonde hair obscuring her face, in a variety of provocative positions. Standing in front of a window in a corset and knee-high stockings; lounging chest-down on the deck of a sailboat wearing nothing but a bikini bottom. One showed her from the chin down, sprawled in a tangle of sheets.

The pictures were more pin-up than porn, and shot beautifully. But looking at them turned the pizza in her stomach into a leaden lump.
Because you’ve seen the “after” pictures. Because you’ve seen her when someone took away all this care and control and turned her into a victim.

Veronica clicked on the section of the website marked “Donation” and scrolled through the pricing list. “Chloé Huston” charged $500 for an hour-long “interlude.” A two-hour “cocktail date” was $800; a four-hour dinner was $1,500.
Other fees may apply.
Mac’s eyes went suddenly wide. “So all that time we spent trying to find her ‘boyfriend’…”

Veronica put a hand on Mac’s arm. “I’m sorry, Mac. I guess Charles was one of her regulars.”

“Jesus,” Mac said. She took the laptop back from her and stared at the website. A mix of shock and disgust registered on her face as she scrolled through the information. “Oh, great. She likes fine dining and walks on the beach. I’m sure they have that in common.”

Veronica cleared her throat. “Mac, I hate to intrude on this reverie, but have you perchance checked out a vibrant little online salon called The Erotic Critique?

“The Erotic…?”

“Critique,” Veronica said, stressing the
eek
to help Mac with the spelling. “It’s like Yelp—but for lonely, horny fellas.”

When Mac gave her an incredulous stare, she shrugged. “Hey, hardboiled, remember? I’m on personal terms with the seedy underbelly.”

Mac typed
The Erotic Critique
into her search bar. The site launched, and a helpful intro explained the service. Customers could type in their parameters to find the perfect girl, or could simply browse through names, clicking on profiles to see descriptions and reviews. Veronica had once used it to try to help a client track down a prostitute who’d sold the GFE role a little too well.

A list of names filled the screen. Savannah Duvall. Miko Minami. Taylor Moran. Bella Diaz. Chloé Huston. “Seriously, how did anyone pay for casual sex before the Internet?” Mac murmured.

Veronica pointed at the screen. “There—could you click on Chloé Huston’s profile?”

Mac did. Instantly Grace’s vital stats popped up: eye color, hair color, height, and weight, along with measurements (34-24-34), tattoos (none), piercings (navel), and “breast description” (natural B cup). Below that was a comprehensive list of sex acts with bright green check marks indicating which ones were offered.

And below that were the reviews. Chloé Huston had forty-three reviews, all from guys with names like lovebandit and continental_gentleman
.

Full, firm tits, fit bod, made me feel comfortable and at ease right away.

Has that something special u cant put ur fingers on (but I did!!!)

I have always had a teacher/schoolgirl fantasy and Chloé was awesome about making it “cum” true.

“These sounds like dirty Yelp reviews,” Mac said.

“Yeah. Raunchy lies and half-truths, a soupçon of single-entrendre humor, and a ton of dick-shaking—literally and figuratively. Ladies and gents, your American sex industry.” Veronica stood up and started pacing again. “So, did anyone give her a bad review? Anything two stars or lower?”

“A few.” Mac looked down at the screen. “One guy said she was ‘cold and aloof.’ He gave her two stars. One said some things I don’t plan to read out loud, but the gist is ‘unrefined technique.’ One said she didn’t follow instructions. The rest are just toxic gibberish.”

Veronica stopped in front of a framed movie poster for
Nights of Cabiria
that showed a doe-eyed Giulietta Masina smoking a cigarette. Something in Masina’s brittle, hopeful face made her think of Grace.

“This wasn’t his first time.”

Mac looked up. “What?”

Veronica turned away from the poster. The thought had been nagging at her since the beginning. “If I’m right, and Bellamy was the attacker, this wasn’t his first time. Think about how calm he looks in the surveillance footage—he’s standing right in front of a hotel clerk with a girl in his bag, getting the team checked out. A security guard is right there. A million ways he could get caught and he’s risking all of them. He’s forty-one years old. I seriously doubt that he just woke up one day after a life of respectful behavior and decided to start raping and brutalizing women. He’s been escalating to this. And so far he’s getting away with it.”

Mac looked queasy.

“If we could find other victims we could prove a pattern. We could show that he’s a repeat offender. It’d be harder for a jury to dismiss Grace Manning’s injuries. But the thing is: How do we do that if no one’s reporting?” Veronica said, now making her way toward the kitchen.

“The, uh, gentle hippie folk in the tea shop downstairs always know when you’ve come over to talk about a case,” Mac said, lowering her voice and gesturing at the floorboards beneath them. Veronica smiled and stopped pacing. She walked back to the sofa and sat down next to Mac. The Erotic Critique was still up on the screen.

“Anyway, they list the reviews chronologically, right?” Veronica peered over Mac’s shoulder at the computer. “Can you scroll down to the last few? Query the last date anyone reviewed her?”

Mac clicked a button labeled Search by Date and a dialogue immediately popped up: W
ELCOME BACK,
V
ERONICA!
W
E SEE IT’S BEEN 9 YEARS, 8 MONTHS SINCE YOU ACCESSED THIS PREMIUM FEATURE.
F
OR DEEPER, MORE INTENSE SATISFACTION, CLICK
HERE
TO UPDATE YOUR PAYMENT AND ADDRESS INFORMATION.

Veronica groaned and Mac exploded in peals of laughter. Rolling her eyes, Veronica handed over her Visa card. A couple of minutes later, Mac was in the date-specific review, angling the screen toward her so she could see more clearly. “Looks like the last one is dated March twenty-eighth.”

Veronica stared at the screen. There were five reviews posted after the night of the attack.

Two were five-starred, one had three stars, and two had one.

professorXXX: 3 stars/5. Refused to come to my house even after I offered her extra—she made me take out a room in the most expensive hotel in town. I guess because she’s cute she’s gotten away with calling the shots before. Aside from that, I can’t complain too much—she worked pretty hard to placate me and at least at the Grand I didn’t have to clean up afterward.

mr_kiss_and_tell: 1 star/5. Gave me a lot of attitude and wouldn’t follow through on my requests.

top_dog: 5 stars/5. As amazing as advertised. Gorgeous girl, sophisticated and fun. After a few preliminary dates I finally persuaded sweet Chloé to go with me to the Sundance Festival in Park City. She fit right in and could have been a starlet herself—people kept staring at her, trying to place her. At one point I caught James Franco flirting with her!!

playhard69: 1 star/5. TIME WASTER!!!! Made an appointment with her THREE MONTHS in advance and she STOOD ME UP. No call, no email. I guess this WHORE is too good for my money?

master_P: 5 stars/5. ChloéChloéChloéChloéChloé. That is what you’ll be saying over and over again as she works her magic.

Her eyes narrowed. Would the attacker be ballsy enough to review a girl he’d left for dead? She thought again of Mitch Bellamy, standing at that front desk, laughing with the receptionist. Yes. If he was the one who did it, he’d think it was his right. He’d think, since he’d gotten away with it, that the universe was clearly entitling him to use and throw away whomever he wanted.

“ProfessorXXX is obviously a local,” she said softly. “He wanted Grace to come to his house. And Sundance is in January, so I’m thinking top_dog was just late in posting his review. Which leaves playhard69, master_P, and mr_kiss_and_tell.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Open up their profiles for me, will you?”

Mac clicked on playhard69. He hadn’t included any personal information—no surprise there—but all of his reviews sprang up on the screen. In addition to Grace, he’d apparently sampled the wares of Larissa Grey, Angelica Starr, and Alexis van Dyne, all of whom worked in Neptune.

It gave Veronica an idea.

“We need to go through and flag any users who’ve reviewed women in multiple cities, and any users who’ve reviewed lots of women in San Diego.”