“Copy that.”
“Be safe, bro. I wouldn’t want you to end up in a wheelchair… Too soon?”
He chuckles. “Later, you dumb redneck.”
Back in the living room, Chrissy sits on the couch and pouts. “Why can’t I see my mom?”
My wife points down the hall. “First shower, then talk.”
While she’s in the bathroom, Sam hugs me tight. “Thank God she’s okay.”
Slate, whose been prying the devices apart, scrapes away black goo, and when he holds one forth, my partner hisses. “Those aren’t NYPD, they’re high-end government. What the fuck?”
My friend clears his throat. “If the Feds are listening in on Selena’s conversations. I bet they have surveillance, too.”
“They must know we have the girl and have probably already informed O’Rourke.”
“Shit, we need a lawyer, stat.” This situation is spiraling out of control. Maybe, Quinn can help us sort it all out.
“On it.” Slate walks outside while I stare at my gal, pondering our next move.
“We need a safe house while we figure this out.” My suggestion is put on hold as Chrissy enters the room.
Makeup gone, wearing her mom’s yoga pants and t-shirt, she looks less like a hooker and more like a teen.
“Coffee or hot chocolate?” Sam holds up a cup.
“Both.” The girl twirls the carousel, picks a pod, and drops it in the machine.
A mug underneath, my partner pushes a button. Soon, a frothy mixture hisses and gurgles from the spout. After making another drink for herself, they retire to the black leather couch.
While they get comfy, I hop up on a kitchen stool and as I’m leaning back against the cool granite, Slate pokes his head in. “We leave in ten.”
“Understood.” I shift my gaze to the women. “First, we need to know if we’re harborin’ a murderer.”
Nodding, the Patten man presses the communication device in his ear and slips back into the hall.
The teenager sighs and stares into space. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Who drove you here?” My wife glances at me and my quick nod back means, you got this, babe.
“The woman said her name was Ronnie, but she was full of shit. She was supposed to show me the ropes, spot rich old men to take me to their room.”
Sam’s mouth purses, the teen reads the look, and gets defensive. “My great-grandmother needs daycare and there’s not a lot of ways for someone my age to earn that kind of money.”
“Why not ask your mother?”
Atta girl, partner. We need to understand their relationship.
Chrissy swallows hard. “I was going to… Gran has been just awful to her. It didn’t seem right to ask my mom to support her.”
“You thought she’d prefer you entering the trade?”
She laughs. “Why not? I can earn enough to go to college. Society is so fucked up. Boys can have all the sex they want, and no one thinks twice. A woman makes a few bucks on the side for doing the same thing and she’s a whore. Don’t you see the irony? I am a sexual being, I’m pretty, and I don’t mind the work. This isn’t a permanent solution. It’s a temporary way to remove myself from an untenable situation.”
Gawd almighty. Her vocabulary and rationale are far beyond her age. And her logic, while I may not agree, is solid. I do wonder how many young women have said the same thing and ended up trapped by a decision they made as a kid?
Sam leans in. “So, you had a good thing? What happened?”
