“Why here?” Angie said quietly, removing her coat and hat and taking a seat opposite the slight, dark-haired reporter. The woman’s eyes were bloodshot, and they darted from point to point as if unable to settle or properly focus. There was an odd sheen to her skin, her complexion deathly pale. Drugs, thought Angie.
“Like I said, it’s ... open. Got a good view. Can see who’s coming.” As she spoke, she took two grainy black-and-white photographic prints from her envelope. She slid them across the table. “For you.”
Angie turned her attention to the photos. One showed a dark-haired man in a leather jacket walking along a dock. The second was of the same man boarding a luxury yacht.
“What are these?”
Winston sucked in a shaky breath, rubbed her mouth, her eyes snapping between the window and the photographs. “Faith used to have a pimp. Way back. Damián Yorick. I heard from someone on the street some days ago that Faith had been seen with him again, fairly recently, along with a blond guy in a black BMW. That’s him, Damián.” She nodded to the photo.
Angie’s pulse quickened. “Can you describe the blond guy he was seen with?”
“Young, apparently.”
“How young?”
“Like early twenties young.”
“And you’re certain this blond guy was driving a black BMW? Did your contact note the plate?”
“No plate info—she’s a crystal meth user, lives on the streets. But she was certain it was a Bimmer. One of those little sports models. Black.”
“What’s her name, your contact?”
“I ...” Winston closed her eyes, as if fighting herself, then made a decision. “Nina. Sometimes she bunks at the Harbor House—it’s where I met her and Faith.” She cleared her throat, glanced nervously around. “I used to live on the streets, see? I was bounced around in foster care and ended up a runaway. Pastor Markus kinda took me under his wing. And Nina, and Faith. We grew close, looked out for each other on the streets. I got out. I came clean. Nina couldn’t. Faith—she got into the escort business, with Damián at first, then I don’t know who. Someone who introduced her into a much higher-end clientele, and she had what seemed like a regular big-paying gig on Tuesday nights.” Winston sniffed and wiped her sleeve across her nose. “She wouldn’t talk about it, but she ended up in that nice apartment. Teeth fixed. Good clothes. Faith was still pretty, you know, once she got off the meth. She has—had—this really young look going on, and the older guys liked it.”
Angie’s adrenaline was pumping hard now. She knew it—she’d read Winston right. This kid had some big-ass issues and was still struggling to overcome her past. It explained her punchy, fuck-you attitude. Merry Winston had reason to hit back at the world, and she was using her keyboard to do it. A grudging admiration sifted into Angie’s perspective on this little reporter with the bad teeth. Winston might have come clean, but meth-mouth was her legacy. “Go on,” she said.
“I went to confront Damián, to ask him about the blond guy and Faith. But he lied about having seen Faith. He claimed he hadn’t laid eyes on her in like over a year.” Winston rubbed her mouth again. “So I waited, watching his place, and when he left, I followed his car to this place.” She nodded to the photo. “Uplands Marina.”
Angie’s pulse dialed up another notch.
“What day was this?”
“Friday night into Saturday morning.”
Angie looked more closely at the photo of Damián Yorick boarding the yacht. TheAmanda Rose—the name was clear in the photo. And it struck her like a bullet to the brain.Amanda Rose.Amanda R. The name and initial on Gracie Drummond’s calendar, along with Lara Pennington’s, and the letters B.C. A reminder to meet those nights—usually a Tuesday.
“What was Damián Yorick doing visiting this yacht?”
“I don’t know. But he’s a pimp, right? He moves in questionable circles. He buys and sells women and sex, and he takes a cut. So I waited. There were people on board, some kind of party happening. Lights on inside, two guys who looked like they could be security up on deck, so I didn’t want to go any closer. Then while I’m watching, this other guy comes along.” Winston slid a third print out of her envelope. Another grainy nighttime shot, this one showing a second male boarding theAmanda Rose. Dark hair. Lean. Strong looking.
“Who is he?” she said.
Winston tightened her lips. She removed another photo and pushed it toward Angie. In this image the two young men were walking along the dock together, heads bent close as if in intense, intimate conversation. Angie’s pulse ticked up a notch—the second male looked like Jayden Norton-Wells.
“They left in separate vehicles. I decided to follow the second guy to see if I could figure out who he was, where he was going. He drove this vehicle.” From her envelope, Winston took a photo of a red Porsche. Angie’s gaze flared to the reporter’s.
“And where did he go?”
Winston placed in front of Angie a photograph of the red Porsche turning into a driveway flanked by two stone columns. On the column a plaque had been mounted. The name on the plaque was clearly visible—AKASHA.
Electricity crackled through Angie—itwasNorton-Wells. She swallowed, staring at the image.
“Coffee? Anything to order?” said a server who’d materialized at their table. Quickly, Angie turned the photos over. “Could you give us another minute?” The server left.
Angie leaned forward. Lowering her voice, she said, “Do you know whose residence this is?”
The reporter nodded. In silence she placed another image in front of Angie. A photo of a man and woman kissing passionately in a white Audi parked under a streetlight.
