“So you had to see the results of the nights before. What was it? Used condoms, sex toys, maybe blood? Ever see the women? See them being beaten up?”
She swallowed. “I never saw the women, any of them. No staff apart from the few who worked club catering service were allowed into the lower cabins when the club was in operation. By the time we go in to clean, everyone has been moved out. The quarters where the girls bunk, too—they always move the girls to another part of the yacht if we need to clean there.”
Angie shot a hot glance at Maddocks. “So thereareyoung women kept on board?”
Collins nodded. “They ... I heard them referred to as the barcode girls. I heard they were all foreign. They remain on the yacht at all times. I’ve never seen them myself. And there are three even younger women kept in another area. Then there are the other women who come in with drivers provided by the club, and they leave the same way.” She looked at her feet. “I ... the money was so good. I ... wasn’t sure. I just tried to keep my head down.”
“Just help us out here, Katie, and you’ll be helping yourself. There was a crew member who worked on theAmanda Roseuntil about two weeks ago—a deckhand and a carpenter. Blond guy, maybe midthirties. Good-looking, but possibly seemed just a little off. You recall someone like that who doesn’t work here any longer?”
“Ah ... yeah. He quit. They told us he quit. Spencer.”
Adrenaline kicked through Angie. “Spencerwho?”
“I don’t know.”
“Know where he lives?” Maddocks said. “Foreign? Did he come in with crew from other ports?”
“I don’t know—” She pointed suddenly to a cuffed crew member in chef whites being led to the processing area. “That guy, he knows more.”
Angie and Maddocks pulled the man out of the line. He was big, pock-faced, rough features. Blood stained the front of his chef’s jacket.
“I want a lawyer,” he said immediately.
“Listen, buddy, I don’t want you—not interested in you,” Maddocks said curtly. “I want to know about Spencer. You tell me about Spencer, and things are going to go a hell of a lot easier for you. Keep silent, and I’m going to make your life pure living hell.”
His eyes flickered at the mention of Spencer. “Can we go in there?” he said, motioning to a door. Angie opened it to find a small area with seating. Staff break area, she guessed.
The man entered with them, glancing over his shoulder. “Spencer left,” he said once they’d shut the door.
“We know he left. Why did he go?”
“Something happened in one of the club cabins a few weeks back. I don’t know what—something bad. Spencer was called to help. We never saw him after that.”
“Spencer got a last name? You know where he lives, where he comes from, how long he’s worked on theAmanda Rose?”
“Addams. His name is Spencer Addams. He’s local, from Victoria. He’s worked on the yacht for a few years—done some of their trips down in the Caribbean and the Med. Seasonal stuff. He told me he answered an ad for a yacht carpenter a couple of years ago. Lives in James Bay with his mother. Never spoke much—kept to himself. Very talented with the carpentry. Loved his work—it was like ... a religion to him. He was a bit ... weird. Often quoting passages from the Bible.”
Angie’s pulse hammered. “Where in James Bay?”
“I don’t know.”
The door opened. It was one of the male ERT officers. “Hoi, detectives, you’re going to want to see this.”
The officer led them to what appeared to be a supply closet inside the yacht on the lower deck. He opened the door, showing them into a cubby maybe eight by eight feet. “We had to break the lock to gain access,” the SWAT officer said.
Angie and Maddocks stepped into the tight space. The walls were paneled with wood. A padded swivel stool was positioned in the center. A small counter, under a foot wide, ran around the walls at about waist height. Wires fed from holes in the paneling. USB ports attached to the ends of the wires had been plugged into a laptop that rested on the narrow shelf.
Maddocks snapped on gloves. He ran his hand along one of the wires up to the hole in the wall. “There’s a removable plug of wood around the wire,” he said, opening the little cover that had been carefully recessed into the paneling. He swore softly and removed another wood plug.
“Cameras,” he said, his gaze snapping to the laptop on the tiny counter. “These wires all feed from cameras to that computer.”
Angie took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, pulled them on, and opened the laptop. She hit theONkey, and it fired to life.
“Shit,” she whispered as she opened consecutive files, each showing footage of different cabins, men in various stages of having sex with women. “He was spying from here. The bastard watched it all, filming everything.” She looked up. Four walls. Holes in each. Wires all leading to this laptop station. “He can see into several cabins from here. It’s like a little nerve hub in the belly of theAmanda Rosebeast,” she said, opening another file. Video footage came to life—a black-haired, naked young man leading a naked woman around on all fours by a rope. Angie’s heart stalled. She hitFAST FORWARD.
“We got him,” she whispered, feeling sick to the pit of her stomach as she watched the young man hogtying, then hammering himself into the woman from the rear, her hair falling over her face, which was pointed toward the camera. Tears stained her cheeks, and her features were twisted in anguish as the rope tightened around her throat. Behind them, in the far right corner, was Norton-Wells. “We got them both,” she said softly. “With Faith Hocking.”
The camera’s time-date stamps showed November 28. As they watched the footage, Hocking began to gasp, her eyes bulging at the camera. Her body slumped. Raddison kept at it. Bile rose into Angie’s throat as they watched the young woman die, the footage turning into bona-fide snuff.
