“I’m handling it.”
“You don’t look like it. You look like shit… beautiful shit, but shit.”
“Thanks.”
He’s the only one I’d let talk to me like that, and he knew it. We’d grown up around Cathedral Parkway on the Upper West Side. Now it’s up-and-coming. Back then it was Cocaine Central. After my stepfather died, I moved away, and Lee and I lost contact. Years later, I looked up and there he was, at the academy. We’d been partners ever since.
“Look,” he said, “I remember what happened with your stepfather – ”
“Don’t go there.”
“All I’m saying – ”
“I said – ”
“ – is that if you want to talk about it, I’m here. That’s all. I’m here.”
But it hurts. It hurts so bad. And the blood…
Hush, child.
But –
You let him do what he’s got to do, ’cause he’s our bread and butter.
The mirror behind the bar reflected my image. Lee was right. I did look like shit. I turned away and pressed my glass against my cheek. It felt cool and refreshing.
“Sometimes, I feel like I’m a ghost, you know? Sometimes, I wonder who really died that night. Him or me?”
“That’s crazy.”
“I’ve been hearing things, Lee. Don’t tell the captain, but I’ve been hearing my mother’s voice. Haven’t thought of her in years. Don’t know if she’s alive or dead. But ever since we caught this case, she’s been whispering to me.”
“What’s she saying?”
“Same things she used to say, to get me to cooperate.” I set the glass down. “You think I’m crazy?”
“No.”
“Got any advice?”
“Tell her to leave you alone. Next time she says something, tell her to get the hell outta your head and leave you the fuck alone.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I thought about it. He was right.
Get the fuck outta my head, Mama. It sounded fine to me.
MONDAY AFTERNOON, ABIGAIL and Susan sat behind a table on the sidewalk around the corner from their school, near Central Park. They had two large sliced cakes – one chocolate, one strawberry – plus an array of brownies and cupcakes. A big sign next to them read: bake sale to benefit chrissie’s family.
Crumpled dollar bills and assorted change half-filled an upended water-fountain jar on the table.
“Looks like you’re doing a brisk business,” Lee said.
“Yeah,” Susan said. “We’re doing pretty well.”
“Where’s Claire?” I asked.
Something ugly flitted across Abigail’s face. Susan started to speak, but Abigail put a staying hand on her wrist, and the girl snapped her mouth shut.
“Claire’s not part of this,” Abigail said, flashing an extrabright smile. “Says she’s got too much work to do.”
Lee raised an eyebrow. “Even for a good cause like this?”
Abigail shrugged. “You know how it is: different people, different priorities.” Another false smile. “So, how’s your investigation going?”
“We have more questions,” Lee said.
“Sure. We’re always ready to help.”
“I see that.” I glanced at the grip on Susan’s wrist.
Abigail colored and withdrew the hand; Susan rubbed the spot as though she’d been freed from shackles.
“Maybe we could speak to each of you separately.” I raised a hand before Abigail could object. “That way, the table will stay manned. You won’t miss any donations, and no one can walk away with the jar.”
She didn’t like it, but she couldn’t argue. She gave Susan a warning look, stepped away from the table, and turned to me.
“What is it?”
“Did Chrissie ever mention an older guy?”
Abigail set her jaw.
“Look,” I said, “if you don’t give me a straight answer, we’ll be having a conversation at the station with your mother.”
She tried to look brave. Folding her arms across her chest, she said, “You have no right to threaten me.”
“Sweetie, we have the right to threaten anyone with cause – and you’re giving us cause. Now, did Chrissie ever mention an older man?”
“Yeah,” she said resentfully. “Her stepfather.”
“They were having problems?”
“You could say that. He started raping her when she was ten.”
Mama, can I talk to you? Talk to you right now?
Pressure started building at the back of my skull. “Did she tell anyone?”
“She tried. But her mother didn’t care.”
“You mean, her mother didn’t know.”
“What’re you, deaf? Her mother knew but didn’t care. All she cares about is being Mrs. Big Shot. She even tried to stop Chrissie from moving in with her dad. She was scared Mr. Big Shot would leave her.”
“Why should Chrissie’s moving-”
Again that irritated superior look.
“Don’t you get it? Having sex with Chrissie was part of the deal. That’s how her mother got that guy to marry her.”
It always hurts the first time, child. Just let him do what he’s got to do, ’cause he’s our bread and butter.
JIMMY WATTS IN forensics had left us a message to stop by. He was at his desk, working on a ham-and-tomato sandwich. Watts weighed more than two hundred pounds, but in the eight years I’d known him, I’d never seen him eat a large meal.
He waved to us, dabbed his mouth with a tissue, and got up. We followed him as he lumbered past shelves of confiscated equipment in stages of disassembly. Chrissie’s computer and webcam were on a table by themselves.
“She had a sweet hookup,” he said. “Surprisingly good security for a teenage girl. Simple but effective.”
“But you could bypass it, right?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. I’m logged in now. I just let it sleep until you came.”
He sat down, touched a key, and the dark computer screen lit up. He double-clicked one of the icons littering the screen. A browser window opened.
“Look at this.”
Lee and I leaned forward. We were viewing a blog. It was called “Selling the Pink.”
“Does that mean what I think it means?” I asked.
“’Fraid so.”
Lee and I scanned the entries. The teenage author was running her own porn site. She’d started an earlier one with three friends-“Amber,” “Chloe,” and “Elektra” – but then decided to go off on her own. The decision sparked a feud, and she was still reeling from it.
But the fight with her friends/business partners wasn’t the focus of her most recent entry – or even her deepest concern. She was worried about a man, someone she called “Mr. Big Shot.”
“We got him,” Lee whispered. “The stepfather. It’s him.”
A link from the blog led us to stills from archived footage.
“That poor kid,” Lee said.
“Poor, she was not,” said Watts. “She was raking it in. So far, I’ve found two online accounts – one’s got one hundred fifty thou and the other’s got thirty-five.”
You’re such a pretty girl. Such a lucky, pretty girl. Men’ll always give you what you want when you’re such a pretty girl.
I gave myself an inner shake. Go away, I said inwardly, but the words had no strength.
“She was going to surprise her father,” Watts was saying, “help him open a new business and send herself to college.”
“Any sense of how long she was at it?” I asked.
“I’d say about two and a half years.”
So she’d started when she was thirteen.
“What about the e-mails?” Lee asked.
Watts’s fingers danced across the keyboard, and another window opened up. “You’ll find this interesting.” A few more clicks with the mouse, and rows of messages flowed down the screen.
The e-mails were furious and taut. They spoke of broken promises and angry betrayals. Most were from Amber, who spoke for Chloe and Elektra.