Page 17 of Ace

"Jesus, I just need to get laid," I mutter, but I'm unwilling to go through the motions to make that happen.

The problem we've found with places like this one through years of research and case management is that they tend to be a gateway to worse stuff. Someone shows up wanting a woman who likes it a little rough and when spanking isn't enough, they want more, and, well, money talks. There's no shortage of green flowing into places like this. Greedy business owners are always connected to the dark side. They'll provide the drugs their clients need, andsometimes that drug is the adrenaline of doing something that is a little more off the beaten path than what is considered socially acceptable. Before they know it, they're providing unwilling clients, not just ones that are good at acting because, for some men, pretending isn't enough.

That's why we work hard at taking places like this one down.

I keep meticulous notes, but these guys are smart. Most cars that pull up outside of the brothel have plates that run back to rental companies. I know without having to research that I won't find one that has been reserved under their real names or paid for by a personal credit card. Most go back to shell companies and the vast majority circle right back to the brothel, with them operating under a legal entity by the name of Daydreamer's Spa. I seriously doubt these men are walking out after a quick microblading session or a foot massage.

"You rat bastard," I mutter the second I see a popular movie star step out of the back of a chauffeured car. "Knew he wasn't a good guy."

The man is instantly given access to the house, telling me he's been there before or they were expecting his arrival tonight.

I log his name and wait for the next car to pull up.

My eyes droop, making me stand up and stretch. This is the worst part about working a case—gathering all the intel and trying to figure out which direction a job needs to take me to render the best results.

The truth is, we have nothing as far as the Sadie Preston case is concerned, and that is what screamed so loud to both Kincaid and me.With the level of technology Kincaid has access to, there should be something out there that hints at where she has disappeared to.

There are no face recognition images on traffic cameras in DC or South Carolina. His team is working outward to try and find something, but there has been nothing from the bus or train stations. Nothing from airports, both commercial and private.

The girl literally seems to have just disappeared.

I figured they'd find her on a traffic camera, heading toward a dope den or something, but that avenue hasn't been successful.

I keep an eye on the television screen with the live feed as I make another espresso, and then pop open the clamshell container of croissants. The amount of caffeine I'm drinking will eat a hole in my stomach otherwise. My body doesn't function the way it used to when I was younger and realizing that makes me feel that much older.

I tilt my head, thinking someone didn't get the memo on how things are done on West Park when I see a bright blue sports car pull up outside of the house.

"Interesting," I say, crossing the room and abandoning the espresso so I can get closer to the television.

A long slenderleg pops out of the car, and my stomach sinks the second her face is revealed.

Cora fucking Preston.

I knew that woman was going to be trouble the moment I met her. First, I saw judgment when she looked at Kincaid. By the time the meeting was over, she seemed okay with the idea of Cerberus working on her sister's case but I didn't see the confidence in her eyes that we'd normally see after speaking with a client.

I rip my phone from my back pocket and call Kincaid.

"Find something?" he asks the second the call connects.

"The older sister just drove up to the fucking house," I growl, but it's not his fault. This woman is making her own damn choices. "She's going to burn this case."

"People think they're helping by doing shit like this," he mutters, and I can hear the irritation in his voice. "She called earlier for an update, and I should've expected something like this when I had nothing to give her.

"She needs to be redirected."

"She wants to find her sister. I say head over to the house and make sure she doesn't get herself into too much trouble. I don't know that the brother would want us digging around, even if the second sister vanished."

"They won't let me in that goddamned door."

"Eddie Yarrow wouldn't get access, but Anthony Weidman is just the type of guy they want there. Plus, you have a sack full of cash at your disposal, and the green shit opens a lot of doors. Hurry before she blows the entire case."

I move the second the call ends, rushing to the bedroom and pulling a suit sans tie from the closet.

The drive in DC is no different from the drive in East Tennessee. It's slow and frustrating, especially considering the urgency of the situation.

As I slow for yet another red light, I can only hope that Cora doesn't demand entrance before grilling everyone shesees about her sister. If people in the house are connected to Sadie's disappearance, then it's a surefire way for her to find out exactly what happens when people threaten to make a ripple in such a lucrative business.

Chapter 8

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