Page 27 of Dirty Ex-Mas
“She doesn’t look like security.”
“She’s not.”
“I need to call Laurel.” David pulls his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“I would advise against that.” I lower his hand with my own, then take the phone from him. “We can’t be too sure about what’s going on right now. At least until we know what’s happened.”
“You think my fiancée wants to have me murdered?” David scoffs.
I shrug. “Hard to say, sir. Maybe she found out about all your aliases on those dating apps. And that until just last week you’d been kidnapping and drugging women, then delivering them to a residential brothel where someone either keeps or sells them as sex slaves.”
His face pales. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your face says otherwise.” I wait to see what he will say next. When he doesn’t continue, I do. “Look, David. May I call you, David?”
“No.”
“David, we have a positive ID from your last victim. The one who got away. We also have evidence from the dating apps—”
“What evidence? You can’t get anything from the apps.”
“Really, Jacob?”
If it’s possible, his face pales even further.
“But they don’t store information.”
“Is that what you think?”
His face fills with confusion as he stares straight ahead. “You need to turn this car around immediately and bring me back to the residence.” David attempt at a demand is futile.
“No can do. Sorry.”
“I’ll have your ass for this.”
I laugh in response.
“Whatever it is youthinkyou have, you don’t. There’s nothing stored anywhere that links me to using aliases to kidnap women.”
“You sure about that?” I ask.
He remains quiet.
“You know they store anything and everything on the internet, right? It has to go somewhere once it’s uploaded. And even if you think you’ve deleted it, it’s never erased.”
David turns to me. “Who are you? Because you sure as fuck aren’t with the security company.”
“I’m with the FBI.”
“Fuck me.” David buries his head in his hand and rubs at his brow. “Why does the FBI care about some dating apps?”
“We both know that’s not all it was.” I look at him pointedly. He has the good grace to look away, so I continue, “Look, I don’t really care what you’ve done. I want the names of the guys above you. I want names and addresses of where they are, where the girls are, and where the girls go.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’d really hate to beat it out of you, David. Though, I’ll admit, I’m itching for a brawl, you know what I mean?” I crack my knuckles for emphasis, old-school style.
“I don’t know what to tell you, sorry.” David stays stoic. Which means I’ll have to hurt him. Not that I mind, it’s just such a hassle to get blood out of the car interior afterward. “Last chance,” I tell him.
