The most skilled detective we have.
“Right away, sir.”
I scan more footage. I tell myself I’m looking for someone else who might threaten my women, but I know what I’m really looking for. Who I’m looking for.
Jean-Pierre calls me while I’m scrolling through footage that dates back a full week. Every time I see her, I pause and take notes.
Literally.
Her favorite color’s pink.
She has exactly one pair of designer shoes and one designer handbag that she rotates with other, less expensive, items.
She doesn’t know that as of tonight, I’ll have access to her bedroom.
She is drawn toward the wine-colored books in the community room library. Further investigation shows they’re compilations of the world’s greatest philosophers. Interesting.
I note that she always walks and does not own a car. She uses all of the facilities that we have here—the swimming pool, the workout room, the community kitchen. Whereas many of the women that work for me prefer to live off-site, Nicolette makes her home here. Which tells me that she is saving every penny she can. She has a goal, then. A purpose.
I answer the call from Jean-Pierre. “Monsieur?”
“I’m going to tell you something confidential known by only me and my brother Thayer.”
“Sir?”
“Lyam’s been taken. Thayer will fill you in. Find out everything you can about The Underground. I want names, locations, financials.”
“Yessir, right away, sir.”
My need to own Nicolette will not be cast away in my efforts to find my brother.
“I’d also like everything you have on a woman who works for me by the name of Nicolette.”
I’m scanning through video footage as I’m talking to him.
She eats eggs for breakfast. How very American of her. I rarely see her stop for lunch, so I’m not sure what she eats then, if anything. She has a nervous habit of twitching her hair, and always makes a phone call between lunch and her evening client.
“Anything else?”
“I want to know how much money she has saved. Where she spends it. Her cell phone number and contacts. I want to know how long she’s been here, who referred her, and anything else at all you can think of that may have significance.”
“Yessir.”
Jean-Pierre is not only fastidious, he also flouts the law, which is exactly why I hired him.
“Much of this is low-hanging fruit I’ll be able to obtain in minutes. Email, Monsieur?”
“Send it to my phone.”
“Yessir.”
I hang up the phone. A notification pops up on my messages.
Jean-Pierre.
I click the links he sent me and read voraciously, hungry for anything and everything I can find out about Nicolette.
Nicolette.
From what I’ve already gathered from footage, she’s friendly and outgoing. I’d bet she’s clever as hell to boot. I scroll through the summary he’s sent, likely information he’s obtained that’s on file here as well as what’s public knowledge.
Several months ago, she was orphaned when her parents were killed in a house fire. She and her younger sister were their only children. She was referred here as a place of employment by one of her friends from university.
It doesn’t surprise me. Though rumor has it that the women who work for me are drug addicts or struggle with mental health, the reality is that most of them are trying to survive after hardship—an ex-husband left them destitute, parents died leaving them penniless, they grew up in a life of poverty and seek a quick means to improve their circumstances.
We intentionally hire women just like her, because they show loyalty and gratitude for the safety and comfort of having a home of their own. We pay better than any other brothel in Europe, and we treat them well.
Only it seems our screening processes for clients leave a lot to be desired. I’ll change that.
Another notification pops up, then another. I scroll through.
Nothing on Lyam. We may not get anything at all until we go to The Underground. We have more on Nicolette, though.
She sends texts to someone named Savannah. Her sister, I’d guess. Other than that, the only other contacts are women who work here. Her world is small, then, essentially limited to the confines of these walls.
That’s a good thing, for my purposes.
I scroll through her bank account and feel my eyebrows rise. She has twenty thousand euro saved.I wonder what her endgame is. What’s her goal?
Why is she here?
I want to know everything about her. I want to know what she likes and what she doesn’t. What brings her joy and what drives her crazy? Does she have a favorite holiday, and what brought her here from America? Does she have a hobby, or a career that attracts her? Is she a morning person or a night owl?
But more than any of that, I want to know where she is now. Right this very minute. I can’t press a button and find my brother, but I can find her.