Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(95)

“I presume you’re going to dazzle us with your brilliance?” Wyatt spoke up hopefully.

“Please. I fractured my arm, not my head. So first thing’s first. For the sake of argument, I did a broad-strokes statistical analysis. You want some numbers to keep you awake at night? There’s been a roughly sixfold increase in the number of missing persons cases in the past twenty-five years, from one hundred and fifty thousand to nearly nine hundred thousand. Now, a significant portion of that increase can be attributed to greater law enforcement attention and better national databases, much like improved cancer diagnostics lead to an increase in the number of cases of cancer. It’s not great to see those numbers go up, but it’s not as bad as it sounds either.

“Breaking those numbers down, only so many of those cases involve youths under eighteen, and of those, two hundred thousand are considered custodial situations. Basically, boil it all down, and only about a hundred missing children’s cases each year are categorized as stranger abductions. Speaking as a mom, that’s still a hundred too many, and yet . . . that wasn’t as many as I would’ve thought.”

Tessa considered the matter, had to agree. She and Wyatt shared a nod.

“But that’s nationwide,” Wyatt spoke up. “It’s rare for a sex-trafficking ring to span that much geography.”

“Exactly. So if I’m focusing on the New England region, I’m guessing I should find records for maybe a dozen, two dozen missing kids. But those are today’s numbers. Remember, in the nineteen eighties, our police departments weren’t as well versed in this game. So I’m thinking if I can find as many as a dozen missing children’s reports, then maybe there is some proof of an active sex-trafficking ring in that time period. Plus, I open it up to look at runaways, too, for obvious reasons.”

Tessa found herself nodding; Wyatt, too. Neither of them spoke, simply waited.

“I found three cases,” D.D. announced. “Of those, Veronica Sellers is one. But that’s it. Three kids went missing in that time frame. Two girls, one boy, Veronica Sellers being the youngest at six, the others being a twelve-year-old girl and a fourteen-year-old boy.”

Tessa couldn’t help herself. She frowned, stared at Wyatt beside her.

“So assuming there’s this dollhouse, filled with dozens of working girls,” Tessa spoke out loud.

“They’d have to be runaways,” D.D. answered. “Most likely recruited from back alleys, bought off other pimps. Except, you described a pretty high-end operation, right? A Victorian house, oriental rugs, crystal glasses, an elite clientele. I would think customers like those would have a certain expectation of the merchandise, so to speak. A young, fresh-faced girl, sadly, fits the bill. A washed-out runaway, on the other hand . . .”

“Doesn’t seem the right match,” Tessa filled in. She considered the matter. “Nicky claimed she spent the first few years locked away in a tower bedroom, taking classes. Madame Sade appeared every day, educated her in both basic studies but also culture, entertainment, et cetera. Maybe she groomed the runaways, polished them up for her clients?”

“Maybe,” D.D. conceded. “Time-consuming, though. If she’s spending all that time on one girl, how could she be recruiting any others?”

Tessa and Wyatt didn’t have an answer for that.

“I got another theory for you.”

“By all means,” Wyatt prompted.

“I’m a homicide detective. You want to know our secret to success? Play the odds. A wife meets a brutal end. Arrest the husband. Or, if you’re feeling frisky, the pool boy she just dumped because while he might’ve been good in bed, she still wasn’t givin’ up her mansion for him. Either way, you got a victim, odds are you got the perpetrator in the same room with the body.”

“You mean Thomas Frank?” Wyatt asked. “Because trust me, I suspect the husband.”

“Who’s Thomas Frank?” D.D. asked. “Look, my assignment was to investigate Veronica Sellers and other missing kids going back thirty years. I found three cases, which means either there was definitely not a sex-trafficking ring that specialized in abducting fresh-faced young girls. Or . . .” Long pause. “The other girls who disappeared were never listed as missing because they were never declared missing by their parents.”

It took Tessa a moment to understand. Then she closed her eyes and leaned closer to Wyatt, simply because she needed to.

“If this was a high-dollar operation,” D.D. continued, “discreet location, wealthy clients, high expectation for merchandise . . . Well, then, maybe the madam went about things the smart way: Why risk kidnapping your product when you can simply buy it instead?”

“Children,” Wyatt said. “Madame Sade didn’t just abduct kids. She purchased them?”

“Sure. It happens. Sadly, anywhere in this country, most days of the week.”

“If the parents were the ones selling,” Wyatt finished the thought, “naturally they wouldn’t report their own child missing.”

“Absolutely. Can’t call attention to their own crime. And if you’re a family living on the edge, or maybe a single parent, no family support network of your own, who’s gonna ask questions? You tell the neighbors little Sally went off to stay with your ex or is visiting your grandparents or, hell, got sick and died. You’d be amazed how few people will really push the issue, ask the pertinent questions. By and large, people don’t want to know what they don’t want to know.”