City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(46)

“The, uh, Roc …?” He turns to Dalton. “You explained, right? About the Roc?” When Dalton keeps working, Anders curses under his breath. “Of course not. Stupid question.” He looks at me. “The, uh, Roc is for … Well, the women there … It’s not really a bar as much as …”

“It’s a brothel,” Dalton says.

I turn to him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t, because there’s no way in hell you’d allow a house of prostitution—”

“Not my call.”

“It sure as hell is your call, sheriff. You’ve told me this town has a problem with the lack of women. I went to see Diana last night and got hassled by three men on the way there. Then I’m knocking on her door and the next thing you know, a guy is offering me a hundred credits for sex.”

“What?” Anders says.

I look at him. “You’re shocked? Really?”

“Hell, yes. No one should—”

“You live in a town where women do, apparently, sell sex, and you’re honestly shocked that a woman would need to deal with being offered money for sex? It’s called the setting of expectation and precedent. Sure, I’m not a whore, but no harm in asking, right? You just gotta find the right price. And if you can’t? Well, from the looks of your sexual assault file, I think we know what they do when they can’t find the right price.”

I don’t wait for a reply. I scoop up my notes and the case files, and I walk out.





Five

I’m in the office at ten to eight the next morning. I don’t put on the kettle for coffee, and not because I’m being pissy, but simply because I don’t think to do it. With everything that’s going on, I didn’t exactly get a good night’s sleep, and I’m distracted. I walk in, start the fire in the wood stove, and sit at the desk to work on my notes.

Dalton shows up at the stroke of eight. He takes a bound journal from his coat pocket.

“My notes,” he says. “On residents.”

When I look up, he shoves it back into his pocket. I struggle to keep my expression neutral. I rise and walk to the water dispenser to fill the kettle.

“I don’t allow a brothel in my town,” he says. “That should have been clear when you heard me arguing with Isabel. If I had a choice in the matter, I’d shut her down.”

“Okay.” I put the kettle on the stove.

“You think I’m full of shit,” he says.

“I think if you wanted it shut down, it’d be shut down.”

“Then you overestimate my influence here, detective.”

I return to my seat. He’s standing there, looming over me, waiting for some accusation he can deny. I resume my note taking.

“The council argues that the brothel reduces the problems we have,” he says. “Before it opened, women were already selling sex. It’s a market economy. The problem was that if they sold it once, men kept expecting it, and when they said no, things got ugly. Isabel’s argument is that by having the brothel, she can keep the women safe and be sure it’s what they really want to do.”

“Okay.”

Silence. He shifts his weight, making a noise not unlike a growl. He wants to debate this, to defend it or deny his culpability in it, and I’m not letting him do that.

Finally, I lift my gaze to his. “The problem is the environment it creates for other women. I spent a year in vice, working with hookers, and I’d be the first person to argue for legalizing prostitution. The sex trade isn’t going away. It’s better to regulate it and keep the workers safe. But that’s in a large city, where the overall effect is minimal. Having a brothel in a town with such a small female population creates the kind of environment where women are going to have to deal with an expectation they should never have to deal with. Do you even understand that?”

He says nothing for about five seconds. Then he shifts his weight, backing out of looming mode. “No, I did not understand that, detective. I do now. No one’s ever complained about being propositioned before.”

“Well, you can sure as hell bet I’m not the first. They’re being asked, and they’re dealing with it on their own. It’s embarrassing and humiliating to have a guy presume he can buy sex from you.”

The kettle sings. He goes to make the coffee, and I think the conversation’s at an end, so I pull out another file. A few minutes later, he’s looming again.

“I want to know who offered you money,” he says. “If you don’t have a name, a description will do. I’ll make an example of him and—”

“And he’ll tell everyone I overreacted. That the new girl is a stuck-up prude who can’t take a joke. Or that he was drunk and made a silly mistake. No matter how it’s handled, I’ll be a bitch and he’ll be the misunderstood guy who was just trying to tell me he thinks I’m cute.”

“I would like the chance to handle this, detective.”

“If it happens again—or if I hear about other women being hassled—I’ll take my lumps and be the bitch. But having you fix it for me only says I can’t.”

He stands there. Then he sets his journal on the desk. I look up to see he’s left a mug of coffee there, fixed with creamer, exactly as I take it.