Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

said from across the room at a whisper. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and stepped back.

Trent was watching her with wide eyes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

Her heart was hammering, and her palms were clammy. She put her attention back on the girl and stiffened her posture, trying to find the strength inside to face the undeniable truth. “She was a victim of sex trafficking before she was a murder victim.”

Twelve

“They brand them like cattle,” Amanda said through clenched teeth, as she loaded into the department car with Trent. Her new friend, Patty Glover, from Sex Crimes had told her that. But it was only part of what had her popping antiacids for weeks after rescuing those girls. She couldn’t get their flesh-and-blood faces out of her head, or the illicit images she’d seen of young victims in a database created by the sex-trafficking ring that she’d uncovered. Though it was more catalog than database. The girls were inventoried like merchandise. There was also a spreadsheet of buyers and payment confirmations, which Amanda knew Patty was still working through. Patty had explained that sex trafficking could take various forms. Some girls were sold directly to an end user, and others were pimped out as prostitutes.

“Do you think one of the people in the ring killed her?” Trent asked as he started the car.

“I don’t know.” She felt numb, an old, familiar feeling. The way she’d mostly gone through life since the loss of her family. “Maybe she ran away, and they caught up with her… But why strangulation? Why not a gunshot? And why the fire?”

“The fire could have been to hide evidence and destroy the body.”

She looked over at him, not really wanting to verbalize what she was thinking. If they found the girl, they’d just recapture her and force her compliance. All the bone breaks and fractures, the bruising, testified to the fact they took no issue with physical coercion. And to kill her on such a stage risked drawing attention to the ring.

It was more likely that Jane Doe had been sold to some psychopath who liked to strangle young girls and set their bodies on fire. She pulled out her phone and called Patty Glover on speaker.

She picked up before the second ring finished. “Detective Glover.”

“Patty? It’s Amanda.” There was no need for formality.

“Oh, hi there. How are you?”

“Not good. I’m here with my partner, Trent.”

“Hi, Trent.”

“Hi.”

Pleasantries out of the way, Amanda said, “There was a house fire in Dumfries, a young woman inside…” She was trying to build herself up to handle this conversation.

“I read about it online.”

“She was branded, Patty. With the tattoo we saw a few months ago. The crown and the letters DC.”

Patty’s end of the line fell silent.

“Tell me we’ve gotten somewhere with tracking more people in this organization.”

“I wish that I could…” Patty sighed loudly. “Unfortunately, we’re still working on running down bank transfers.”

“Do you think it’s possible that those people—the ones in charge—had her killed?”

“There’s no way to know without you following the evidence, but I don’t see it as something they’d do unless they had no other recourse. They’d probably just have hauled her back and put her to work.”

Amanda glanced over at Trent. “I had a bad feeling you’d say that.” Her stomach lurched. “She was only about sixteen, Patty.”

“It never gets easier. Was there any evidence of rape?”

“No. Not even consensual sex.” Which on saying out loud, Amanda found surprising.

“Then I’d definitely say you’re looking at another motive here. I must say, though, when these people find out one of their girls was taken and killed, they’re not going to be too happy, and they might seek revenge.”

“Scary thought.” But she didn’t find the concept hard to imagine. “Okay, keep me updated if anything comes to light.”

“I will.” There was a brief pause, then, “Find who did this to her.”

“You can bet on it.” She ended the call and faced Trent. “We need to start by tracking Jane Doe’s movements. Find out who she was.” What Amanda really wanted to do was knock down some doors—but so far, they didn’t have any to barge through. The clock on the dash told her it was ten thirty. They could work a little more before calling it a day. “Let’s go back to the station and give Missing Persons a try.”

“You got it.” He put the car into gear and took them in the direction of Central.

“We could also read interviews from the canvassing officers. All I know is her loved ones deserve some closure.” But did Doe’s parents? They could well have been the reason she took to the streets. A couple of things ratcheted Amanda’s red-headed temper: drunk driving and those who abused women, children, or animals.

About thirty minutes later, Trent pulled into the station lot and parked. They went inside—her to her desk, Trent to the break room for a coffee. The fact their victim had been caught up in sex trafficking was enough to jolt her wide awake.

She found a folder on her desk and looked inside. It contained the interviews from the canvassing officers.

She put her light jacket on the back of her chair and dropped down.

Amanda shuffled through a few of them but didn’t find anyone’s statements particularly helpful at quick glance. She closed the folder and brought up Missing Persons on the computer. She keyed in the little they had in the way of narrowing things down. The butterfly pin, the name Crystal, her approximate age at time of death, her height, and her hair and eye color.

Trent returned and settled in at his desk. She handed him the folder over the partition. “Officer interviews,” was all she said as an explanation.

She clicked enter on her search and tapped her fingers and toes while she waited on the results. Nada.

They needed more. Her DNA profile, which Rideout was handling, and the girl’s dental impression—just in case it came in useful. She didn’t want to consider