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The fashion designer seemed to take great pleasure in that and asked the security guard to open the doors. Martin winked at her as she followed Luster through the doors into a short hallway that ended in a large open room surrounded by smaller rooms with glass walls.

The center room housed the design team of one of the top fashion brands in the world. Artists, designers, cutters, and seamstresses all created a happy buzz of creativity; Bree and Luster walked through to a small office in the corner with a workbench, a drafting table, and a mannequin wearing a flowing lavender dress.

“It’s gorgeous,” Bree said as he closed the door.

“Do you think so?” Luster said, pleased, and gestured her to a couch.

“I love it,” Bree said, sitting. “Whose idea was it to have the fairies downstairs?”

“That was Tess’s four-year-old granddaughter, Eliza.”

“I think it’s enchanting. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’ll tell Eliza that the next time she’s in,” Luster said, taking a seat at the other end of the couch and shifting to face her. “So? What’s the dish?”

Bree said, “The main dish is that I am not Evelyn Carlisle, newly widowed gazillionaire from Newport Beach. My name is Bree Stone. Until quite recently, I was chief of detectives for the DC Metro Police.”

CHAPTER 41

LUSTER ACTED TAKEN ABACK and then fascinated. “My, my, you are like an onion, aren’t you? What’s the next layer you’ll peel back?”

“I currently work for an international security and investigations firm in Virginia called the Bluestone Group.”

“You’re some high-dollar private investigator?”

“I am,” Bree said.

The fashion designer’s eyes shifted left and down slightly before returning to Bree. “You’re investigating Frances Duchaine.”

“And Paula Watkins.”

“For whom? I hope you’re not going to say Tess.”

“No. I mean, I have no reason to believe so. It’s complicated.”

“Entertain me.”

Bree explained about the deep-pockets anonymous client who’d provided her with public, private, and sealed documents that hinted at Duchaine’s involvement in criminal activity. Luster studied her intently, his fist at his lips, his eyes revealing little.

“What kind of criminal activity?” he asked.

“Human trafficking.”

The fashion designer’s shock was complete. “What? No. That can’t be true. I know her and—”

“You mentioned she might have cash-flow issues.”

“I did, but—”

“When was the last time you worked for Frances?”

“Seven years ago?”

“You should know that there is a detective here with NYPD who believes Frances might have generated several hundred million dollars through the trafficking, cash that has allowed her to stay afloat despite the debts.”

“Several hundred million?” Luster said. “How can that be?”

Bree laid it out for him in detail, describing the lawsuits and the allegations made by multiple young men and women who’d managed to escape the clutches of the prostitution ring but were bought off before cases could go to trial.

“This is terrible,” the fashion designer said, shaking his head.

“It gets worse,” she said. “An attorney in North Carolina told me she believes that some of the victims were never exploited as high-dollar escorts. They were sold off to buyers in the Middle East and taken out of this country.”

Luster’s lips curled in disgust. “You’re saying sexual slavery?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Phillip, and I need your help to end it and free those young men and women who might have been sold.”

Luster looked down at the couch for several long moments before shaking his head. When he raised his chin, his eyes were wet.

“I have always prided myself on my instincts and my understanding of human nature,” he said. “But I never thought Frances could ever be so ruthless and callous. If it’s true, Paula Watkins had a big hand in it.”

“I agree. And maybe someone with that hedge fund she’s involved in.”

The fashion designer’s features shifted, as if he’d whiffed something foul.

“Ari Bernstein runs it. I can’t stand that sanctimonious ass.”

“Then help me shine a light on Mr. Bernstein and Frances and Watkins and what they may have done in the name of business.”

Luster paused and then squeezed his hand into a fist again. “What do you need, Bree? I’ll help in any way I can.”

CHAPTER 42

Haverhill, Massachusetts

PALADIN’S FACILITIES WERE AS I remembered them—spread out through a quiet, wooded campus with plain concrete-and-glass buildings a few miles off I-495.

Vic Daloia parked in the visitor lot and I went to the largest of the buildings, which sat at the center of the campus by a small pond where ducks swam.

I entered a tight lobby with concrete walls. Behind a desk surrounded by bulletproof glass sat a woman in her forties with impressive biceps. A name tag on her blue polo shirt read riggs.

“Welcome back, Dr. Cross,” Riggs said, smiling.

“Thank you for remembering,” I said, passing her my credentials through a drawer.

“You and your colleagues were memorable,” Riggs said. “My day-to-day job is actually quite boring, so I notice people like you.”