Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
An attractive dark-haired woman asks if she can take my jacket. Judging by the fact that she’s covered from the neck down, I’d peg her as a regular employee and not a working girl. It’s a warm night, but I need my jacket to conceal the service weapon I’m carrying.
My tux is a holdover from my old partner Jonah’s wedding a couple years back. Thankfully it still fits well enough; maybe a bit tighter in the arms than I’d prefer. These days, if I’m not on the job or passed out at home from sheer exhaustion, I’m in the department’s gym, sweating out my frustrations.
Following the sound of female laughter, I make my way to the main living space, where the party appears to be in full swing—or as full as it gets when a third of your guestlist is made up of geriatrics. I spot a few couples, but for the most part, the club’s membership is predominantly old men.
Titans of local industry. Minor celebrities. State and federal politicians.
The chances of anyone here clocking me as a detective for the Knoxville Police Department are slim. Even so, one can never been too cautious in a place like this.
As I head into the viper’s nest, I keep alert for anyone watching me. So far, the only eyes I’ve drawn have been lined in black and dusted with glitter.
I estimate the ratio of working girls to guests at two to one. King probably figures for what these men are paying, they expect to get what they came for, and they're more likely to find it if there's an overabundance of options. I notice a few lone women seated around the room, drinking, and otherwise looking bored. Recruiters most likely. King keeps at least a dozen on his payroll. Women whose job it is to find pretty, desperate things willing to give up more than just their company.
I keep referring to these girls as things, and I do so consciously. The flesh on display here is a commodity to be bought and traded like any other.
A server approaches with a tray of what looks like tumblers of scotch. I take one, though I won’t be drinking.
For an alcoholic on the wagon, having this much free booze at my disposal should be enough to send me into a cold sweat. But I’m not even looking at the stuff. I’m on a mission that requires quick reflexes and a clear head. It’s when I’m off a case that the old cravings resurface. When my own thoughts struggle to drown out the voice of the demons I carry inside.
"You look like you could use some company." A slim brunette in a skimpy red dress presses her tit to my elbow. She can’t be older than sixteen, but she flirts with the confidence of a seasoned professional. I doubt I’m her first mark by a mile.
“Then it’s a good thing you found me,” I say. “I was starting to think I was destined to wind up alone.”
I fight the urge to tell the brunette to put on a sweater and go home. If she’s anything like others I’ve met working this case, she probably doesn’t have a home to go to, or the one she’s got ain’t worth going back to. I let her continue her sales pitch, keeping an eye on the door all the while. I've got to at least make it seem like I'm interested in the goods on display, though the awareness of what’s happening here fills me with red-hot rage.
Some of these girls are eighteen, but most of them are just kids playing dress-up. They look like they could be selling Girl Scout cookies on their nights off.
As infuriating as this whole setup is, I’m not here to arrest anyone for solicitation, or to break up an underground sex ring. On principle, I couldn’t give two shits about a venture capitalist skipping out on the missus, and I wouldn’t begrudge a working girl her honest living, assuming she wasn’t being coerced.
I’m specifically here for the girls who the Russell Kings of the world couldn’t care less about once they’ve gotten their rocks off. Young, broke, lost girls who go missing and are never found.
Or they’re found naked on their backs in a farmer’s field. Bruised everywhere except their faces, with the life choked out of them, and their pale hands bound together as though in prayer.
Praying for what? Who knows. Not to die, I suppose. Or to die sooner rather than later.
The man I’m looking for tonight is more than a philanderer. Worse than a pedophile. He’s all those things, and a serial killer.
He’s the Reverend Clyde Davis, younger brother to Tennessee Governor, Jim Davis, and my number-one suspect in the killing of almost two dozen teenage girls.
“We should find a room,” the brunette says. “I promise I’m even more charming in private.”