Stolen Daughters (Detective Amanda Steele)

“Uh-huh.”

It was obvious that Roy had seen through her, that she hadn’t exactly promised him anything, but she would do what was within her power.

Amanda and Trent went outside and approached the closest uniformed officer. It turned out to be Tucker from the Fox crime scene. He walked around the hood of his cruiser.

She flashed her badge in case he didn’t remember her. “Detective Steele.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I know who you are. How’s it goin’?”

“Don’t have a lot of time to chat, but it’s goin’. We need a plate run. I’m sure you can help us.”

“Ah, sure.” Tucker hoisted up his pants, a habit that so many young officers had at the beginning. Not just because they hadn’t literally grown into their uniforms yet, but because they were adjusting to the weight of the holster, gun, radio, baton, and Taser. It was like they didn’t trust their belt to hold up their pants. He walked to the driver’s door of his cruiser and sat inside, leaving the door open. “What’s the plate?”

Trent rattled it off, and Tucker keyed the digits into the onboard computer.

“It’s attached to a Kia. Sound right?”

“Nope.” She glanced back at the motel office. “We were told it was on a silver Nissan Sentra. Who is the plate registered to?”

A few key clicks, then, “A Dorothy McKee.”

“Stolen plate,” she muttered. She should have known better than to hope it would lead them to the sex-trafficking ring. “Get officers to pay her a visit, but my guess is someone took her plates. Also, we need a BOLO issued for a few-years-old silver Nissan Sentra. We might not have a valid plate, but we’ll use what we do have.”

“Right away.” Tucker handled his radio, ready to talk, but Amanda slipped her card into his hand and told him to keep her posted on everything that transpired at the motel. She also asked that he communicate with the CSIs when they arrived. She made special mention of the rear door of room eight. Maybe the investigators would get lucky and find prints that would prove useful.

She turned to Trent. “Let’s go talk to the maid.”

The two of them walked back to the department vehicle that they’d left out front of Janet Mills’s house.

“I think we’re getting close to catching this guy,” Trent said.

“Would be nice. This guy is taking girls from a sex-trafficking ring—that doesn’t seem like it’s even a question anymore.” After all, they had Ashley’s tattoo and the handler with the two girls. She added, “I’d say that our suspect knows the people he’s dealing with. He parked away from the motel and walked. He didn’t want the handler—or the motel clerk—seeing his van. He had the girls delivered to the Sunny Motel with the intention of taking them out the back door. That’s why he insisted on rooms seven and eight—adjoining rooms. Then he moved the girls from Woodbridge to a house in Dumfries. He was doing what he could to elude the handler.”

“But how did he get the girls to go with him? We could assume he drugged them—they were described as acting drunk—but still, those girls would have to know that if they left, and were ever found, there’d be hell to pay. I can’t imagine the people in these rings take very well to their—and I hate to put it this way—merchandise going missing.”

Trent’s words reminded her of what Patty had alluded to days ago. “We’ve got to find our mystery man before the people from the sex-trafficking ring. We just want to put him behind bars; they’d want to kill him.”

Fifty

The fact their murder suspect had a knowledge of how sex-trafficking rings worked made Amanda want to know how he’d gained his insights. From research on the internet or first-hand experience? She couldn’t shake what Brandon Fisher had said about the possibility that their killer had been personally affected at a young age. Had he been exposed to sex trafficking, or had someone he loved fallen prey to it? Any of these things could have given him understanding as to how they worked, but that still didn’t explain why he was targeting the girls. Rape hadn’t been on his agenda with Ashley Lynch or Shannon Fox. They’d never know with the two girls in the most recent fire, but she’d wager not.

Trent pulled into the lot for the apartment building where the maid from the Sunny Motel lived. It was in Woodbridge and only a few minutes from the motel. Her name was Mariam Ruiz, and she was in unit 328.

It was an unsecured building, and they saw themselves up to the third floor and knocked on her door.

“Just a second,” a woman called out from inside, followed by the sound of footsteps padding toward the door. “Who is it?”

“Prince William County Police, ma’am.” Amanda held up her badge to the peephole.

The deadbolt clunked, and the chain slid across. The door opened.

A woman in her thirties was standing there. Chestnut hair pulled back into a high, long ponytail. Brown eyes. Tan complexion. Large cross on a gold chain around her neck. She wore jeans and a white tank with a pink-plaid, long-sleeve shirt unbuttoned over it. She was beautiful until she frowned and crossed her arms.

“Are you Mariam Ruiz?” Amanda asked.

“Yeah, but you can call me Mitzi. Who are you?” Her gaze skipped over Amanda to Trent.

“I’m Detective Trent Stenson,” he said.