Chapter 31. Isabel, the Assistant #2
“They were the kings of the after-party. Most nights, they’d take a handful of girls back to one of their houses,” said Rick, “and I’d lose them because of security—gates, guards, whatever.
I never knew how those nights ended, but I figured sex, drugs, blah blah, vanilla.
Then this one night, I ran back into a girl I recognized.
She’d worked at the Lucky Rhino—you know, that high-end strip club?
Went home with them, back to one of Gabriel’s houses.
I asked her about it, but she refused to talk.
Got this real fearful look, you know? Practically ran away from me.
I’ve been in this business for three decades, and I’d never seen a reaction like that. Gave me an uneasy feeling.”
Scout eyed him. “You think they were doing something weird with the girls?”
His expression turned pensive. “I think those guys had too much money and too few rules. Too many people bowing to them. It’s a bad recipe. Makes you feel like you’re God. Like you can indulge all your basest desires and no one will do shit.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“May I?” Rick thumbed through the photos, taking over from Scout.
“Lila Baumgarten wasn’t too interested in these, said all they proved was Easton was a shitty husband.
But here—this was the money shot.” He swept a pile of photos away to reveal a blown-up picture of Easton at a bar, a girl in his lap, giggling while he kissed her neck. The girl looked familiar.
“Holy shit,” Scout said, picking up the photo. “That’s Hardy Martin’s daughter.” She turned to me. “Remember that night we went out to that crappy bar and Emmy and Dakota drugged her because she pissed them off?”
The memory clicked into place. “Mallory Martin. She was in high school with Dakota.” I gaped at the series of photos, which showed Easton and Mallory in a variety of compromising positions. “Jesus. He’s disgusting.”
Scout lifted her sunglasses, too taken by shock to consider her disguise. “That whole night, at his Christmas party—remember how desperate we were to impress him?”
“Mallory was sixteen when these were taken,” Rick said.
“Lila about fainted with happiness. Underage girl and a movie star’s daughter.
” He tapped the photos. “She knew there was no way he could wiggle out of that, not with Hardy’s relationship with the networks.
Here, I’ll find you another underage one… ” He started shuffling.
“Wait.” Scout practically slapped Rick’s hands away. He backed off, wary, and she pulled out a photo he was about to toss.
It was Easton on the USC campus—I would recognize that red brick anywhere. It had to be fall or winter, because he wore a light jacket, one of those Carhartt styles rich guys wear to feel like working men. He had his arm around the waist of a young blond, pulling her into his side.
It was Georgia.
I staggered back from the table.
“Yeah,” Rick said, oblivious. “He started seeing this college chick after the high school one, so at least he moved up in age, but Lila wasn’t interested—”
“Please.” Scout’s voice was wrecked. “Stop talking.”
Georgia … and Easton? The whole time, they were … Jesus. I couldn’t even bring myself to think what was right in front of my face.
Scout seized the file, ripping through the photos.
Georgia and Easton kissing outside her dorm.
Georgia and Easton in the corner of some moody, sophisticated restaurant that looked far too expensive.
Georgia in a tiny black dress—one of Scout’s; I remembered it vividly, we all fought over it—sitting with Easton, Reese, and Gabriel at the Serpent Room.
The green velvet rope shone like a beacon in the dim light of the club.
Rick had snapped a whole series there: Georgia laughing, Georgia and Easton making out, Easton’s hand sliding up her dress …
Nausea hit me. I ripped my eyes from the photos, only to find Brooks watching me, the ocean blue of his eyes gone dark.
He stepped forward just as I buckled, catching me as I went limp.
I let him cradle me, pressing my face into his chest so there would be one sensation other than the nerve-searing shock.
Scout gagged like she was struggling to breathe, and it pulled me back. I stepped out of Brooks’s arms and wrapped my own around her.
“I take it this girl means something to you?” Rick asked.
Scout stepped abruptly away, looking up at him and searching his face. “Did he hurt her? Please, tell me the truth. Did you ever see Easton hurt the girl in these photos?”
Slowly, Rick shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t do it where I couldn’t see. Guys like him can afford a lot of privacy.”
Scout looked at me, a single tear sliding down her cheek. That’s when I realized she was cradling the photos of Georgia to her chest. “He was her boyfriend,” she said.
“I know.”
“This is why she wouldn’t tell us.”
“Or Alden.” I pressed my hands into my eyes, wanting to erase the images. “The night of the Christmas party. Do you think…”
Scout pulled the photos from her chest and studied them. “When she left Alden, she must’ve met up with Easton.” She shook her head. “But when we realized Georgia was missing, he was there, remember? He was across the room, talking to Reese. We were mad she wasn’t there to introduce us.”
Brooks cleared his throat. “Georgia was killed in a two-hour window. He could’ve done it, then come back to the party.”
I was going to be sick.
“Not to interrupt private business,” Rick said, sounding uncomfortable with the turn our conversation had taken. “But these are the pictures I’ve been waiting to sell.” He held up a handful of glossy photos and tipped them toward Scout. “My little treasure chest.”
“I think we’re going to need a minute.” Brooks had moved so close I could feel his body heat warming my chilled skin, a closeness that was right on the edge of possessive.
“No.” Scout ran a hand under her eyes, scrubbing her face. “I want to see everything.”
Rick laid the last few photos on the table.
We were back at the Serpent Room—it must’ve been a regular haunt for Easton’s crew.
He, Reese, and Gabriel were the only men in the shot.
They looked otherworldly, their eyes glassy, pupils blown, wide smiles contorted in a way that resembled the exaggerated grin of a wolf.
I’d never seen anyone so obviously out of their minds.
“Drugs?” Brooks asked.
“Definitely,” said Rick. “And see these two?” He pointed to the only other people in the shot—two young women, both wearing the standard green velvet uniforms of the Serpent bottle girls.
One was blond, the other dark-haired, and they were both curled on the couch, their bottle-service duties clearly over, morphing into something more intimate.
“These two women were reported missing the day after I took these pictures. They were never found.”
It took a moment for the weight of what Rick was saying to sink in. Brooks got there first.
“Why the hell didn’t you turn this evidence over to law enforcement?”
Rick eyed him silently for a moment, probably remembering the firearm tucked in Brooks’s holster. “You sure you’re not here on FBI business, hoss?”
Brooks’s Adam’s apple bobbed. I could practically feel him restraining himself.
“Like I said, I run a business.” There was a defensive edge to the private investigator’s voice.
“I’m not here to do cops’ work for free.
” He straightened. “And I offered to sell these photos to a guy at the LAPD, their crime scene photographer. One of the missing girls was the daughter of a detective, for crying out loud. I was sure they’d pay.
But they flipped on me, got aggressive. Accused me of being a scam artist and threatened to shut my whole business down.
A couple months later, I heard the detective whose daughter went missing was run out of the force for asking too many questions.
I’m sure I don’t need to do that math for you.
The cops were protecting these guys.” He jabbed a finger at the photo, at Knox.
“Chose them over one of their own. So don’t give me that chivalrous shit about turning things over to the LAPD. ”
I frowned. “Why do you keep pointing at Knox? You said this file had dirt on him, but if anything, he looks tame next to Easton and Reese.”
“Huh.” Rick’s laugh was hollow. “In my experience, it’s the guy who plays it under the radar you should be most scared of, not the sloppy ones.
That girl, remember—the Lucky Rhino stripper?
The one thing she’d tell me, when I asked what she was so damn scared of, was ‘him.’ I said, ‘Him who?’ And she looked at me like a fucking cow marching into a slaughterhouse; I’ll never forget it.
And she said, ‘The quiet one.’ He’s the one who will come if I talk. ”