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  Derek stood behind him in case he had to grab the bar, which didn’t seem likely since Manford could cradle it in the metal rest. The scorpion tattoo on Manford’s arm seemed to wriggle as his bicep flexed, and his stomach muscles grew taut.

  After ten repetitions, the bar clanged against the metal rests. Manford laid on the bench, arms at his side, breathing with his mouth open. “You bring that video back I loaned you?” he asked.

  “Ah… no, I forgot it.”

  “Shit. I gotta a lady friend comin’ over tonight and we was gonna watch it.”

  “Sorry,” Derek muttered. “Is that the only video you have?”

  “Nah, it’s just that she’s seen all the others.”

  “Oh.” After a few seconds, he asked, “Where’d you get that video?”

  Manford bolted upright on the bench, a scowl on his face. “You lost it didn’t you?”

  “No. Nn… nothing like that,” Derek stammered.

  “Then what’s the problem… I can tell there’s a problem.”

  Derek didn’t know what to say, and finally blurted out, “My brother’s in that video.”

  Manford jerked his head back. “No shit?”

  Derek nodded. “He ran away from that juvenile home where they put him.”

  “He’s a juvie?”

  “Yeah, well, he was when he ran away,” Derek explained. “I showed the video to his probation officer, and he gave it to a detective.”

  Manford’s eyes grew wider. “Oh fuck, man, you didn’t.” Anger grew on his face. “I got that disc from my brother. He already doin’ probation and don’t need no kiddie porn rap. I swear to God, he gets in trouble and I’m gonna kill your ass.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Brad stepped out of his car in front of Nick’s Dutch Colonial home in the Mount Airy section of Philadelphia just as the sun dipped behind the house. He enjoyed his monthly trips to see his mentor and business partner Nick Argostino. But on this night he would get to name the counter-terms for having won their recent bet. The trees still had their full green color. He breathed deeply of the crisp dry air and caught a whiff of chimney smoke, the first stirrings of autumn. The golden and burgundy hues of fall wouldn’t be far behind. Brad grabbed a folder from the front seat of his car, raced up to the porch and rang the bell.

  Behind the sturdy wooden door a dog’s bark echoed, and Brad heard approaching footsteps.

  “Brad, come in,” Ruth Argostino said, smiling broadly and slightly out of breath. “I just tied the dog out back.” Brad wrapped his arms around her.

  “Where’s Randy?” Brad asked, inquiring about their teenage son. “I thought the dog was his responsibility.”

  “He’s on the track team at school, and they have a two day regional meet at Cornell. College recruiters will be there, and we’re hoping he might get offered a scholarship. He holds his school’s record in the 400 meter dash.”

  “That’s great. Tell him I wish him luck.”

  “Will do. Nick’s in his office.” Ruth pointed up the staircase. “You know the way.”

  “Are you losing weight?” Brad asked.

  She twirled around beaming. “Twelve pounds in the last two months. Weight Watchers.”

  “Good for you.”

  “We’ll have dinner in about half an hour. Nothing special. Meatloaf and green bean casserole.”

  “Sounds yummy.” Brad bounded up the stairs, tapped his knuckles on the open door frame, and poked his head around it. Nick was on the phone but motioned him in and pointed to a seat. It sounded to Brad that Nick was on the phone with his office, an occupational hazard for the deputy chief of the homicide division of the Philadelphia police.

  Nick stroked the edges of his moustache. “Do you have an ID on the second victim yet?” he said into the phone, as he leaned back in a wooden chair with casters, and stared out the window of the second floor office. A flat screen monitor glowed on the desk in front of him, while a half-smoked cheroot lay in an ashtray, and the scent of whiskey-laced tobacco clung to the air.

  Brad recalled the times a decade earlier when they’d met in the same room to strategize the formation of Brad’s detective agency.

  “Oh shit.” Nick picked up the cheroot, swiveled in his chair and looked grim. “Yeah, well call the police chief and tell him he’ll need to alert the Mayor. Let the Mayor’s office spin this. No details to the media. See what the chief says, but I know he won’t want to touch this one.”

  Nick cradled the phone, turned to Brad and blew a ring of smoke in his direction. “I think I’m ready to retire,” he said. “You got any jobs for me?”

  “You already have a job; you get that check I send you every month, right partner? Or does Ruth intercept it?”

  Nick grumbled. “Let’s just say I don’t see it for long.”

  Brad couldn’t have put his detective agency together without Nick’s expertise and credentials. They’d first met more than a dozen years earlier when Brad helped Nick solve the kidnapping and murder of his mother and sister. After that, Brad sought a way to focus his life and help bring justice to others, and the detective agency was born. Nick had also recommended that Brad hire Sharon, whose dad he’d worked with on the police force.

  “Sounds like a big case is unfolding,” Brad said, pointing toward the phone.

  “No, not big… sticky. We know the victims and already have the perpetrator in custody. Case cleared. But you’ll be reading about this one for the next year.” Nick slipped on a pair of reading glasses and studied a note he had scribbled on the back of an envelope before he continued. “A city councilman was shacking up with his mistress—who was twenty years his junior by the way—and then her husband, who got home two weeks ago from his second tour in Afghanistan, caught them in bed and shot them. His wife got it in the chest, while the councilman took a bullet between his eyes.” Nick pantomimed the shots using his index finger. “The guy dropped the gun on the bedroom floor, calmly called the police, and turned himself in.”

  “I’m sorry it’s put you in a pissy mood.”

  “Me?” Nick scoffed. “The Chief will be popping Rolaids tonight. I’ve never felt better.”

  Brad could hear Aloysius, their dog, barking in the back yard.

  “I’m telling you,” Nick continued, “this coming year it’ll be neck and neck as to which gets more press time, this case, or the presidential election. I’m guessing this case, because it has sex, a popular politician, a beautiful young woman who’s worked as a fashion model, and a decorated combat veteran. I’m betting the jury lets the guy walk. I can hear a sharp lawyer talking about post-traumatic stress.”

  “I’ve got a case that involves sex,” Brad said.

  Nick pushed the glasses further down on the bridge of his nose and peered at Brad over the top of them. “Are you sure you don’t need me to work for you full-time?”

  Brad laughed. “When you retire, we’ll find cases for you to work. I would like to pick your brain this afternoon.”

  The dog yelped again. Nick rolled back in his chair and rapped on the window. “Damn dog. We got squirrels in that oak tree out back, and I swear to God they taunt him.”

  Nick reached into his desk drawer and held aloft a pint of Wild Turkey bourbon and two shot glasses. “Interest you in a pre-dinner drink?”

  “Sure,” Brad said, just to be sociable.

  “And I thought you came out here to gloat over winning our bet?” Nick filled about two-thirds of a shot glass with the amber liquid and handed it to Brad.

  “Well, since I won. I’ve been thinking all week about a suitable assignment for you, but I’d like Ruth to hear what I have in mind, so I’ll wait until dinner.”

  “Okay. Have it your way.” Nick sipped from his own glass and leaned back. “Tell me about your case.”

  “Remember that photo I sent you earlier in the week?”

  “The woman with the tattoos?” he asked.

  “Yes. She’s in a porn video with a young man that ran away fro
m Maple Grove.”

  Nick scowled. “A juvenile?”

  “Seventeen years ten months old when he ran away in July. He’s since turned eighteen.”

  Nick took a slow sip of the bourbon. “One of the most sickening cases I ever encountered involved a man who was distributing porn with girls as young as eleven. We picked him up on an unrelated drug charge. The Feds took the porn case, the man was convicted, and the last I heard he got castrated in Federal prison with a rusty knife.”

  Brad winced.

  “We’re not talking about child porn here, but at least two of the young men in the video have a connection to Maple Grove. The video was downloaded from a website.” Brad handed Nick the folder he’d brought. “Those are other pictures we captured from the same site.”

  Nick leafed through the pile of photos. “I see what you mean. The guys look young. Have you talked to the administration at Maple Grove?”

  “Yes and shared those photos with them. They deny knowing the woman with the butterfly tattoo and are dragging their feet getting back to me on the others.”

  Nick looked up from the photos. “Most of the women appear to be in their twenties or thirties at least. What’s the name of this website?”

  “XRatedSugarX.com.”

  Nick swiveled toward his computer and typed the name in the browser. The X-rated site’s home page appeared on the screen.

  “Pervert!” Brad said, with a chuckle.

  “What can I say? I’m an old guy. You can’t blame me for being curious.” He downed the rest of his bourbon. “I’ll double-check with our cyber-crime officers, but you ought to be able to look up this domain name,” Nick pointed at the screen, “and see who registered it.”

  That was on his to-do list. He didn’t have his own domain name, so didn’t know what the registration process entailed, or how much information would be publicly available.

  “Thanks.” Brad thought he saw Nick bookmark the site for future viewing.

  “They say love makes the world go round,” Nick began, “but I think it’s sex. Most guys lead with their peckers—present company excepted.” Nick laughed. “I mean how else would you explain porn as an $8 billion industry?”

  “Well, it bothers me that these young men are being taken advantage of.”

  “Anybody making porn is being taken advantage of,” Nick explained. “Imagine that you’re boxed into a dead-end job making just over minimum wage. You’re lucky to pull down $300 a week after taxes. But then a friend—it’s always a friend—define that as a sucker who got drawn into it first, tells you that you can make $1,000 for a few hours’ work.”

  Brad nodded. He thought about Susan Young and her paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle.

  “Now you’re initially wary, probably wondering who you have to beat up to make that kind of money. Then you get the details, and a smile crosses your face as you picture being able to fuck your brains out and get paid for it.”

  “You make it sound like I’m in the wrong line of work,” Brad said.

  “You are, but it’s too late.” Nick winked. “You’re stuck. No upward mobility for you.

  “Of course, the darker side of porn recruitment is the poor schmuck that got sucked into doing drugs… in too deeply to pay his or her supplier… until, miraculously, the dealer offers a way to pay their debt and have a little extra pocket money. On Wall Street they’d call that a win-win-win investment.”

  Brad thought about Nick’s scenarios and the implications for Jeremy Young or Tim Shaw. “What do you make of the crude lettering of LOVE on the woman’s fingers in that photo I sent?”

  “We see that on girls who’ve been in juvenile detention or even prison, so it fits with the scenario I outlined. They mark each other using a needle and whatever kind of ink they can find. I’ve seen when they get infected; nasty stuff. What I find interesting is the contrast between the very professional butterfly and the crude finger lettering. So tell me, was she a young lady of means when she got the butterfly, or did success come to her after the finger tattoos?”

  “What do you think?” Brad asked.

  “No. No.” Nick pointed at him. “You’re the one who won our bet with the A in psychology class. This is your final exam. What would human behavior dictate as the answer to my question?”

  Brad smiled, and took a sip of his bourbon. This was one of the reasons he liked Nick, for his no nonsense direct style. “I’d say that anyone who already had a quality tattoo wouldn’t let their body be marked by those crude letters.”

  “Dinner’s ready guys,” Ruth Argostino called up the stairs.

  Nick stood. “Come on Brad, we don’t want to be late.”

  “Am I right?” Brad asked.

  Nick draped his arm around Brad’s shoulders guiding him toward the door. “When you find that woman, you’ll be able to ask her.”

  Brad finished the last of the apple pie. “That was delicious, Ruth. I can’t believe you made a pie and aren’t having any yourself.”

  “Weight Watchers!” she said, patting her tummy. “I’m trying to be good.”

  “After that excellent meal, dessert wasn’t even necessary.”

  “She’s just trying to soften you up,” Nick said. “I told her about our bet and that you’d be dictating your terms tonight.”

  Ruth started to clear dishes.

  “Please stay, Ruth,” Brad said. “I’d like you both to hear this.”

  Ruth blurted out, “You’re getting engaged?”

  Brad chuckled. “Ah, not that I’m aware. Since your bet involved your college major, I’ve been thinking that in return I should give you an assignment that related to my college major.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t major in physics,” Nick deadpanned.

  “I didn’t.”

  Nick gave an exaggerated wipe to his forehead.

  “I majored in International Relations, and I think it’s time you and Ruth get out of the United States and see other parts of the world.” Brad had chosen that major because there were semester abroad programs, his parents could afford to send him, and he wanted to see what life and the ladies were like in far off places.

  Nick and Ruth exchanged glances before Nick said, “I’ve been to Tijuana, back when I was stationed at Camp Pendleton.”

  “Not good enough,” Brad said.

  Nick had a pained expression on his face. “I hate to renege on a bet, but I’m afraid we can’t afford…”

  Brad held up his hand to stop him. “And because of your roots and Ruth’s family origins, I’ve arranged a week long Mediterranean cruise this Thanksgiving, with stops at ports of call in Italy and Greece.” Brad reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved an envelope with tickets. “You’ll fly to Athens and pick up the cruise ship there. If Thanksgiving week doesn’t work, you can reschedule. Just call the number on the envelope.”

  They protested, as Brad knew they would, but he held his ground. “Business has been good; think of it as a bonus.”

  Ruth rose from her chair, grabbed Brad from behind and gave him a big hug. In his ear she whispered, “Thank you. We can use that trip more than you know.”

  Ruth returned to the kitchen.

  Nick stared at Brad in silence for a few moments before he said, “I should lose more bets to you. I hardly know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. Send me a postcard from Florence.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The second Friday in September was destined to go down in history—Brad Frame Detective Agency history, at any rate—as “The Date.” Brad had a surprise for Sharon, but wouldn’t spring it on her until shortly before she left to pick up Oliver Reynolds for their evening of dinner and a concert.

  Brad rose early that morning and could see, via the second-story Palladian window, lights already glowing in Sharon’s apartment. She had her own three-room suite with a fully-furnished kitchen above the garages at the east end of the property. His parents had created the space for guests, and when Sharon came t
o work for him it seemed like ideal accommodations for her.

  As Brad descended the curved staircase in the foyer, the archway to the living room was draped with black plastic sheeting. Rebecca Hope-Clarke had requested that he not peek at her design makeover, so he resisted. Drapes and upholstered benches had already been removed from the foyer, and his footsteps echoed hollowly off the marble tile.

  He retrieved the Philadelphia Inquirer stuck in the brass mail slot in the front door and headed for the kitchen where he made coffee, fixed himself an English muffin and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast while reading about the latest squabbles between Congress and the president. He kept expecting Sharon to amble in as was her usual practice, but she never showed, and at nine a.m. he made his way through the connecting breezeway to his office.

  Brad busied himself checking e-mail hoping that at least one of the contacts to whom he’d sent photos of web porn stars would recognize a face. Specifically, he counted on Carolyn Whiting and her staff at Maple Grove to spot another recent graduate, which would confirm a porn recruitment link to the youth center. All he got was another innocuous missive:

  Mr. Frame:

  I can’t identify anyone in the recent photos you shared. As I did with the first picture, I will circulate these to our key administrators and cottage parents to see if any of them might be aware of the individuals.

  Carolyn L. Whiting, ACSW

  Director

  Maple Grove Youth Center

  He couldn’t believe that no one at Maple Grove recognized the photo of “Annabelle,” especially when Jeremy’s mother had, and now Whiting appeared to be stonewalling on the other photos. If he were running the center he’d have summoned everyone into his office, shown them the pictures, and gotten immediate answers. Either she didn’t want to know, or already had her suspicions and was dragging out the process. Or, as Nick had suggested, perhaps Carolyn Whiting was in over her head; still, she’d seemed competent when he first met her.

  Perhaps it was time to raise the stakes. Brad could match bureaucracy speech syllable for syllable. He clicked reply and typed.