The Hunt. Andrew Welsh-Huggins

pimp, Bronte Patterson,” Blanchett said after a moment, looking up from his notebook. “I don’t mean to make light—”

      “You wouldn’t be the first.” I related the brontosaurus quip. “But if you see his picture. Or read his record. It’s another story.”

      “Sounds like a monster,” Blanchett said, shaking his head. He was thick-waisted, in contrast to his celery-stalk-thin boss, and saddled with a weak chin and a receding hairline. But he also had the personable manner of a skilled concierge and a shy smile that bordered on engaging.

      “The woman who’s helping you,” Bardwell said. “Theresa? You said she’s a survivor of trafficking herself?”

      “That’s right.”

      She and Blanchett traded glances. He said, “Any chance she’d be interested in participating in the vigil? As someone who could speak to the dangers out there? Someone who’s experienced them firsthand?”

      “I can ask.” I recalled Roy’s concerns. Thought of Theresa’s confrontational comment to Mr. Patel. How about when they undress? “But no promises. She didn’t sign up for that kind of thing.”

      “Understood,” Blanchett said, nodding. “Only if she’s comfortable with it.”

      “Is there anything specific I could tell her? About the event?”

      “I’ll let John give you the nitty-gritty, since he’s organizing it,” Bardwell said. She smiled at him warmly. “But essentially it’s a chance to remember the women who died, as a way of keeping a focus on the investigation with Christmas coming. We’re holding it at Third Baptist, the church Lisa Washington grew up in. She was the . . .” She stopped and looked at Blanchett.

      “The fourth victim,” he said. “Found in the Scioto, near Greenlawn.”

      Bardwell nodded sadly. “I’ll also be announcing new initiatives dealing with these personal ad sites. They’re open markets for prostitution disguised as online dating. The fear is that many of the girls are underage, though it’s hard to prove it. Reardoor.com is one of the worst offenders.”