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“I know, right?” she asked, shooting me a small smile. “I used to pay, what, eight dollars for one of these a few times a day. Until I realized that just buying that latte machine actually saves me a lot of money.”
“So, you work for Senator Michael Westmoore,” I said, watching as she took a deep breath.
“Yes,” she said, her tone tight, making me think that it was definitely the senator who seemed to be chewing her out on the phone with before the shooting who seemed to be chewing her out.
“And he’s involved with the Bratva?”
“The Bratva?” she repeated, brows pinching.
“The Russian mafia,” I told her.
“Oh. Oh,” she said, eyes widening. “That… that makes sense, I guess.”
“How so?”
“Last night, I was working late at the office, and I overheard a conversation my boss was having with a man named Dimitri,” she told me.
“What were they saying?”
“It seemed like a veiled threat,” she told me.
“Over what?”
“Someone who has been arrested for human trafficking.”
That tracked, since it seemed likely that the women at the ‘massage parlors’ were probably not there willingly. Especially in these days where it was easier—and more profitable than ever—for someone interested in doing so to run their own sex work service. Without even needing to sleep with men if they didn’t want to.
“And your boss is supposed to try to get them out?” I asked.
“Yes. And if he doesn’t, well, the Dimitri guy made it sound like there would be, you know, consequences. I guess… we learned what kind today.”
“Are you that valuable to your boss?”
“I’m probably the only person who can get him reelected,” she admitted. “But… I doubt he even realizes that.”
“He seems like a real dick,” I said, getting a surprised laugh out of her.
“He is,” she admitted, nodding. “But I never thought he would be involved with human trafficking.” She sat with that a second, then shook her head. “Why would he get involved with the… Bratva?”
“Money,” I said. It always traced back to money.
“But how?”
“The senator votes in ways that loosen laws on trafficking, or imports, or things like that. Or they work their connections to get police or district attorneys to look the other way. In turn, they get a cut of the money that comes from the Bratva’s business endeavors.”
“You mean trafficking,” she said, face going tight. “Of women and girls.”
“In this case, yeah, I do mean that, unfortunately.”
“He’s profiting off the exploitation and rape of innocent women.”
“Yes,” I said, understanding the horror on her face. I felt it myself each time I had to go anywhere near those massage parlors. “Does your boss know you overheard his conversation?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I was behind the door in the bathroom. I had a migraine, so I was in the dark,” she admitted. “He had no idea. And he was… his usual self today.”