“It’s crazy and sad, but let’s not lose sight of the fact that she’s a sixteen-year-old girl and anybody she’s seeing on this sugar baby website—if they’re sleeping with her—is committing a crime. That gives us the cause we need to start rattling some cages,” I say. “Rick, can you find out who she’s been talking to on this site?”
“Yep,” he responds. “They’ve got a DM function. That’s direct messages for you Luddites.”
“He’s talking to you,” Astra whispers to me.
I elbow her in the side, drawing a yelp from her. “You’re a jerk.”
Astra laughs. “Yeah, but you love that about me.”
“Debatable.”
The screen changes, and we get a view of what looks like an email inbox; there are literally dozens of messages from the men who frequent the site. Clearly, Ashley is a popular girl.
“It’s going to take a while to get through all these messages,” Astra says.
“Yeah. That’s a problem,” I mutter. “Rick, can you filter these out? Can you tell us who she was talking to most frequently?”
“Yep, I can do that.”
He taps away, and the list narrows down to half a dozen messages. “Those are the guys she exchanged the most messages with.”
“Terrific. That helps. Now, can you get IDs on these guys?”
“They’re all masking their identities, but I can do that. It’s just going to take me some time to track them down,” he says.
“Good. Nina, get with Rick and work up backgrounds on these guys,” I state. “Once Paige gets back, we’ll split up the list and start knocking on doors.”
“Divide and conquer,” Astra chimes in.
“You really think one of these guys snatched her?” Nina asks.
“Don’t know, but these kinds of men fit the profile,” I tell her. “It’s also the only lead we have to go on right now, so we’re going to run with it.”
“Hey, I found something that might make things easier,” Rick says.
“I’m all for that,” I reply. “What is it?”
“This particular website hosts social mixers—a place where potential sugar daddies and sugar babies can hang out, get to know each other, and set up their arrangements,” he says. “It’s like sugar daddy speed dating. And it looks like Ashley-slash-Shelby has attended a few of these mixers.”
“That’s kind of disturbing,” Astra says.
“How do you know Ashley was there?”
“I’ve got her RSVPs on her computer—along with some pictures she took from inside the club with some of these guys,” Rick tells me.
“Well, then. It looks like we’ve got our in. Whoever runs these mixers might be able to help us out,” I say, then turn to Astra. “Want to go clubbing?”
“This might be the first time I say I really don’t want to. I’m completely creeped out just thinking about it,” she replies.
“Too bad. Put on your big girl panties, and let’s go,” I tell her.
Astra rolls her eyes. “I think I’d rather be staring down a psycho with a chainsaw.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. You might just find somebody to strike up a mutually beneficial relationship with,” Rick teases.
Astra looks at me. “Can you fire him?”
“When we get back. I need him to finish what I asked him to do first,” I say with a laugh.
Blue Velvet Lounge, Ballston Quarter; Arlington, VA
Nestled in the heart of Ballston Quarter, a hip, nightlife-driven center of Arlington, is the Blue Velvet Lounge. It’s a small, intimate place that’s got a mellow vibe. The bar area is done in dark wood and brass, and the main floor is filled with semiprivate sitting areas, all the chairs and couches plush and upholstered with blue velvet… of course. The entire place is dimly lit by recessed lighting around the perimeter of the room glowing softly of blue neon, and a stage sits at the far end of the room for live music.
“If I didn’t know what went on here, I might think this place was pretty cool. But because I do, I just think it’s gross,” Astra says.
A wry grin curls my lips. “I think they do more than the whole sugar baby speed dating thing. It looks like they host live bands.”
“Still,” she replies. “Would you come here?”
“Probably not.”
“That’s what I thought.”
The club is empty, save for some workers running around cleaning and getting ready for the doors to open in just a few hours. As we walk deeper into the place, a tall, well-built man in dark slacks and a dark button-down shirt that’s open at the collar glides over to us. He has on a black jacket with a blood red pocket square, his black hair is slicked back, and he’s got a neatly trimmed goatee. Something about his demeanor kind of screams mafia boss wannabe. The man stops and regards us with eyes that sparkle like chips of obsidian in the dim light.
“Joey Bauer,” he greets us.
“Unit Chief Wilder, SSA Russo,” I say as we badge him.
“Interesting,” he replies. “And what can I do for the FBI?”
“We need to speak with the owner of this lounge. Is he here?” Astra says.
“You’re lookin’ at him,” he says.
“Great,” I reply.
“What’s this about?”
“We needed to talk to you about your sugar baby mixers. We understand that you’re also the owner of the Sugar Shack website?” I say.
“There’s nothing illegal about it,” he replies. “Everybody here is a consenting adult, and what they choose to do with their time and money isn’t my concern.”
“Except, not everybody who comes to your parties is a consenting adult,” I say.
