Consumed by E. H. Reinhard Page A

said.
    “Okay.” I wrote that name on that photo.
    “Well, if we can get a positive on this Candy, at least we won’t have unknown victims any longer. We need to find someone who knew these women.”
    The door of the room opened, and a woman I assumed to be Detective Ferris entered. She looked to be in her midthirties. Her hair was about shoulder length, blond, and pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a pair of jeans with a service weapon on her hip. Over her white long-sleeved shirt with horizontal red stripes, a badge hung from a cord around her neck. The detective took a seat next to Pierce.
    “This is Detective Nicole Ferris,” the captain said.
    We went through a round of introductions between Detective Ferris and Tom, Beth, and me.
    “Nice to meet you guys. Sorry if I kept you guys waiting,” she said. “What have we got?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    Detective Ferris had the photos of the women spread out before her on the conference table. She’d identified the wig-wearing woman, going by Candy, as Candice Schwarz. Therefore, we had identities on each victim except the blond found the day prior. Detective Pierce went to go print us off everything they could get for each woman we had positive IDs on—rap sheets, copies of driver’s licenses, and personal information including next of kin.
    “What can you tell us about the prostitution around Nashville?” Beth asked.
    “Well, there’s plenty—maybe four or five spots in town and reaching out into the suburbs that are pretty bad as far as women walking the streets. We have escort services and massage parlors as well. If you’re looking for that sort of thing around here, you’re damn well going to find it,” the captain said.
    “Do you ever hear about women going missing?” Tom asked.
    Captain Munro looked at Ferris to field the question.
    “It’s hard to say. Most of these girls come and go. So if they weren’t around anymore, it wouldn’t really raise too many eyebrows, to tell you the truth,” Ferris said.
    “We maybe get a handful of deceased ones a year,” the captain said. “Mostly overdoses but some foul play.”
    “What more can you tell us about the tattoos?” Beth asked.
    “It means they are the property of a pimp named Terrance Knightley. He runs a couple of”—Ferris made air quotes with her fingers—“massage parlors around the city. He also has a number of establishments in Memphis.”
    “Entrepreneur in the sex trade, huh?” Tom asked.
    “Yeah, he definitely is. We’d shut him down if we could. Technically, the guy is operating legally. Yet when the girls get a little too heavy into drug use, contract diseases, or things of that nature, they wind up working the street. Of course, we can’t prove he gets a cut of that, which I’m sure he does. The moon-and-stars tattoos basically mean they’re his girls. Last name is Knightley—the tattoos of moon and stars represent night. Night, Knightley—I’d venture a guess that is the connection.”
    “Know where this guy is?” Tom asked.
    “Probably at his house, in a club, or being chauffeured around somewhere between the two,” Ferris said. “I doubt you’d get anything from him if you did catch up with him, though. I think it would be highly unlikely that he would know what girls work for him. The guy is hands off. It’s how he keeps his nose clean and stays out of jail. He has about three or four lines of protection between him and the actual prostitution. You’d probably be better off going to one of his massage parlors and asking around. There’s a chance someone at the managerial level might get a little spooked by a couple of FBI agents and start talking.”
    Detective Hardy piped in. “I’d say bring your wallet with you. You won’t get anything for free inside the places—that goes for information as well.”
    “How far are these places from here?” Beth asked.
    “Both about five to ten minutes away, one north, one south. The southern one is called The