At the parking garage, I reviewed the security footage at the time listed on the receipt and found that a late-model black Ford Focus with New Jersey plates had come through. However, when I ran the tags, I discovered they were actually registered to the Jeep Cherokee of a man in Newark.

Evidently, someone had switched the plates, which meant I needed another way to identify this car.

When I zoomed in and studied the vehicle closely for any unique markings, I noticed a broken front passenger-side headlight from some sort of fender bender. It was a long shot, but I wondered if this car had ever been pulled over for a missing headlight or if it’d been written up as part of an accident report.

I put a call through to Greer to have him check with local and state law enforcement in New York and New Jersey, then I continued studying the footage to see if I could catch sight of who left the car, but I came up empty. As I was getting ready to leave the garage, Greer called back.

“We’ve got nothing on the subway video of the guy you chased, but I do have a name with regard to the car,” he said.

“Who is it?”

“Sasha Daye. She’s registered with an escort agency in Manhattan. Upscale. High-end clients.”

“Do you have an address?”

“Yeah. She’s got a place in Brooklyn over near Prospect Park.”

“Text it to me.” I was already on my way to my car. “I’ll meet you there.”

36

Christie entered the confession booth.

The cramped quarters smelled of dried leather and the stale taint of body odor. A screened partition separated her from the man waiting to hear her confess her sins.

“I don’t know how to do this.” Christie wasn’t sure how loudly to speak and had the sense that she was probably talking too softly. “I’ve never been to confession before.”

“Okay. And you may speak up. No one else will hear you, I assure you.”

She raised her voice a notch. “I’m not Catholic.”

“Have you been baptized?”

“Yes. I’m a Baptist, actually.” Irony. He said nothing. She went on, “Do I call you Father?”

“Not if it makes you uncomfortable. Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t know.”

She wasn’t sure which of the monks was on the other side of the confessional, but his voice was raspy and weathered, as if he’d spent a lifetime at sea rather than singing and chanting here at the monastery. Maybe a life bereft of small talk and chatter did that to someone’s voice.

“Just tell me what’s on your heart, my child. Something brought you here today. What is it?”

“I believe I may be living in the worst kind of sin.”

“And what sin is that?”