“I know,” Chet slurred. He was drinking. Damn it.

“How did you know?” Brody asked.

“I found an old e-mail. One of my contacts said she was seen in Vegas last month with a known pimp.”

“I’m sorry, Chet.” Brody could feel his friend’s pain through the connection.

“Don’t be sorry. At least she’s still alive.” Glass clinked in the background. Chet wasn’t hopping back on the wagon tonight.

“Are you all right?” Brody asked. “I can come there when I’m done at the scene.”

“I promise I’m not going anywhere.” Chet hiccupped. “I hid my keys from myself.”

“She’s alive, Chet.”

“She’s being trafficked, Brody.”

Shit! Brody curled his fingers and punched his thigh. “I’ll come over when I’ve finished here.”

“I know you’re worried, but if you go anywhere tonight, go see Hannah. You need her. She needs you. Don’t fuck that up.” His voice slurred. The sound of liquid pouring into a glass came over the line. “I’ll be out cold as soon as I finish this last drink.”

Damn it. He should have known Chet had a stash of booze. Brody wanted to go to Chet’s house and, once again, pour every ounce of liquor down the drain. As sad as it was, passing out for the night was likely Chet’s safest option. Besides, Brody wasn’t likely to have any time until morning. Maybe not even then. “Tomorrow we’re calling your sponsor. Together.”

Chet answered with a long sigh filled with resignation. “Fine.”

“Detective McNamara?” Ripton prompted.

Brody nodded and held up one finger. “I have to go, Chet.”

He ended the call. Officer Ripton pointed toward the back door to the trailer. “I want to show you something in the shed.”

They walked across the yard. The rain had stopped, but the cold air blowing across the field was frosty. Brody buttoned his overcoat. It seemed unbelievable that a couple of hours ago, he’d been in a warm bed with a woman. They walked into a sagging shed. Two portable lamps brightened the space. A cheap oriental-style rug lay on the barn floor. The center was stained dark red. Hair and other matter clumped on the pile.

Brody shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “The missing rug.”

Ripton’s mouth went flat. “We found teeth, Brody. Six teeth.”

The sound of a trunk popping echoed in the open space.

“Ripton, over here,” another cop called.