He stopped at a gated doorway and punched in a code. "Via tunnels. As I said earlier, we have no wish for humanity at large to know about the existence of these clubs."
The doorway opened, revealing another long corridor. Doors lined either side, the spacing between each suggesting the rooms weren't all that large. Maybe prison-cell size, if that. And I wouldn't have called that well-maintained, generous accommodations.
He stopped at the first doorway and said, "How about we start here."
"How about we don't," I said, not trusting that Marshall hadn't prepared the whore within to be questioned before we'd arrived. I pointed to one of the doors farther down on the opposite side. "Let's try that one instead."
Something flickered in his eyes. Annoyance, or something darker. Either way, it again reminded me of Hunter. I half wondered if there was more of a connection between them than just being friends. "It does not matter which—"
"Then it won't matter if I prefer the person behind door number seven."
He studied me for several seconds, his face impassive even though the air suddenly seemed filled with tension. Enough so that Valdis's fire began casting fiery blue shadows across the dark walls again. Then he shrugged and walked over to the indicated door, punching in several numbers.
As the door swished open, he turned to face me again. "I suppose you'd like me to remain outside, also?"
"Yes, actually, I would." I hesitated, nostrils flaring, smelling soap, woman, and need. "What's her name?"
"Amanda."
No last name. But then, that was to be expected given that these people were being treated as little more than cattle. I guess they had to be thankful that they got a name rather than just a number.
I stepped into the room. The walls, floor, and bedding were all a soft green—a color that was renowned for enhancing the feeling of tranquillity and calm. The only splashes of color came in the form of a white bedside table and a bookcase filled with old books. There was no TV, no radio—in fact, nothing that would give this woman access to what was happening in the world beyond her cell.
As the door swished shut behind us, my gaze met Amanda's. She was a generously built woman with thick brown hair, ruddy cheeks, and several chins. Marshall might not be giving his whores access to the outside world, but he obviously provided a bountiful table—which I guess made sense, considering how often the whores were fed from.
She was clothed in a checked cotton dress and lying on the bed, a book in one hand and a Coke sitting on the bedside table. Her eyes—which were an odd shade of green-gray—showed little in the way of interest.
"Amanda?" I spoke softly, though I wasn't sure why. Marshall might not be able to hear me, but I had no doubt he was monitoring our every move, even if I couldn't see any cameras. "I'm Risa Jones. I need to ask you a few questions."