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ride down from D.C.
Sandra Friedlander—and seven others.

Chapter 14
    MY HEAD WAS BUZZING. In a bad way. I knew from my hurried reading of the case notes that there were more than 220 women currently listed as missing in the United States, and that at least seven of the disappearances had been linked by the Bureau to “white slave rings.” That was the nasty twist. White women in their twenties and thirties were in high demand in certain circles. The prices could get exorbitant—if the sales were to the Middle East or to Japan.
    Atlanta had been the hub of another kind of sex-slave scandal just a few years back. It had involved Asian and Mexican women smuggled into the U.S., then forced into prostitution in Georgia and the Carolinas. This case had another possible connection to Juanita, Mexico, where hundreds of women had disappeared in the past couple of years.
    My mind was flashing through these unpleasantries when I arrived at Judge Brendan Connolly’s home in the Tuxedo Park section of Buckhead, near the governor’s mansion. The Connolly place replicated an 1840s up-country Georgia plantation home and sat on about two acres. A Porsche Boxster was parked in the circular driveway. Everything looked perfect—in its place.
    The front door was opened by a young girl who was still in her school clothes. The patch on her jumper told me she attended Pace Academy. She introduced herself as Brigid Connolly, and I could see braces on her teeth. I had read about Brigid in the Bureau’s notes on the family. The foyer of the house was elegant, with an elaborate chandelier and a highly polished ash hardwood floor.
    I spotted two younger girls—just their heads—peeking out from a doorway off the main entryway, just past a couple of British watercolors. All three of the Connolly daughters were pretty. Brigid was twelve, Meredith was eleven, and Gwynne was six. According to my crib notes, the younger girls attended the Lovett School.
    “I’m Alex Cross, with the FBI,” I said to Brigid, who seemed tremendously self-assured for her age, especially during this crisis. “I think that your father is expecting me.”
    “My dad will be right down, sir,” she told me. Then she turned to her younger sisters and scolded, “You heard Daddy. Behave. Both of you.”
    “I won’t bite anybody,” I said to the girls, who were still peeking at me from down the hallway.
    Meredith turned bright red. “Oh, we’re sorry. This isn’t about you.”
    “I understand,” I said. Finally they smiled, and I saw that Meredith had braces too. Very cute girls, sweet.
    I heard a voice from above. “Agent Cross?”
Agent?
I wasn’t used to the sound of that yet.
    I looked up the front staircase as Judge Brendan Connolly made his way down. He had on a striped blue dress shirt, dark blue slacks, black driving loafers. He looked trim and in shape, but tired, as if he hadn’t slept in days. I knew from the FBI workup sheets that he was forty-four and had attended Georgia Tech and Vanderbilt Law School.
    “So which is it,” he asked, then forced a smile, “do you bite or not?”
    I shook his hand. “I only bite people who deserve it,” I said. “Alex Cross.”
    Brendan Connolly nodded toward a large library-den that I could see was crammed from floor to ceiling with books. There was also room for a baby grand piano. I noticed sheet music for some Billy Joel songs. In the corner of the room was a daybed—unmade.
    “After Agent Cross and I are done, I’ll make dinner,” he said to the girls. “I’ll try not to poison anybody tonight, but I’ll need your help, ladies.”
    “Yes, Daddy,” they chorused. They seemed to adore their father. He pulled the sliding oak doors, and the two of us were sealed inside.
    “This is so damn
bad.
So hard.” He let out a deep breath. “Trying to keep up a front for them. They’re the best girls in the world.” Judge Connolly gestured around the book-lined room. “This is Lizzie’s favorite place