Chapter Twenty-One
It made a sad sort of sense.
When I reached the building, I’d expected a run-in with “The French Brothers,” maybe some kind of thugs or pimps running the area. But the warehouse the hookers pointed me at was nothing more than a huge storage shed that looked older than everything else in the area. It had a rustic wooden exterior and boasted ancient faded letters that read “French Brothers’ Grain.” The faint sound of water lapping at the riverbanks carried on the air while raucous seagulls cried overhead. Somewhere out of sight, a diesel engine rumbled with discontent as a boat passed by on the river.
I parked in the desolate lot, stepped out of the car, and locked my doors. Within two steps, the parking lot alone told me what type of place this was. The butt end of a s
