Chapter 1169: A Madam's Tale

"Which do you think is her real job—pimping or real estate?" Jack asked curiously as they stood in front of a charming villa.

"Does it matter?" Aubrey replied with a sly grin. "In the end, it’s all about selling something that looks glamorous on the outside but has been passed around more times than you'd like to know."

"That’s… disturbingly insightful." Jack gave him a thumbs-up.

“Oh, you handsome gentlemen—gorgeous, isn’t it? You’ll fall in love with this house. It’s just perfect for your future love nest,” a woman—who looked like a slightly aged Hillary Clinton, complete with her fashion sense—greeted them warmly.

"Uh, we’re not a couple... uh..." Jack immediately regretted not bringing JJ and instead showing up with Aubrey.

“Of course, of course, I know,” the older woman said with forced cheerfulness. Her sagging cheeks and sharply arched brows—painted nearly to her temples—made her look permanently surprised. Once the door closed behind them, however, her smile vanished, replaced by an irritated frown.

“But the least you could’ve done is play along. I don’t need people seeing me meeting with two cops.”

“Right, sorry. But let’s get this straight first—you’re the lady, right? The one who arranges escorts for the upper crust?”

She looked nothing like Jack’s mental image of a madam—more real estate agent than back-alley pimp. Best to confirm.

“Of course not,” she said flatly. “I just arrange introductions. What two consenting adults choose to do afterward has nothing to do with me.”

“Of course,” Aubrey said with a smirk, nudging Jack as if to say, Let the pro handle this one.

Maybe she’d been briefed by Daniels beforehand, because after Aubrey explained their purpose, the woman—who introduced herself as Ms. Peyton—had them sit down in the living room. She even brought out tea and snacks before finally starting to talk.

“Yes, we’ve all heard about that bitch. She’s been terrible for business.”

“So... your business—uh, I mean the girls you mentor—are their prices always that high?”

Aubrey had been a playboy, sure, but even he never just wrote checks for women. He preferred subtlety—gifting luxury bags, jewelry, clothing. Sure, he could burn through tens of thousands in a month or two per relationship, but $20,000 a night was steep by any measure.

“Absolutely,” Peyton said with pride. “Every girl has a different price point, but the ones I’ve trained sit at the top of the pyramid. That woman’s done real damage. Our client pool is already extremely limited.”

Clearly, she took pride in her boutique sex business. Aubrey nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. There are only so many men who can afford it.”

That got her going. She launched into a long tale about her “challenging entrepreneurial journey,” eventually sighing.

“I just don’t understand why she’d do it. She’s only hurting herself. An escort’s client list is her most valuable asset—not just her income stream, but also her retirement fund. Who in their right mind starts slashing names off that list?”

Jack blinked, clearly confused. “Wait—hold on. You’re saying the client lists are in the girls’ hands?”

“Of course. I only train them—how to please clients, how to raise their value, how to stay safe. After that, they come to me only if there’s trouble.”

So she trained and shielded new girls, but the rest was self-managed. Jack was starting to understand how this elite ecosystem operated.

"And when you say 'retirement fund'—you don’t mean extortion, do you? Like blackmailing their clients on the way out?”

“Good God, how could you think that?” Peyton’s voice shot up, sharp and almost screechy. “No, of course not. They sell the list—to new girls. It’s a valuable asset.”

“Ah. My bad.” Jack looked sheepish. He really didn’t know much about this world beyond common bias.

“So... what exactly do your girls offer?” he asked.

Peyton gave him a confused look. Aubrey quickly jumped in, scrambling for the right words. “We’re working off the hypothesis that the killer targeted clients who tried to force certain... unwilling acts.”

Peyton gave an amused, ambiguous laugh—probably at their awkwardness. “Like what?”

“Uh... like sadomasochism or other extreme fetishes?” Aubrey offered weakly.

“Oh, boys,” she chuckled, clearly mocking them. “What do you think I train? Motel trash? The girls charging $20,000 a night don’t do that kind of thing.”

She poured herself a cup of tea, took a sip, then slowly resumed speaking, now with a refined, almost teacherly tone.

“I’ll bet your investigation is way off-track.”

Jack and Aubrey looked at her with mouths slightly open—like freshmen in a very unconventional lecture.

“Just think about what you asked. Why would a man pay five figures for one night of pleasure?”

“Well, surely it’s not just for sex. Maybe also for the discretion fee?” Jack had decided to drop the act—they were already exposed as amateurs in this realm.

“Of course, bedroom skills are required. But that’s just the bare minimum,” she said gravely, like she was revealing a sacred truth.

“What men care about more is emotional release.”

Seeing the two young FBI agents staring at her, eyes wide with curiosity, Ms. Peyton smiled smugly. Her ego clearly loved the attention.

“A good escort is also a therapist. She understands the worst parts of her client’s emotions—knows how to reach the softest parts of his soul.

Worry, anxiety, insecurity, fear—the stressors he can’t take home, the things he can’t share with his wife or family.

That’s what I teach my girls: how to talk to these men, how to guide and listen, how to use expressions and body language to become the one outlet they can trust.”

“Sounds like what you shrinks do,” Aubrey joked, elbowing Jack.

“I’m only half a shrink. I analyze—I don’t heal.” Jack gave him a look, gesturing for him to stop interrupting, then turned back. “Please, go on.”

“I don’t know what that woman’s motive was. But I’ll tell you this: if she killed those men because of some sex position she didn’t like, she never would’ve made it to $20K-a-night. Period.”

Peyton’s voice was confident—utterly certain.