JAMES PATTERSON & JOHN CONNOLLY WITH TIM MALLOY FILTHY RICH A POWERFUL BILLIONAIRE, THE SEX SCANDAL THAT UNDID HIM, AND ALL THE JUSTICE THAT MONEY CAN BUY: THE SHOCKING TRUE STORY OF JEFFREY EPSTEIN FILTHY RICH JAMES PATTERSON JOHN CONNOLLY WITH TIM MALLOY Little, Brown and Company New York Boston London Begin Reading Table of Contents Photos Newsletters Copyright Page Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. A complete list of books by James Patterson is at the back of this book. For previews of upcoming books and information about the author, visit JamesPatterson.com, or find him on Facebook. Interviewer: “It’s the Icarus story—someone who flies too close to the sun.” Jeffrey Epstein: “Did Icarus like massages?” —New York City, 2007 AUTHOR’S NOTE Late one afternoon, while taking a leisurely stroll on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, Tim Malloy, a friend of mine and a collaborator on this book, nearly ran into a trim, silver-haired neighbor of ours from Palm Beach. The man was walking down Madison Avenue, and several things about him were striking. For one thing, he was wearing slippers. Expensive, embroidered, monogrammed slippers. But slippers all the same. For another, he was accompanied by two attractive women. Even in Manhattan, an island that attracts beautiful women from all over the world, these women stood out. As the man half shuffled, half walked down the avenue, the women walked slightly behind him, as if they were attendants or staff. Tim followed, keeping a respectable distance, as the threesome made a right onto 71st Street and headed toward an enormous town house—a house that was almost a fortress—right in the middle of the block. The imposing residence had a stone facade and a fifteen-foot-high front door that wouldn’t have looked out of place protecting a castle. And, like our neighbor’s slippers, the house had a monogram: raised brass letters that spelled out JE. The house and, quite possibly, the two women belonged to Jeffrey Epstein, a rich and powerful man who was also a registered sex offender with a strong taste for underage women. Not just sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. But younger girls as well. Epstein was alleged to have abused dozens of young women, or, more accurately, girls. He’d settled potential lawsuits with some of them. He’d done a bit of prison time for his crimes. A bit of time. And now here he was, out in the world again. Accompanied by two beautiful young women. I had been hearing hair-raising stories about Jeffrey Epstein for a couple of years. Our interests could not have been more different, but Palm Beach, where we both live, is small and tightly knit, and we knew some of the same people. Epstein’s arrest had made headlines in papers all over the world. But in Palm Beach, it caused a scandal that continues to set off aftershocks and leave a bad smell. So I had followed Epstein’s case in the media and talked about it over dinners with friends. I wondered why it had taken so long for the Palm Beach police to catch up with Epstein. And, once they did, why he had served so little jail time. Those were the obvious questions, but there were others: How had Epstein made his money, possibly billions? No one seemed to know. And while the news media had some details about the underage girls, reporters seemed only to know what had happened at the moment of his arrest. Epstein definitely liked his massages. He got them from two, even three, young women a day, right in his mansion on the island. He’d been operating on an almost industrial scale. But who were these girls? Where had they come from? How did they find their way to his home on a secluded street in Palm Beach? Epstein had powerful friends. He’d flown Bill Clinton around in his private jet and rubbed shoulders with heads of state, Nobel Prize winners, any number of billionaires. Prince Andrew, the man sixth in line to the British throne, had been a close friend. Were any of these connections the reason that Epstein was now a free man? I wanted to know. After all, our homes were a half mile apart, and Epstein’s actions had had an undeniable impact on the town where I lived. Stirred by that sighting of Epstein up in New York, Tim Malloy and I began to investigate. We partnered with John Connolly, a tough, no-nonsense journalist who had once been a cop with the NYPD and had been following the Epstein story for close to ten years. Working together, we interviewed Epstein’s friends, going all the way back to his childhood; we met with Epstein’s acquaintances, employees, neighbors, and business associates, and finally with the families of his victims. We interviewed law enforcement officers who’d worked on the investigation in Palm Beach and lawyers on all sides of the resulting court cases, some of which are still working their way through the court system. Combining our interview material with evidence obtained from court filings and other investigations, such as the one conducted by Connolly’s Vanity Fair colleague Vicky Ward, we began to put the pieces together. In a few instances, we have re-created brief scenes and snatches of dialogue. These are based on interviews, police investigation documents, and court filings. We changed the names and identities of the girls, hoping to protect them from more embarrassment and harm. There never was any doubt that Jeffrey Epstein was guilty. He admitted as much in the non-prosecution agreement he agreed to sign in 2007. The question is, what exactly was he guilty of? This book attempts to answer that question and many others about this strange and mysterious man. These days people all around the world are angry about and suspicious of the super rich and powerful. The story of Jeffrey Epstein is an object lesson about why we ought to be. To put it simply, some people think they can operate outside the law. And that’s what they do. —James Patterson, Palm Beach, February 20, 2016 PART I The Crime CHAPTER 1 Mary: February 2005 It’s a typically slow South Florida Sunday, and Mary’s staring into the mirror, trying to wipe the morning cobwebs away from her dark, sleepy eyes. She’s a pretty girl, tiny—just five feet three inches tall—but tanned and athletic, with curly black henna-streaked hair.* Her bedroom’s a playland of pinks and pastels, stuffed animals, and boy-band posters. But Mary’s a teenager now. Fourteen years old. She even has a boyfriend. He’s cute and popular. Joe† is the heartthrob of her school, and Mary’s feelings for him are new to her, powerful, hard to untangle. She’s thinking of Joe as she presses the Play button on her iPod. The MP3 player’s on shuffle. There’s no telling what song will come up, and Mary’s head drops dramatically in anticipation. Then a loud, sexy throb spills out of the earbuds: Britney Spears. The bass line takes over, and she starts to dance, moving her hips as she lip-synchs the lyrics: With a taste of a poison paradise… Mary’s swept away by the song. She’s twirling around and around, flinging her arms out to grab the clothes hanging up in her closet—it’s like embracing ten thousand fans! Then she stops and pulls out the earbuds. Suddenly she’s become fourteen again. Just a girl, jittery, nervous. What she’s thinking about now is what she will wear to the big fancy house. Mary desperately wants to make an impression. This will be her first trip to the house. She does not want to look like a child on this outing. She picks out a pair of skinny white jeans, puts on a freshly washed halter top that leaves her flat stomach bare. The cross that Joe gave her last Christmas hangs from her neck. Think of the money, she thinks. For Mary, it’s incredible money. Several weeks’ wages at Mickey D’s. And just for giving some old man a massage? She twists the earbuds back in, dives into the closet, sings along with Britney Spears: Don’t you know that you’re toxic? The tight white jeans fit Mary perfectly. She turns to check herself out in the mirror, cropping the scene with her fingers to block out the Barbies behind her. Over on the Gold Coast, girls in big, high-ceilinged bedrooms have American Girl dolls. Dolls with natural smiles, perfectly vacant moon faces. American Girl dolls are beautiful. They’re expensive. But you have to have one if Mom and Dad are willing to pay. Over on the Coast, most mothers and fathers are. But out in the sticks, where Mary lives, you get Barbies—passed down from mother to daughter, from sister to sister. They’re rail-thin, missile-breasted. There’s a touch of knowingness to the curl of their otherwise innocent mouths. American Girl dolls are girlie, but Barbie’s like Britney Spears. Barbie’s dangling her long legs over the line that separates girls from women. Be like Barbie, Mary thinks. She can’t be nervous. Not now. Not today. What she tells herself, over and over again, is: It’s not that big a deal. But, of course, it is a big deal. Before long, Mary’s visit to the big fancy house will become part of a months-long Palm Beach police investigation—an affidavit for probable cause, filed by the Palm Beach PD—and, finally, the arrest and conviction of the home’s owner, Jeffrey Epstein. CHAPTER 2 Jeffrey Epstein: February 2005 Jeffrey’s morning routine is precise and unvarying. First he spends twenty-five minutes in silence, visualizing the day ahead as he digests the guava, banana, and Müeslix that his chef prepares for him—the same way every day—at six in the morning. Then Jeffrey walks a third of a mile up to South County Road, pausing once in a while to take deep, restorative breaths. It’s a slight slope that leads toward the ocean. Jeffrey’s home on the Intracoastal Waterway is behind him now. The morning’s not windy. The Atlantic is calm and glittery, and fishing trawlers bob gently on distant waves. Jeffrey’s partial to monogrammed sweatpants, monogrammed fleece pullovers, and hoodies. Casual attire offset by embroidered Stubbs & Wootton slippers—the kind that sell for hundreds of dollars a pair. His hair, which is thick, has turned silver. But Jeffrey Epstein does not have a paunch. For a fifty-two-year-old man, he’s extremely fit. Six feet tall, 180 pounds, brown eyes, a strong jawline. He’s never been a drinker. He doesn’t smoke or take drugs, and he takes care good care of his body as well as his mind. It’s a magnificent mind. His gift is for numbers: complex calculations, abstract formulas. Even as a child, Jeffrey could untangle math problems that would stump most smart adults. Numbers just fall into place for him, forming in ranks he can bend, twist, manipulate—and multiply. He could have been a scientist or a mathematician. As a young man, he taught calculus and physics. Then he became an investor—a very rich man. Then he became a philanthropist, like Bill Gates. His love for science has inspired him to give millions to academics and institutions committed to studying mysteries of the brain and the arcana of physics. He’s given millions to Harvard. And he’s given money to politicians: Governor Eliot Spitzer, of New York, and Governor Bill Richardson, of New Mexico, where Epstein owns the largest home in the state. Epstein’s flown Bill Clinton to Africa on a private jet—not the Gulfstream he owns but his Boeing 727, customized with its own trading floor—so that the former president could promote his various and worthy causes. Just for fun, Chris Tucker, the comedian, and Clinton’s pal Kevin Spacey had tagged along for the ride. “Jeffrey is both a highly successful financier and a committed philanthropist with a keen sense of global markets and an in-depth knowledge of twenty-first-century science,” Clinton would say through a spokesperson. “I especially appreciated his insights and generosity during the recent trip to Africa to work on democratization, empowering the poor, citizen service, and combating HIV/AIDS.” But is Jeffrey thinking about that trip now? His first guest is due that morning at nine, and that leaves him enough time for a shower, a lunch, and a few phone calls before the second girl arrives. Sarah has scheduled that girl for one. For Jeffrey, it’s just part of the daily routine. But on this day, there’s a delicious twist. One of the girls is a first-timer. CHAPTER 3 Mary: February 2005 Downstairs, the doorbell is ringing. Mary’s father shouts, gruffly: “Ella está aquí. Su amiga con el camión.” “She’s here. Your friend with the truck.” Mary runs down the stairs. It’s game day, and Dad’s already got the TV on. Her stepmom’s out running errands. Mary’s twin sister has gone out, too, Rollerblading with a few of her friends. “Going shopping,” she yells, and she pops a piece of Dubble Bubble into her mouth. “¿Dice quién?” “Says who?” Mary’s already halfway out the door. Her father calls out again, but on Sundays there’s no getting him out of his chair. Besides, Mary knows he’ll be happy when he sees the money she’s made. Real money, like Joe’s cousin Wendy Dobbs, is making.* And it’s not like she’s running off to do something crazy. After all, Wendy’s assured her already that there’s nothing to worry about. Mary’s father is Cuban—an immigrant—a self-made man who runs a contracting business. He’s wise to the ways of the world and highly protective of his two daughters. They’re good girls, he knows. Almost angels. As far as he knows, they don’t drink. They’ve never tried drugs. They love clothes and, especially, music—Britney Spears, Nelly Furtado, Maroon 5, the boy band with that dreamy lead singer. Mary loves California, which she’s never seen but daydreams about. She just knows she’ll live there someday—a plan that’s okay with her father as long as Mary keeps up with her homework and chores. What he worries about, in the meantime, is the crowd that Mary runs with. Joe is a fine boy. More responsible than most American boys his age. But Joe’s cousin, Wendy, is another story. Mary’s father doesn’t like Wendy at all and would have liked her even less had he known about Wendy’s intentions. In just one hour, Wendy’s told Mary, she can make more money than her father makes in a day: “This guy in Palm Beach. He’s rich. Very rich. He has an airplane. He owns an island, you know?” Like a lot of kids who live inland, away from the Florida coast, Mary’s dreams reach way beyond the dull, scrubby flatlands and strip malls she’s grown up around. There’s so much that she wants to do and see. But for her the Gold Coast, twenty miles away, might as well be another country. “Yes,” she had said, without even thinking about it. Then there was Joe to contend with. “Who is this guy?” Joe had said, shaking his head. “You don’t know a thing about him.” “Hundreds of dollars,” Mary had whispered. She couldn’t quite look at Joe, but she was firm: “I can make that in one hour.” Joe seemed to think they were actually talking about it. A conversation—some back-and-forth. But the thought of not going hadn’t even crossed Mary’s mind. If anything, she hoped that it would become a regular thing. “To rub his feet? Are you kidding? If you’re not worried about it, why haven’t you told your dad?” “It’s your cousin, Joe! Some girls go three times a week.” “The guy’s feet must be killing him.” “Shut up!” “Tell your father.” “You know how Dad is. You don’t tell your parents everything.” “I’m not going to some freak’s mansion to rub his feet.” “That’s right. I am.” “And if I told your father? Or mine?” “You’d never see me again.” Mary felt bad as she said it. She felt bad for lying. She knew that it would be more than a foot rub. Wendy had told her that much, at least. CHAPTER 4 Jeffrey Epstein: February 2005 John Kluge, the media magnate, has bought up several lots around here, torn down the mansions, and built a grand, sprawling estate. But Epstein’s neighbors have blocked his own efforts to buy more land and increase his holdings. Epstein’s address in Palm Beach is 358 El Brillo Way. Built in the fifties by a totally run-of-the-mill architect, the house has none of the elegance of his neighbors’ homes. It’s big, with a big swimming pool—that’s the most you can say for it. It’s totally bland. But it’s the last house on a dead-end block, the last block of the street, and this makes it very secluded. Tonight, one of Epstein’s black Escalades will whisk him away, taking him to the private terminal at Palm Beach International Airport. Then a short flight down to Little Saint James—or, as he likes to call it, Little Saint Jeff’s—the seventy-eight-acre island he owns in the Virgin Islands. But for the moment, there are still things to attend to in Florida. Business and pleasure—although, in Epstein’s experience, the two have always fit together nicely. He strolls through the gate, past the guard, up to the side door that leads to the kitchen. Inside, he ignores the maid doing dishes and climbs a wide, winding staircase to the second floor. He walks down a hallway, one that’s lined with photographs of naked women. Then, in his bedroom, he opens a closet. Inside, there are many more photographs. Erotic photos, tacked to the wall, of girls who have come to the house. Familiar faces, familiar bodies. That’s what makes the first-timers so special. Epstein checks his watch before closing the door. The Virgin Islands can wait. CHAPTER 5 Mary: February 2005 The Dubble Bubble’s lost all its flavor, but Mary’s still chewing the gum as she shifts, nervously, in the backseat of Wendy’s big pickup truck. The girl sitting up front next to Wendy is a stranger to Mary. She’s chain-smoking menthols. The music is blaring; the seat is filthy and gross. Worried that her white jeans will get grody, Mary sits on her hands. Then, through the window, she sees a gigantic resort called the Breakers. It is resplendent, sun-drenched, not quite real—like something you’d see in the movies. It makes for an interesting contrast. “We’ll wait for her,” Wendy says to the girl in the passenger seat. “Then we can all go to the mall.” “Which one?” “The Gardens.” It’s like she’s not there. Mary wants to say something about it, but she doesn’t know if the other girls would even respond. Wendy’s always seemed so much cooler than kids Mary’s age. This other girl’s just a mystery. And when Wendy does turn around to speak to Mary, her stare seems to slice right through the younger girl. “Remember,” Wendy says, according to a probable cause affidavit filed by the Palm Beach police. “When he asks how old you are, say eighteen.” The light changes, and Wendy turns back around but keeps looking at Mary in the rearview mirror. “Got it?” Mary nods. “I mean it,” says Wendy. Who would believe her? Anyone can see that Mary is younger than that. “Okay,” she says. “I got it. Eighteen.” Mary takes out her flip phone and sends Joe a text: “Your cousin is a BAMF.” A badass motherfucker. There’s no reply. “Or maybe she’s just a bitch,” Mary texts. Still no reply. Joe must still be in church, Mary thinks. They pass El Bravo Way and turn onto El Brillo Way. Wendy’s driving slowly now, right at the speed limit. Once more, she says: “When the man asks your age, say eighteen.” Mary nods again and smiles, slightly. She wants Wendy to see her smiling. To know that she’s got it all under control. But Wendy’s eyes are on the front gate now. It opens, she parks, and they walk past a guard. “We’re here to see Jeff,” says Wendy. The guard nods—of course you are—and leads them to the side door. They’re in the kitchen now. Mary, Wendy, some middle-aged man. The man has a long face, bushy eyebrows, and thick silver hair—and he’s fit. As fit as the jocks that Mary goes to school with. Not attractive, exactly. He’s way too old for that. But confident, in a way that makes an impression. Standing behind the man there’s a woman. She’s blond, very pretty, much taller than Wendy. What a strange scene, Mary thinks. She can’t shake the feeling that the man is studying her. Then he nods, and he and Wendy walk out of the kitchen. A little while later, they’re back. “Sarah,” the man says to the tall woman. “You can take Mary upstairs.” Sarah takes Mary up a wide winding staircase carpeted in pink. Together they walk down a hall that’s got photographs on the wall—naked women. Long curtains cover windows and don’t let in much light. In the air, there’s a strong lavender fragrance. Then they come to a room containing a green-and-pink sofa. There’s a large bathroom off to one side and doors on either side of the sofa. There’s a wooden armoire with sex toys on it. There’s a massage table, too, and a mural of a naked woman. “Wait here,” says Sarah. “Jeff will be up in a moment.” Mary’s too freaked out to do anything else. Fidgeting with her belt loops, she sits on the sofa, jumps up again. Then she sees the picture. All the girls in the photos are young. But the girl in this one’s just a baby. Much younger than Mary herself. The girl’s smiling, but the smile’s mixed with something else—some sort of anxiety that’s out of place on such a small face. And what she’s doing is shocking: pulling her underwear off to the side. Flashing one of her tiny apple-round butt cheeks toward the camera. Mary gasps. She turns around. And there’s Epstein standing in front of her, wearing nothing but a towel. CHAPTER 6 Michael Reiter: March 2005 Chief Reiter looks more like a bank president than a cop. He’s well built, with an air of formality and discretion. But he’s got twenty-four years on the job. Decades earlier, he was a campus police officer in Pittsburgh. Then he rose, steadily, through the ranks in Palm Beach, moving up from patrol officer to detective, working vice, narcotics, and organized crime, then becoming a sergeant, captain, major, and assistant chief—a job he held for three years—before becoming chief of police. Reiter is what you’d call seasoned, although chief of police in Palm Beach is a job that calls upon his political skills as much as his street smarts. Then again, from time to time, things do happen. Once in a blue moon there are murders—though these are so rare that they tend to be remembered for decades. Sometimes there are hurricanes to contend with, and, when the sea calms, human cargo washes up on the shore. Sometimes traffickers aim the bows of their boats at the glow of the Breakers resort, order their passengers to go overboard, then tell them to swim. Most of the passengers are Haitian—men, women, and children who stake all they have on a chance at a life in America. From time to time, Palm Beach cops have to retrieve their bodies from the surf. Things get busier during the wintertime, or, as the locals call it, the season. It’s when the very rich come to town, throw parties and balls, shop, and tangle traffic at the intersections around Worth Avenue. The population booms, and the men and women who work under Chief Reiter deal with fender benders, shoplifters, and snotty skateboarding teenagers. There are DUIs. Domestic disturbances. Choking victims and heart attacks. It’s routine stuff, but there’s always lots of it. Enough to keep the men and women who work for Reiter busy. Chief Reiter’s proud of the team he has built. And, the team knows, they’re lucky to have him. Reiter’s extremely well qualified for the job. If anything, he’s overqualified, with a certificate from the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard and antiterrorist training at Quantico, courtesy of the FBI. It’s not brought up often at cocktail parties in Palm Beach, but several of the 9/11 hijackers lived in Palm Beach County. They took flight lessons at local airstrips. A few, including the mastermind, Mohamed Atta, had been regulars at 251 Sunrise, a chic nightclub in Palm Beach. There they had regaled any woman who would listen with made-up stories about their adventures as pilots. But 251 Sunrise is shuttered now. The joint was shut down in 2004, after an avalanche of noise complaints. For the moment, Palm Beach is as quiet and calm as any place Reiter has dreamed about. For the moment. CHAPTER 7 Mary: March 2005 If there’s no traffic, Mary’s hometown is less than thirty minutes away from the island of Palm Beach. But in economic terms it’s a world away. Her high school is run by the county. Most of Mary’s classmates are black. Thirty percent are Hispanic, as she is. The rest are white. The school has a C rating, and lots of students receive free or discounted lunches. Mary is one of those students. But inch by inch, she’s working her way out of the crab barrel. A good kid, her teachers think. A kid with a future in front of her. Weeks have gone by since her meeting with Epstein. She hasn’t told anyone about the visit. Still, other kids at the high school have noticed a change. “Yo, Mary,” a friend says. “What’s up with you anyway?” This is a kid who veers from nice to mean, depending on who else is around. Still, a friend. “Nothing,” says Mary. “You got your period?” “Shut the fuck up,” Mary whispers. There have been rumors going around, she knows that. Rumors started by a girl who has eyes for Joe. “Whore,” her rival shouts in the hallway one day. “You’re the whore,” Mary shouts back. Mary rushes the girl, who shoves back, grabbing at Mary’s hair, twisting and tugging. Someone yells, “Catfight!” By the time the bell rings for next period, Mary’s sitting in the principal’s office. She shakes her head in reply to the questions, stays silent, feeling humiliated. Then, in her wallet, they find the three hundred dollars. Mary’s too young and too small to be stripping. Besides, the bills are all twenties, not singles or fives. When they call Mary’s parents, her teachers suggest a more obvious explanation: Does Mary do drugs or deal them? Mary’s father knows better than that. “No,” he insists. A psychologist is called in. And then, Mary does start talking. Once she does, she can’t stop. It’s a wild story. Highly disturbing. A mansion in Palm Beach. A powerful man. This is all far from the principal’s wheelhouse. It’s definitely a matter for the police. In the meantime, the school’s recommending a transfer, purely temporarily, to a facility for troubled kids—ones with “issues.” Mary’s a good girl, it’s true. But further confrontations at the high school will not be tolerated. CHAPTER 8 Michele Pagan: March 2005 On March 15, Palm Beach police officer Michele Pagan takes the first call from Mary’s stepmother. “Ma’am,” she says, “I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station.” “I don’t want to say anything more until I speak with my husband.” “Ma’am, I appreciate that. But I’d urge you to come in. Let us find out what happened. Please.” “I’ll get back to you.” “Please, ma’am. I’m here for the rest of the day. We’re on South County Road.” At the station, Mary’s father does most of the talking. “There was an incident,” he says. “At school. A fight between Mary and another girl. But please understand, our Mary’s not like that.” Officer Pagan’s starting to feel as though she’s swimming in uncharted waters. She’s young, and the cases she’s worked before this have been minor. Robberies, that sort of thing. Pagan’s not used to the Gold Coast. She was educated in New York City, and, to her, the less affluent towns further in from the Coast might as well be somewhere in Georgia. Then again, she knows enough to know that in the back of the station, detectives are already whispering. What’s a guy with that kind of money need with some girl from out west? The women around here could make a man cry. Extortion? The kid’s fourteen. What would she know from extortion? Have you seen the shows these kids watch? They know about things we’ve never dreamed about. No, Pagan thinks. This is her case. She’s the one who’s going to work it. CHAPTER 9 Mary: March 2005 Mary’s father and stepmother believe their girl. Officer Pagan believes Mary’s parents. Ergo, Mary must be telling the truth. The girl’s got a sweet, high, halting voice. Pagan interviews her twice, and both times, she speaks with her chin buried deep in her chest. “Tell me, honey,” says Pagan. “What happened?” In her notepad, Michele Pagan writes: While speaking to me, Mary became upset and started to cry. “This white-haired guy came into the room,” Mary says. “Wearing only a towel around his waist. He took off the towel. And then he was all naked, and he lay down on a massage table. “He was a really built guy. But his wee-wee was very tiny.” Mary tells Pagan that Epstein spoke only to give her instructions, which he did in a stern voice. She tells Pagan that she was alone and didn’t know what to do. She removed her pants, leaving her thong panties on, Pagan writes in her incident report. She straddled his back, whereby her exposed buttocks were touching Epstein’s exposed buttocks. Epstein then turned to his side and started to rub his penis in an up-and-down motion. Epstein pulled out a purple vibrator and began to massage Mary’s vaginal area. Mary’s sure that Epstein ejaculated. “He used a towel to wipe himself down as he got off the table,” she says. That week, Pagan’s assigned to the case, along with six detectives. Five men, two women. “A predator case,” one of them will say. “This is different from someone who is stealing. This predator is a smart person, and that’s his desire. He can’t stop.” Within days, another victim comes into the station. She’s got a similar story. It’s a tricky case, according to a source closely involved with the investigation, because the girls involved are far too young to use as bait in an attempt to catch Epstein committing another crime—even if they were willing to play along. Still, there are other strings that Chief Reiter’s team can start pulling. Two weeks later, on March 31, Officer Pagan has Mary make a controlled call to Wendy Dobbs. The first attempt goes straight to voice mail. The next time Mary calls, Wendy picks up. On the recordings made by Officer Pagan, Mary’s voice is tiny and tentative, while Wendy sounds mature, gruff, fully grown, like the femme fatale in some old black-and-white movie. “Hey, what’s up?” she says impatiently. “Nothing,” says Mary. “I talked to Jeffrey, and I’m going to his house tomorrow morning,” says Wendy. “I’m going to set something up for you.” “Cool. Like, what do you think?” “I don’t know. I’m going to talk to him tomorrow morning when I go to his house about it.” “Um, how much would I get paid?” “Talk to him. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, and then I’ll bring you in the next day. You can talk to him about it.” So far, so good, thinks Officer Pagan. But she needs more. She looks at Mary expectantly, but not too expectantly, she hopes. She can imagine how hard it must be for the girl. Or maybe she can’t imagine it at all. But either way, Mary seems to have gotten the message. Straightening up in her chair, she begins to press Wendy. “I don’t know,” Wendy says in response. “I don’t know. You’re going to have to talk to him about it. I mean, I don’t really work for him like that. I just bring girls to him and they work for him….You can ask him, like, ‘What can I do to make more money?’” Mary keeps pressing. “The more you do, the more you get paid,” Wendy says finally. “Want me to bring my sister for you? So that we can get paid more or something?” “Well, yeah. That’s what I’m saying. I’m working tomorrow, and me and him are going to put a schedule together for you and your sister. So I’ll call you tomorrow when I leave Jeffrey with a schedule.” “Okay, well, I don’t have a phone. So if you guys call me, I’d have to know what time so I could get the phone.” “Okay. I’ll leave you a message. That’s fine. I’ll leave you a message.”