by Adira August
Metro State's administrative services had occupied two floors of the ten-story building while their Auraria Campus home was rewired after a fire. The City hadn't got around to re-assigning the space. The previous occupant of my new digs had left me without a desk chair and abandoned their ficus to die a slow death from dehydration.
I thought liberal arts people would be more compassionate.
In the center of the desk was a new security doorknob. Next to it was a double cylinder deadbolt.
"Maintenance is coming this afternoon to install them. Take the keys with you, now."
I dropped into the hard chair, behind my newly acquired desk, putting the briefcase in the kickspace.
There was no visitor's chair.
Assistant District Attorney Diane Natani half-sat on the bookshelves. "Two investigators from the DA's office will join us tomorrow."
I used a pocket knife to open the packages and slipped the keys out.
"So, you're running things and reporting to the District Attorney?" I asked. I removed the keys and locked them in my briefcase.
She shook her head, her long black fall of hair shimmering in the sunlight through the window. "Mayor's office," she said.
I thought about this. Technically, the top law enforcement official in the city was the Mayor. This kept the investigation under the jurisdiction of the police, but well outside the department.
"I understand the issues," Diane said. Her gaze was direct, without judgment or challenge. The Navaho prosecutor was tough, smart and relentless in her pursuit of a conviction. She was also pretty and softly rounded. Juries liked her. I liked her.
For a moment I wondered if assistant district attorneys fell outside my "no sex partners from work" rule. Probably not. Still, this vanilla sex thing had possibilities.
"And I am running things. Officially. But I'm not a homicide cop. We'll work as a team. I’m hoping today, you’ll get all those witnesses alibied and we can eliminate this group from our to-do list. Keep all your notes in this office. Never leave your door unlocked, not even to go to the toilet. Leave nothing here until the locks are in; leave everything here, after they are."
"Okay, but I don't think there's a suspect among those witnesses." I knew we were talking about the Scene and Not Heard. "It's vital I get back to the house and talk to her partners and associates."
She nodded. "I'm going to do the law practice. I already have a warrant for the Farleigh place that covers everything inside the property lines. It's in your top drawer. You can go after you secure the alibis."
She hesitated. "Can your guy come here?"
My guy? Oh.
"Best not. Text me when you're free and I'll set up a meet."
She stood and smoothed her hair back. Instead of leaving, she treaded water in front of my desk for a few seconds.
She finally asked, biting her lip, her black eyes shining,"How unprofessional do you think it would be if I asked for an autograph?"
2:00pm SANH
Chez Cannon wrung his hands. Only man I knew who would do something that required that exact word to describe it.
"Be still, Cheswick," Sherrilynne ordered. His hands froze on the bartop.
Thank you, Domme.
We were gathered at the bar at Scene and Not Heard. Sherrilynne Dickenson, half-owner, slid a thumb drive across the polished surface.
"Membership records and everyone who was here last night. Arrivals and departures. Entrance and parking lot. Tell anyone I gave you that and I'll ban your ass faster than Chez comes."
I fixed her with a look. "This is from all the cameras?"
"Of course,” she snapped. "You know we have nothing inside and nothing nothing that records sound."
"How long do you keep the recordings?"
Chez squeaked and turned red.
"They're digital," Sherrilynne said with a narrow glare at her sub. "I keep them for three months. Online. Only we have the password."
I turned to Chez who was staring down at the bartop like he could divine the next Powerball numbers.
"Have you been watching them, Chez?" I asked quietly.
He shrugged and the back of his neck went bright red. There was more. "Cam? … You've been watching Cam?"
He shot a quick look at his Domme, who rolled her bright green eyes. I was sure the color was contact lens created and the brightness of her red hair was enhanced. But Sherrilynne was real. Down to earth, no-nonsense. A compact woman of boundless energy and quick intelligence.
"He's a fanboy at heart," she said.
I nodded and held up the USB. "Are the membership records real names or club names?"
"I have no idea what you mean, Detective. Our clientele are all prominent people who would like to relax without the threat of paparazzi. We offer a private venue for them to socialize."
That was good, in case anyone's member status got out. I quoted her in my notebook.
"You and Mr. Cannon were here until what time?"
"Until closing at two, and for a half hour after."
I locked the thumb drive in my briefcase. I was beginning to feel like the guy that had the nuclear launch codes handcuffed to his wrist. "This door is fire alarmed, still?" I gestured at the fire door near the bar.
"Absolutely," she said. "I am scrupulous about adhering to city codes."
"Including keeping the fire door alarm activated at all times?" I asked. Chez turned white. I put a personal note in my voice.
"I'm not a fire inspector. I need to know if it's possible someone walked out the back way. This is why I'm a member," I said.
Sherrilynne jerked a nod. "The door leads to an internal stairway to a hall that runs front to back. We use it sometimes, if the trash piles up. When we're busy. So we're not carrying trash bags through the place in front of the members."
"But we turn it back on when we're done," Chez said. "It makes a light come on. I swear it was alarmed."
"It was," Sherrilynne said. "I check it before we open and we didn't turn it off yesterday at all. Wednesdays are light days."
Chez' head bobbed up and down, emphatically.
I made some notes. "Switch or key?"
"You need a key," she said, holding up a packed keyring.
"Okay, thanks for your cooperation," I said. They both looked relieved and walked me to the door.
"Hunt?" Chez put a hand lightly on my arm. He had never touched me, before.
"Yeah?"
"Do you really think someone from here killed EllBee?" He seemed sad at the thought.
Sherrilynne squeezed his hand.
"I have no reason to believe so at this time. And I know that sounds like officialese and a blow off, but it's true. I just need to eliminate everyone."
I reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. I needed him calm during this. Stressed people made bad decisions. "Okay?"
He nodded.
"And, Chez?"
"Yeah?"
"Stop fapping to the videos."
2:50pm Name that Tune
There was a marked unit outside the Farleigh house. I parked the Bronco behind it. I turned off the engine and my text alert sounded as if I'd triggered it. Diane Natani. Maintenance was done and it was time to set up the meet between her and Cam.
I texted him to call me and the cell rang before I got out of the Bronco. I gave him Natani's number, and told him if she didn't ask, he should offer her an autograph.
"I can't do that!" he protested. "God, Hunter, not everybody in the world wants my stupid autograph."
"Okay, well"-- no wonder the world loves this kid --"she does but is afraid it's unprofessional to ask, so maybe you'll figure something out to give her what she wants."
"I'll see," he said. His voice shifted. "Be here at ten."
I sighed. "Yes, Cam." I clicked off. My body had not cooperated in his Outback. Well, not with me, anyway. It cooperated with Camden Sex God Snow just fine.
And even though by minute five I was sweat-covered and my extremities were numb
and my body tight as a bowstring and there was an ACME bomb of heat and need behind my balls and I was begging in whispers to be allowed to come, I managed to hang on until he said - "Now."
It was like my panther had been sucked off my skin into my gut to shoot out my cock. Huge. It went on and on. Only Cam could do this to me.
It was the keeping quiet part that hadn't worked out. We'd frozen inside for a long time while a good samaritan stopped outside his pick-up, bag in hand, staring at the Outback. Probably wondering if a damsel needed de-stressing. Apparently my manly roar was more of a high-pitched wail.
Knock-knock.
The sound brought me out of my reverie with my dick nosing hopefully around my pant leg from the memory. The uniform from the marked car was at my window, one hand on the butt of his gun. My windows weren't all that tinted.
"Officer," I greeted him, as the window lowered. "Sergeant Dane, homicide. I'm going inside." I pulled open my jacket and showed him my badge, clipped to my inside pocket.
He nodded. "Yeah, I was on one of your scenes."
I gave myself a shake. I didn't do this. I didn't go maundering off into sex fantasies on the job. I grabbed the briefcase and thanked the officer for being vigilant. As I made my way up to the front door, I knew if being with Cam was going to affect me like this, I'd have to stop … stop what?
Later.
I opened the lockbox the lab put on the knob and let myself inside. It was gloomy and musty and dust-covered. There was a stairway to the right. A hall table had new mail and a woman's red purse. Bryant's. Gordi had gotten her driver's license from her billfold this morning. I left the owner's portion of the warrant on the table.
I got out my cell to record and get images and started up the stairs.
An hour later I was standing back in the summer room, staring at an electrical cord.
The search of the house had simply confirmed what Celeste Farleigh had said. The rooms above had closed doors, layers of dust and empty drawers and closets. There were packing boxes taped and labelled. Ready for a mover.
Downstairs, two pleasant rooms off the kitchen held double beds recently made. The bathrooms had basic supplies for a brief stay.
In one room, I found a rabbit style vibrator and some lube. Nothing indicated whose room was whose. But since Louise had her own place outside of town, it seemed more likely it belonged to Celeste, who wouldn't want to pass through airport security with it in her bag.
I carefully closed the drawer without disturbing anything. Let her assume no one searched there.
The kitchen also held some basic supplies. Mostly condiments and diet soda. They must have ordered-in.
Then I went in search of the sound system. There had been nothing upstairs or in the ground floor rooms. No spaces where speakers might have been moved from. All my footprints were clearly visible in the undisturbed dust of the bare hardwood floors.
Whatever was in the summer room had been brought in from the outside.
And so, I was staring at this electrical cord, the one Wink pulled to stop the music. I followed it as it snaked around behind the bar and inside a door. There was the receiver. I looked around the room and found speakers. I'd noted them last night. Now, I examined and photographed them.
There were four, two behind chairs, two on shelves. Things on the shelves obviously pushed aside to make room. Wireless. Expensive. Powerful.
What. The. Fuck?
The rage killer had brought their own music? I went back to the receiver to look for what, exactly, it was playing from. A USB stick.
I called dispatch and told them to send the officer inside. His nametag read "M. Merisi." He was dark and intense and had an aura of intelligence about him. His badge number told me he'd only been on the job a few years.
"Sergeant?"
"Yeah, Merisi, go on in the bathroom and get some toilet paper. Wad it up, wet it, and stick it in your ears to protect your hearing. Then come back."
He decided I wasn't fucking with him and did as he was told. When he returned, I raised my voice and told him, "I'm going to step outside. When I signal, put that plug in that socket. It's going to be very loud. Watch for me. I'll signal you to unplug it."
He nodded and picked up the plug, transferring some day-glo orange print powder to his fingers.
Leaving the patio doors open, I stepped down to pool level. I waved at Merisi. The music blared. He put his hands over his ears, but watched me. I walked backwards, toward the overgrowth, the mini woods and the neighbor's house, beyond.
The music never faded. The closer I got to the trees, the louder it got. I batted the taller weeds aside, working my way into the foliage. I hoped I'd find the speakers before I suffered permanent hearing damage.
I did. Tall and silver and deafening. Behind two thick trunks of maples. Pointed at the neighbor's property.
I hurried back toward the house, waving my arms. The music cut off.
Inside, Merisi was taking the wads of wet paper out of his ears and staring around at the blood spatter.
"What was that?" he asked.
"Wish I knew," I said. "I'll take a recording of it to local rock station to identify - "
"-no, I mean why is it so loud and what's it got to do with all this blood? And what’s the deal with the lyrics?”
… deal with the lyrics … I got that sick, hollowing inside when I know I'm going to turn over a body and find maggots.
"You know the name of the song, Merisi?"
"Sure, my grandmother played it all the time. It was Status Quo's big American hit. Pictures of Matchstick Men."
Not maggots.
Scorpions.
PART THREE
THURSDAY con't
4:10pm Cam Again
"We can't play tonight."
The voice came back hard. "It's not a request."
"Let me put it this way - this is Detective Sergeant Hunter Dane, Denver Police Homicide."
Silence.
"What do you need?" Concerned, now.
"A friend."
"I'm in town," he said. "I met Ms. Natani at my attorney's office. If you want we can meet, or, do you just need to focus on your job, now?"
Hunt felt the tautness in his shoulders relax a little. He should go back to the office and figure out what was going on with the song lyrics. But the idea of working in the empty space presided over by a shrivelled up plant, made him shudder. He needed a place to concentrate.
"Where's your lawyer's office?"
"North of Cherry Creek off University," Cam said.
"That's perfect, I'm close. Maybe - can you ask if they have a conference room or something?"
"I don't have to ask. Just tell the receptionist you're here for me," he said, and gave Hunt the address. "See you in a few."
"You must be their biggest client," Hunt said as he heaved his briefcase to the top of the polished blackwood conference table. "That receptionist treated me like I was King of Goldlandia when I said I was here to see you."
There was coffee, juice and pastry on a sideboard. "And they're going to feed us." He grabbed some pastry and poured juice, looking Cam over. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a subtle deeper pinstripe. It was a GQ cover look. He’d apparently wanted to impress Natani.
"It's not me that's so important," Cam said. "My mom is a name partner. The name partner."
"This place belongs to your mother?"
Cam shrugged but turned pink with pride. "My mom's a powerhouse," he said. "She did everything for me." He looked up at Hunt from under his eyelashes, a shy boy with a crooked grin. "She taught me to ski."
Camden Snow melts. Hunter wasn't sure what to say in the face of Cam's obvious hero-worship and devotion to his mom. Lucky you?
Cam took off the suit coat and tie, tossing them on the other end of the long table and rolled up the shirtsleeves.
Hunt took out his laptop. "So, this is like home away from home for you. You have the wifi password?"
While Cam typed it in
, Hunter brought him up-to-date. "Um - look - when I said I needed a friend …"
Cam looked up from the screen.
"What I really need is a partner," Hunter said. "I'm working the club angle alone. All my files are segregated from the rest of the investigation. Which is good, if no one from the club is involved. But, if they are, if it looks like they were being protected, everyone else has complete deniability. It's my ass."
Hunt finished the danish and went back to the sideboard for coffee. "I need a sounding board. Someone who's familiar with these people, this culture, that place."
"Cool," Cam said. "Lay it on me." He went back to the monitor.
Hunter grimaced as if in sudden pain. "Maybe I haven't made clear how serious this is."
Cam ignored him. A huge monitor lowered smoothly from the ceiling at the end of the table. Lines of text appeared on the screen.
"The original lyrics of the song on the right side," Cam said. "You have what was playing at the scene?"
"How did you get the lyrics so fast?"
"You talked, I searched, up they popped. It's like, four-year-olds do this."
Hunt handed over his cell and his headphones. Cam listened and typed.
Fascinated, Hunt watched the words appear on the huge screen in a column on the left.
Windows all reflect your face.
Your eyes I see, a haunting tired yellow.
I see you look up to the sky, your
tired, you cry, your reflection echo
I picture matchstick men with you
underneath the matchstick men lie you
I see all the matchstick men with you
Alone I see the matchstick men
You underneath the matchstick men
Your tired of the matchstick men
To make them stop, I will face them
Alone I stop the matchstick men
"None of what you see are actual lyrics from the song. But all the words are used in the original. In the recording you have, it's all cut from the original record," Cam said. "It sounds even more weirdly psychedelic than most music did sound in those days. "
