by Adam Carter
Baronaire concentrated and a rat shot out from a drain, passing before the dog on the other side of the fence.
The woman shouted at the dog to stop being annoying and closed the window. Baronaire smiled to himself and the dog came back to him, whimpering. “Good boy, Butch,” he said, and the dog ran off to its kennel as fast as it could. It was of course illegal to keep guard dogs without a handler present, but if the police ever cared to raid this place he was certain they could think of a lot more to be arresting people over than paltry things like that.
Looking up, Baronaire scaled the wall with ease. There were no foot- or handholds on the wall, but that had never stopped him before, and within moments he was at the window from which the woman had emerged. He peered through and could see her sitting at a desk, going through some paperwork. She seemed to be typing figures into her computer, probably adding to a database of her annual takings. That was a somewhat precarious thing to do and only told Baronaire how untouchable this woman was. Baronaire had no problem with prostitution – for all he cared, people could do whatever they wanted to each other so long as both parties were willing – but the fact this place could operate with such impunity spoke a very sorry state of the police system.
There was a hairline crack between the windowpane and the frame and it was all Baronaire needed to slip through. He hung back, making no sound at all, and watched the woman work for several minutes. The room was clearly her office. There were three desks, each as untidy as the next, an open bar upon which there sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and a large filing cabinet which Baronaire suspected was his target. Several paintings adorned the walls, all of them originals, and he began to feel some small appreciation for this place after all. The room was filled with the pungent odour of cigarette smoke, and there was an ashtray on Arlene’s desk bearing at least a dozen butts.
He briefly wondered whether he could just find the information he wanted without Arlene’s assistance, but knocking her out in her own home seemed just impolite.
“You gonna stand there all night?” Arlene asked without looking up from her work. “I’m a busy lady, Charles. Come have a drink.”
“Don’t tempt me, Arlene.” Baronaire was always shocked she knew he was there, but he hid it well. Stepping from the shadows, he strolled past the desk to look at one of the pictures hanging on the wall.
Neither of them said anything for several long minutes.
Finally it was Arlene who broke the silence. From her scent – her sweaty panic and curiosity both – Baronaire had figured she would.
“What do you want?” she asked bluntly, putting down her pen. “Or do I have to call the cops?”
“Funny woman.”
“Don’t even have to pick up the phone. There’s a cop in the next room, but he wouldn’t be too happy with you. Guy’s got twenty minutes left and he paid in advance.”
“If you’re trying to shame me, don’t bother.”
Arlene folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. She was around forty. Her curly red hair was held back in a black net tonight and smelled as though it had just been dyed. Arlene had a strong, angular face, but large, full eyes. Her body she had let go years back, and she chain-smoked, which Baronaire always found stupid. There was a time when she was one of the prettiest women in this neighbourhood. She had never been beautiful, but there was a charisma about Arlene, a cuteness of the eyes which ‘pretty’ summed up well. But her glory days were over long ago, and now she just made money off other people’s work. That wasn’t to say she didn’t work hard herself; Baronaire knew it was an unsteady ship she was skippering. He did not envy her choice of career, but often he thought perhaps it would have been a good front for him.
He was always glad Arlene chain-smoked, because his super sense of smell was repulsed by the odour. It meant he could talk to her, even in a place like this, without feeling the desire to kill her.
“Just tell me what you want, Baronaire, and then get out of here.”
Over the past ten years they had met on numerous occasions, always in the line of duty, and Baronaire had found her a helpful, but blunt, individual. “I need to see your records.”
“Nope.”
“Nields.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You know who he is. Lawyer. I hear he comes here. I need something on him.”
“Even if you did get the records, they don’t specify client names, Baronaire. I’m not that stupid.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending this guy.”
“I don’t even know him,” she replied petulantly.
Baronaire could see in her eyes she was lying. “Don’t you even want to know why I want him?”
Arlene shrugged. “He committed some crime and he’s on the run?”
“Doldress.”
Arlene shuddered. “Doldress doesn’t come here. Used to, always house calls, but I had to ban him. One a my girls didn’t like what he was paying for and after she told me I had to agree with her. God bless her, she obliged, but I won’t have my girls put through junk like that, so he’s not welcome.”
“You followed the news I take it?”
“In my line of work? Of course I did. If it had happened a couple a years back it would’ve been one a my girls he killed. How he didn’t get sent down, I’ll never know.”
“He had a good lawyer.”
A flicker of understanding passed across Arlene’s face then and Baronaire saw concern mingled with sympathy. He had been more than prepared to use several methods of persuasion upon her, some of which may well have resulted in his need to call Jeremiah for that distraction; but Arlene was a rational human being and knew her duty when she saw it.
She moved over to the filing cabinet and flicked through the records without a word. Baronaire waited patiently, and she handed over a file. “There aren’t any names there. My girls are all under pseudonyms in the records, but that’s the client you’re after.”
“When was the last time he was here?”
“Two days ago.”
“That was after the trial,” Baronaire noted. “I’m going to have to speak with whatever girl he was with.”
“No.”
Baronaire tucked the file away in an inside pocket. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to insist.”
By this point Arlene had sat back down behind her desk. “Nields is banned too now. In fact I’m gonna phone him right after you leave and tell him so. That keeps my girls safe, that’s all I care about.”
“I care about stopping him.”
“Stopping him? He hasn’t done anything.”
“I’m hoping he has.” Baronaire rested both fists upon her desk and leaned across to her. He spoke in a quiet voice. “I want to find something to pin on him. At this point I’m not even bothered whether it’s something genuine. I want him destroyed, I want him taken down, and only your girls can help me.”
“I’m protecting my girls, Baronaire. You have to understand that.”
“If I can get to Nields, the case against Doldress reopens. And they both go down. Both off the streets. Neither can bother you again. Or anyone else. There are a lot of other people in your position, Arlene. A lot of people who don’t care as much as you. They send their girls in to do whatever the client wants; so long as there’s money at the end, a lot of people in your position don’t much care how it came about.”
“I got enough girls to take care of here, Baronaire. I don’t need the guilt trip of anyone else’s.”
“But you have the power to send them both away. Don’t make the call. Let me talk to this girl he was with a couple of days back, and give me a week. That’s all I’m asking, Arlene, one week.”
“Police operations take longer than that, I know that much.”
“I’m not conventional police.”
She looked away, and Baronaire knew she was torn. She had to look out for herself, but there was a decent human being somewhere in Arlene, screaming for release, and Baronaire had latched firml
y onto it.
“All right,” she said, her voice small. “The girl you’re after is Crystal. She’s in the Blue Room. Give me a minute and I’ll ...”
“I’ll find her.”
“She’s with someone.”
“He won’t mind.”
Arlene slumped at the desk, asleep. She had been cooperating and Baronaire hated to have to do that to her, but he was in a hurry and knew Jeremiah would be getting itchy outside by now. He considered radioing him just to tell him to stay put, but all that would accomplish would be to make the guy even more adamant about coming in after him.
Baronaire left the office and found himself on a landing. There were several doors about him, and he felt as though he was in a high-priced hotel. He expected the doors to be marked with numbers, wondered how he was even supposed to recognise the blue room when he found it; but thankfully each door had a splash of rather fetching stylised paint. He checked every door on his floor but found nothing in blue, so took the stairs to the level above. He found himself emerging into a fairly large landing space, with several further doors leading from it. There were a few seats in the landing and he guessed this to be a waiting room. It was presently vacant, which was good. He may have had no problem with this kind of work, but only the saddest of the sad would sit in a waiting room like this.
The room with the blue door was tucked away into the corner and he headed across to it. His heightened sense of hearing was already collecting sounds from behind the various doors that he could actually have done without hearing, but there wasn’t much coming from behind the blue door. Whisperings, a little music, nothing more. He considered bashing the door in and shouting “Police!” but that would have attracted a lot of attention. He doubted any of the rooms would be locked, for the safety of the staff, but he did not intend to use the door anyway. Without even the need for more than vague concentration, Baronaire’s body collapsed into a fine mist and he passed through the keyhole, re-forming on the other side.
The room was poorly lit, with a large bed in the centre of the room, a window directly above, curtains drawn against the night. A bedside table held a CD player, from which there came the simple, gentle tones of Beethoven’s Fur Elise. There were two piles of clothes strewn across the floor, one upon either side, and curled up in the single sheet, talking quietly, were two women.
“Oh my God!”
“Shut up, I’m thinking,” Baronaire said calmly. This was all he needed. He had expected to come in here, turf out some guy, and have a deep and meaningful conversation with Crystal. His plans were already falling apart, because he now didn’t know which woman to throw out the door.
But the two women were already in hysterics, probably over the way he had simply appeared before them. He appraised them quickly, trying to determine which was the prostitute. Both were in their early twenties, both with shoulder-length dark hair. Both were physically attractive, neither had any great quantity of fat to her body, and neither was wearing make-up. Or had their hair dyed. Whoever was forking over the money here had laid down some very specific demands.
“One of you,” Baronaire said, “is incredibly narcissistic.”
Seeing the two women lying naked in the bed, shivering at his sudden appearance, clutching onto one another for protection and the sheet for privacy, clearly in complete fear of their lives ... It had been a while since Baronaire had been truly tempted to break Sanders’s rules, but a very strong part of his brain was urging him to just forget the rules, forget the laws, forget the case. There were two beautiful women here, terrified of what he could do to them, and would anyone ever really know? Would anyone actually find out?
He shook his head, ashamed of such thoughts. Breaking eye contact, however, only jerked the two women back to reality, and they began screaming.
Baronaire was upon them before more than a yelp had passed their pretty lips, one hand pressed firmly against each of their mouths. Their eyes widened as they stared up at him, and he forced himself to take a deep breath, fighting the scent of raw terror exuding from them.
“No noise,” he whispered. “I’m going to remove my hands now, but you squeal or shout, you die.” He waited until both had nodded ascent, and while the fear remained within their eyes, he saw also sanity and knew they would comply. Slowly he removed his hands and got off the bed. The women followed him with cautious eyes, their hearts hammering, their pores exuding sweat at an enticing rate. Baronaire turned away from them briefly, so he would not have to look at them while he regained his composure, and his eyes found the discarded clothes once more.
“Here,” he said, tossing the clothes onto the bed. “Get dressed. Both of you. You’re messin’ with my head here.”
“What are you?” one of the women asked, her fear at last subsiding enough to talk. Now that she was still alive, a whole minute into his ‘attack’, her mind seemed to have caught up to her.
Baronaire turned his back for sake of politeness. “You don’t want to know.”
“You’re not human.”
“Probably not.”
“Then what?”
Baronaire noted the lack of fear to her voice now and half-turned to see she was already dressed. The other woman was trembling violently as she tried to get her trousers on, sitting on the far side of the bed, but the woman he was talking to was fully dressed now, aside from her shoes, and was standing on the floor already. She held Baronaire’s eyes and while she still exuded fear, the panic had gone and none of it was showing through in her voice or demeanour. Her act was enough to fool any ordinary human being and Baronaire was half afraid he was falling in love.
“I’m not someone you want to get to know too well,” he told her, perhaps answering her question, perhaps trying to convince himself. “Are you Crystal?”
She folded her arms. Her open defiance was making Baronaire’s palms sweat.
“Yes,” she said.
She went to say something else, but Baronaire held up a finger for silence and glided over to the other woman. She had by this point managed to get her trousers on, but was now struggling fiercely with her top. With the shirt half over her head, Baronaire was having a somewhat difficult time making eye contact. Finally she managed to drag the thing down over her chest and gasped when she realised he was standing directly before her.
Then she collapsed onto the bed.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” Baronaire said, turning then to Crystal. He was surprised to see she had adopted sunglasses.
“I’m not stupid,” she said, noting his hesitation. “However you do whatever you do ... it’s the eyes. Hypnosis, right? Sara’ll be asleep right up until her hour’s over, and she’ll walk out of here thinking she’s had the best time of her life. Not that she hadn’t just had the best time of her life or anything.”
“You seem to think you know me.”
“I don’t know squat about Voodoo, pal, but I know hypnosis when I see it.”
“Fine, whatever. Questions?”
“Not here.”
“No?”
“No. You gonna question me, you can buy me dinner.”
Baronaire blinked. “I’m not on a date here, Crystal. I’m a cop and I need information.”
“Great. And I’m booked for another half hour yet. Tell you what, I won’t even charge you when we go over that.” She moved across to a chest of drawers and pulled out a handbag, which she proceeded to throw over her shoulder. From a wardrobe she withdrew a jacket; it was hot out there, but by the time they were done the night would be completely upon them. “You coming?” she asked, shooting a look at him over her shoulder.
Baronaire was left in a daze as she departed. Every situation in life was about control, which was why Baronaire made such a good police officer. But he didn’t have a clue what was happening here, and wasn’t sure he liked it all that much.
He followed her out the door and took the conventional means down to ground level.
CHAPTER THREE
“Yo
u get to be hard in my line of work,” Crystal explained in bored tones as she started on her lasagne. They had taken a right turn upon leaving the house, of which Baronaire was glad, since it meant Jeremiah, on the left, wouldn’t see them depart. He had briefly radioed his partner to inform him he was chasing a lead and to sit tight, but had gone into no specifics. Jeremiah had not been best pleased at having to stay in the car all night, but Baronaire was somewhat embarrassed to tell him the truth. Baronaire had been swept away by this woman, quite literally, and was having a fairly difficult job working out why he was letting her push him around like this. Probably, he reasoned, because she hadn’t given him the chance to think since they’d met.
He had expected for them to head for a takeaway, but Crystal had instead disappeared into what Baronaire could see was an expensive restaurant. Unfortunately they had a table for two spare and they had been seated in a far corner. Crystal had told him if he even tried to question her before the main course, she’d disappear so fast he’d think she was the one made of mist; but now they had reached the main course Baronaire didn’t quite know where to start.
“So,” Baronaire said, exhaling deeply. “You, uh ... come here often?”
“Nope.”
“Chatty, aren’t you?”
“You mind if I finish off the bread?”
“Knock yourself out. It doesn’t agree with me anyway.”
Crystal ordered another orange juice, and more bread, while Baronaire was left wondering where she put it all. “Feel free to order a bottle of wine,” he offered.
“So you can loosen my tongue and get more information out of me?” she asked stonily. “Don’t think so, pal.”
“Well, I ...”
“Besides, I don’t drink. No drink, no drugs, no cigs. Can’t abide the thought of putting all that poison in my body. And,” she said, glancing his way again, “I could do without any snide comments about that.”
“Didn’t say a ... Would you at least take off the sunglasses? You’re making me look like a wife-beater.”
“Are you?”
“They don’t even work.”
