Rising, Tommy and Mac filed into the office behind him, watching as he crossed the room, huffing and puffing with the effort and swirling around his desk to plop into a too soft, crushed velvet-upholstered chair on the other side.
All of the furniture was elegant, in a sort of tawdry, night-clubbish way. In that office, behind that desk, the man's clothes looked less silly. It was an image. Something about that idea, the idea of an image, stuck in Tommy's mind, but he filed it away for the moment.
"Have a seat, Detectives. It's not every day I get a visit from those who make our streets safe for businessmen like me – have a cigar?"
Tommy shook his head. He decided enough was enough. "Look, Mr. Gates, we're not here to chit chat. We're here about a girl named Cherie. I believe you must know by now that she's been murdered?"
"Oh, yes," Gates said, his smile dipping noticeably. He acted like a buffoon, but there was something beyond that inane grin that reminded Tommy of a shark. He wouldn't have trusted the man with a dime.
"Lovely girl. Such a shame. She'd only just signed on with the agency the night before."
"Then you saw her the night of her murder?" Mac cut in, trying to catch the man with a quick question. It was a good tactic, but not this time.
"No, unfortunately, I can't help you there," Gates answered. "I hired her on the previous night as a private dancer. I already had a client lined up for her first performance. That would have been the night she was killed, and the man had paid very well for her services – in advance, I might add. She never showed up."
"She never called, reported in, nothing?" Tommy asked, watching the man's eyes.
"I never saw her after the night she came for her interview," Gates said, shrugging and letting his hands fall wide. "Surely you don't suspect me in this? I am a businessman, after all. She was worth money to me, and I may have lost a valuable client because of her no-show. It is a shame, but beyond that, I don't see how I can help you gentlemen."
"She had no friends that you know of, no relatives, no habits . . ." Mac continued to probe, but Tommy knew it was no use.
"She was new here, as I said," Gates shrugged again. "I didn't know or care anything about her beyond that she could dance and that she had a nice ass."
"I thought you told the officer that first called that she was a model." Mac's voice was calm, giving nothing away.
"She wanted to be a model, detective. There's a big difference, I'm afraid. Most of my girls would rather model than dance, it's more private, and the money is better. Unfortunately for them there’s a great deal of difference between what is required of models and dancers, and most of them just don’t cut it.
"Cherie was newly in from the Midwest, no training, no idea what she wanted to do. She might have made a model, at that," he added, as if considering it for the first time, "but that's out of the question now, isn't it?"
"Pretty handy with the makeup, too," Tommy added quietly.
"Huh?" Gates' eyes slipped from their blanket of calm for just a second, confusion crossing his features, and then flashing away. "No more so than any other girl on the street, I'd say," he added. "What makes you say that, Detective?"
"Oh, nothing important," Tommy replied, rising. "I'm sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Gates. If you hear from anyone with any information on where she might have been that night, or with whom, you give us a call."
"I will, detective, I will," Gates said, rising, but not offering to walk them back to the door. "You ever need to relax, unwind with a healthy massage, you give us a call."
Tommy didn't look back. He strode purposefully out the door and flashed a smile at the girl behind the desk. She was the one bright spot in their visit. Another image. Gates had given them nothing. Dead end. One more lead that wasn't.
It was getting late, and his nerves were about as shot as he could ever remember them being. He knew it was an illusion, that he'd been much worse, but he couldn't remember it. They drove back to the station house in silence, making their way back to the office and the pile of reports.
"Get the blue-shirts out on the street," Tommy said at last. "By tomorrow I want every illicit shutterbug, porno-merchant, and film nut in the city questioned. Run the computer files on the same types of things, concentrating on photographers who specialize in nude young women, in particular those who use, or have used, the Gates Entertainment Service to acquire models. Shouldn't be more than a couple hundred thousand.
"And don't forget to follow up on that developing fluid. See if there's more than one kind, how rare each brand is, and what brand we're dealing with. It's pretty thin, but it’s all we have."
His grin was strained, but Mac returned it, nodding. Tommy didn't want to do what he had to do next, and Mac wouldn't have traded places with him for all the gold in the world.
Before he could go home, before he could knock off and put his brain down for a few hours of much needed rest, Tommy had to face the chief.
Chief Inspector "By-the-book Brown" was waiting in the office down the hall, and he was going to want answers. He was not going to want to hear about another psycho killer, nor was he going to be interested in the meager progress they'd made thus far. These were facts.
With a sigh, Tommy rose and headed down the hall, knocking sharply on the door at the end of the hall and pushing it open. Brown was going over some files, but he snapped his head up as Tommy entered, eyes blazing.
"What do you have," he snapped. No hello. No how was your day, Tommy boy. Just "What do you have."
"Not much, Chief," Tommy admitted, plopping into the chair across from the man and readying himself for the storm. "We have one grade-A fucking psycho on our hands. He kills young women, gives them a complete makeover, poses them, and takes pictures like he was on a Sunday fucking picnic. He writes cute little poems on the mirror in women's lipstick. He leaves prints and semen all over everything important, and we have nothing."
"Detective Doyle," Brown began, "that is not what I want. What I want is a name. A double-D god damned name, do you hear me? Do you know why I want that name so fucking badly? Do you?"
The man rose slowly to his full 5'4" height, broad shoulders quivering and the vein in the middle of his forehead threatening to burst. Tommy looked up, fought back a smile, and said nothing, waiting. Chief Inspector Brown was a hard man, a talented leader, but one thing he'd never been accused of was being an imposing figure.
"I'll tell you why, Doyle," the man almost snorted at him, "I'll show you." He tossed a newspaper on the desk between them, and Tommy stared down at it, his heart sinking. Here we go again, he muttered. The fucking press, the fucking enemy from within. The headline was big, and it was blatant.
"Kodak Zodiac Strikes City; Psychos 'R' Us Cop on the Trail."
"The fucking Kodak Zodiac, for chrissakes," Brown sputtered. "Do you know how many city councilmen have been on this phone today? The mayor herself called, wanting to know what we were doing, when we would catch this guy. The city is in an uproar."
"We're pulling in every suspect involved in any sort of illicit photo activity," Tommy began, trying to divert the other man's rampage, and failing.
"I don't care what you are doing, Doyle, I just want that fucking name. You get it for me, and you get it fast. No punches pulled. You need backup, you got it. I want this solved before they call out and have the fucking FBI breathing down our necks. Do you understand me?"
Tommy nodded, knowing no answer was really required. Brown knew as well as he did the problems involved, and he knew, also, that it was not as easy as he wanted it to be. He just needed to blow off steam, and Tommy was there for him. Swell. Rising, he headed back to the door.
It was a ritual with them. He'd faced the man's wrath so many times he could have mouthed the speech, filling in the new names and varying the curses slightly for emphasis. They had been through a lot together, and Brown trusted him. He must have trusted him, to blow that much steam in his face.
"Doyle," Brown called after hi
m. Tommy turned. "Try and not tear too many things up this time? Please? We are on a budget."
Tommy nodded again and muttered a hearty "fuck you" under his breath as he stepped out into the hall. He'd had enough for one day. The blue shirts would be at it all night. If there was anything to be found, they'd have it in the morning. What he needed was another stiff drink, then bed.
He considered stopping by Sid's again, flirting with Terri, but decided against it. One drink would lead to another there; he needed a clear head for this one. Even that might not help, but it was all he had.
The streets loomed lonely and endless, and ducking his head against the evening breeze, Tommy stepped out to meet them. He prayed he could sleep.
NINE
Hiram Gates sat at his desk for a very long time after Detectives Doyle and Markum departed, staring out the window at the streets below and pondering the oddities of life. They had learned nothing of any use to their investigation from him that he could see, and yet there was something in the air that unnerved him, a certain electricity surrounding the events of the day that put him on the edge of his seat and made him wonder just what the fuck he was doing. This was not his ocean he was dipping his feet into, not at all.
He did know what he was doing, though, knew it only too well. In the drawer in front of him, locked securely, but only for the moment, was a sealed manila envelope. Beneath that envelope was another, the first set of prints Greve had brought him. They were soiled now, dog-eared and worn from being fingered and fondled, sorted and ogled. He had done his share of that ogling, others, those with the money that made this a reality, had had their turns.
Over eighty prints of various size and price had circulated of that first set of photos. Even Gates had been shocked at the value placed on them. His efforts had included everything from businessmen with photo-fetishes to a few "legitimate" collectors in the field, if anything remotely connected to what he had in that drawer could be considered legitimate.
Of course, the secrecy had to be complete. Each and every prospective buyer had known a) that the photos were of a dead woman, and b) that confidentiality was a must. It was a code they understood and lived by. Hiram was only just becoming aware of the depths to which such an enterprise could sink. Along with that, he was becoming aware of the depths to which he himself could sink, and it bothered him on levels deeper than he usually visited.
Then there was Greve. The weird, gangly photographer was changing too. In a way he was maturing, or “growing up”. He was more confident, even arrogant at times, and there was a gleam in his eye that was just not right. It sparked at the oddest times, causing the man's entire face to change. Something was bothering the freak, something he would never tell a soul, least of all a man like Gates, partner or no partner. It was eating away at Greve, though, and it was eating away at their time together, as well. What kind of a past could have brought forth such a man?
There was money to be made, but there was a point after which it would have to end and their bond would be severed. "The more rickety the foot-bridge," his father had always said, "the quicker you'd better hotfoot it on across."
Hiram only hoped he was wise enough to see that point coming. He had no intention of going down the tubes with a psycho. Jail was not in his future if he had a say in the matter; and of course he did. He could end this any time he wanted, and part of him knew he should have done that before it began.
He reached for the key hanging around his neck and opened the desk drawer slowly. He pressed the button on his intercom and buzzed the front desk. He told Madeline to hold all calls and visitors for at least an hour. He hadn't looked over the new prints yet, and he didn't want the moment to be wasted. It bothered him that he was savoring the experience so completely, that it was of such personal importance, but it didn’t bother him enough to stop his shaking fingers from reaching into the drawer.
He pulled out the envelope and placed it in the center of his desk, directly under the light. His eyes were hazy from sweat, and he reached up quickly to brush it away, clearing his sight. He wanted to see everything.
Hiram kept a special bottle of scotch in the lower right hand drawer of his desk, expensive, even by his own standards, and he reached down to pull this out as well, adding a crystal tumbler. Might as well make the occasion memorable in at least one way he was familiar and comfortable with.
He slit the envelope's seal with one long, manicured nail and tipped it up, letting the contents slide slowly into the pool of light from the fluorescent lamp. He drew in a sharp breath, his gaze caught instantly by the top print. He picked it up and brought it closer to his eyes.
It was Cherie, there was no doubt of that, but it was not the Cherie who had sat on his lap and giggled those short nights before – not even close. The eyes were just as empty, but the emptiness was different, ethereal, captivating, not the dull, mindless product of white powder and alcohol he remembered. She was breathtaking. Hiram felt a dryness beginning in the far reaches of the back of his throat, and he swallowed quickly.
She was naked, her skin was creamy and white, so smooth that it glimmered and shone as if coated in oil. Her head was tilted at a provocative angle, her tongue rested just against the tip of her thumb. He imagined her taking it into her mouth, sucking it softly, doing undreamed things to it. He imagined her doing the same with other things, and his erection pressed tightly against the material of his pants, making him even less comfortable.
Her hair hung around her shoulders like a blonde shroud. Not a strand was out of place, not a shadow was wasted. It blended perfectly with the subtle tints of her makeup, which were overpoweringly exotic and natural at the same time. She had the unearthly beauty of a vampiress, the allure of the unattainable. She had the beauty of death, a concept Hiram had never considered, and was not at all comfortable with.
He flipped the photo over and was caught up in the next, and the next. Sweat coated his fingers, smearing the sides of the prints and running down his neck to soak his collar. He remembered his drink, reached out and grabbed it and tossed back the contents without a thought to the smoothness of the liquor or the warmth it brought. He was lost in a fascination that was sucking him in, and he was fighting to regain his control.
Christ, he said, shuddering. He slammed the photos face-down on the desk and stared pointedly at the wall across the room from him, searching for something to distract his mind. What the hell is it with these damned pictures, anyway?
He knew, though, even as his mind asked the question, he knew the answer. It was all about power and control. These were things that were integral to his own life, to his own needs and dreams. It was about a cheap little tramp model transformed into eternal beauty, controlled totally, and about a portion of that control resting in his hands, the results of that control. The ultimate control. The control of life.
Even her shortcomings had been stripped from her. She had given up her life so totally that her flesh had been transformed into a different thing, a work of art. It was the ultimate rape, the ultimate shame, to not exist, and to exist, at the same time, in such perfection.
Hiram slipped the pictures back into the envelope, wanting them out of his sight and fully aware he would be back to them later, that he would almost undoubtedly take them to bed with him that night and stare at them late into the hours of morning if he didn't do something to get them off his mind.
The night he'd first taken home the original pictures, the young girl with the colored hair, he'd masturbated for the first time in nearly five years. There were any number of women he could have called, any number of ways to satisfy his lusts. His mind had cried out in negation, but his body had opted for the photos and the promise of dead eyes.
There would be time enough for business the next day, he decided suddenly. It was time, after all these years that the Gates Entertainment Brokers took a night off with pay. He slipped the envelope back into the drawer, locked it carefully, and placed the key on its gold chain around his neck. Ou
t of sight, out of mind. Right.
"Madeline," he called, pressing the buzzer softly, "come in here, please."
Madeline was more than Hiram's assistant. Over the years they'd formed a bond of friendship that went deeper, though not a love in the traditional sense. He was comfortable with her, could share things with her he could entrust to nobody else, and she never asked for more than he gave willingly. Under those terms, he had been very generous.
At least that was the way Hiram saw it. Sometimes he thought he saw things in her eyes that were asking for more. Sometimes he even thought she was serious about him, but he didn't see how that could be. They were business partners, lovers at times, and friends at others; she knew everything about him. The women, the scotch, everything except the current nightmare he was embarked on. How could she have any real feelings for someone like himself?
They’d had had their moments, though, and watching her slide softly through the door, barely cracking it open and rustling the silk of her dress provocatively against the wood, Hiram believed they were about to have another. He thanked whatever god still looked after him that there were distractions in the world.
"How would you like to just say fuck it all and go out with me tonight?" he asked without preliminaries – no games. He swept his eyes over her appreciatively. "I feel like a change of scenery, and I wouldn't miss your company, even without work, for anything."
She smiled at him, moved around the edge of the desk and slipped onto his lap, where she fit snugly. Wrapping him in her arms and leaning in so that he could breathe her perfume, so that her eyes captured his completely, she brushed his lips softly with a kiss. "I'd like that very much," she breathed.
Hiram felt his already painful erection leap instantly against her thigh, his shorts still damp from the bout with the photographs, and she giggled, spinning free. He knew she'd felt it too, and he grinned at her.
"Oh, no," she said, shaking a finger at him. "You said 'out', and you are taking me out before anything else, do you understand me?"
Sins of the Flash Page 13
