by Ethan Cross
“I do most of my work for lawyers and the cops.”
“Okay, then I guess the pimp is actually far more respectable than your typical clients.”
“You cut me deep, fair Jennifer. Did he leave a message?”
“Just to stop by his place.”
Baxter Kincaid unbuttoned his white Hawaiian shirt adorned with pale red flowers and struck a pose like an underwear model, showing off his muscled abdomen. He said, “Do you think maybe he was wanting to recruit me as a male prostitute?”
“No shirt, no service.”
Baxter buttoned up and said, “Has my vinyl arrived?”
“Do I look like your secretary?”
“Yes, you do actually. And I have a crush on my secretary.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “That sounds creepy, not sexy. And if I’m your secretary, then it’s not flirting, it’s sexual harassment. Go check the rows, Romeo,” Jenny V said, returning to the magazine she had been reading.
Baxter headed toward the aisles of records and vintage concert posters, noticing the sign over a hallway which read, “Medical Marijuana Screenings.” This was where he had received his own medical card. He smiled, thinking how lucky he was to live in the fabulous city of San Francisco. And not just because of the counterculture. Baxter had even loved The City during his days as a homeless kid on her streets.
Working his way to the proper row, he found the vinyl album he had used as an excuse to come in, checked out, and headed over to the pimp’s house. Curiosity drove him more than anything else. Baxter had befriended most of the malcontents who resided on Haight and Ash and in the other sketchy neighborhoods of the city, like the Tenderloin district where he’d cut his own teeth.
Baxter had been originally raised in San Antonio, Texas, but his family moved a month after his thirteenth birthday. He would never forget the days of soup kitchens and homeless shelters as a young teen. He knew these were his people, and the city would always be his home. It was the only place where people understood the pain of growing up hungry and destitute and why letting your freak flag fly was nothing to be ashamed of.
The pimp’s apartment was a couple alleyways off Haight and Ash. Most of Faraz’s business was done in hotel rooms, but he maintained a small bordello within his apartment building, which doubled as a home for the girls who couldn’t afford a place of their own. Baxter had clandestinely removed most of the truly noxious influences in the neighborhood through his SFPD connections, and more radical means, but Faraz wasn’t all bad. He didn’t necessarily agree with the man’s profession, but at least Faraz respected his ladies and gave them opportunities to rise above working on their backs. Many of his girls had earned their GEDs and moved on to more respectable lines of work. Faraz had actually grown more successful because of the opportunities he afforded his girls.
Baxter would not typically answer a summons from a man like Faraz. He paid the bills by working for high-priced lawyers and using his network of informants to help his old colleagues in the SFPD, but Faraz had earned his respect enough to warrant at least a consultation.
The face of the apartment building was covered in flaking white paint, and the apartments had been built with bay windows and high ceilings. At one time, the building had probably been an expensive hive for the city’s elite hippies. Now, it was Faraz’s personal domain and a high-priced brothel catering to the many businessmen visiting the city in search of the free love found back in the 60s, and finding that this brand of loving was hardly free.
The building smelled vaguely of urine, herb, and cigarettes, but so did most of the back alleys here. A brooding hulk of a man stood guard just inside the front entrance. As Baxter crossed the threshold, the hulk stepped in front of him and said, “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but Faraz left a message that he wanted to see me.”
The big, bald-headed white guy wore gold aviator sunglasses, and the lower half of his face protruded out like the countenance of a chimpanzee or monkey. The Monkey Man said, “Mr. Faraz is busy and not receiving visitors.”
Baxter raised an eyebrow. “Busy sampling his own wares?”
Monkey Man didn’t understand. Instead, the guard said, “You need to leave. Come back later.”
“I was summoned, big man. And I’m not a dog that merely comes when you call. If he doesn’t see me right now, then he can take his case to the National Society of Pimps and Assholes and see how that shakes out for him.”
Monkey Man shoved Baxter away and said, “The boss is busy. Bounce.”
“Are you positive you don’t want to at least ask him? Just in case his business with me is more important than getting his knob polished?”
“I said get to stepping, prick!”
Baxter pulled a cell phone from his pocket and held it up to take a picture. Clearly frustrated and wanting to get back to staring mindlessly at nothing, Monkey Man said, “What are you doing?”
“I just wanted to get a picture of you. I’m going to send it to the Discovery Channel. They’ll pay big money for a shot of Bigfoot in his natural habitat.”
The punch from Monkey Man was fast for a big man, but still much too slow for Baxter to allow it to connect.
He deplored violence, but some people refused to listen without a slap to the face. He ducked beneath the big man’s right hook and punched him squarely in his nut sack. When the Neanderthal bent forward in pain, Baxter threw his elbow up into the man’s jaw, mostly using his legs to supply the force of the blow. The move connected with a crunch, aviator sunglasses flying from his elongated head as the big man fell back unconscious.
A memory of his father swam to the surface of Baxter’s consciousness. “Don’t ever start the fight, Bax,” his father had said, “but make damn sure you finish it.”
He snatched up the primate’s Aviators and slipped them over his ears. They were the version with brown-tinted lenses, just like Baxter preferred. His pair had been broken by a pissed-off lawyer almost a week prior. The brown lenses gave the world a warm, sepia-toned quality. It made him feel as if every moment was a fond memory captured by some department store photographer.
Reaching into his fanny pack, he loaded a bowl as he ascended the stairs to Faraz’s “penthouse.” Striking his Zippo and lighting the herb, he reached the second floor. The walls were old plaster but had been re-painted recently. The place was clean and smelled of jasmine. The six small apartments on this floor belonged to Faraz’s girls. The third floor had once been the same conglomeration of tiny one-bedrooms, but the self-aggrandizing Faraz had knocked down all the walls and converted the third floor into his private domain and business office where he ruled over his harem like a medieval lord.
Baxter supposed a lot of men would envy such power, but he knew it to be a hollow existence. Love could theoretically be cheap, but it was never free.
By the time he reached the third floor, Baxter had started to sweat. Temperatures in the city were usually only in the high sixties and low seventies this time of year, but today was an anomaly with the heat index pushing eighty-five degrees. Like most buildings and homes in the Bay area, Faraz’s bordello wasn’t equipped with air-conditioning.
Baxter removed his straw trilby—the kind worn on the beach, resembling the fedora of the old-time gangsters only smaller in diameter—and ran a hand through his damp mop of curly blonde hair. Despite his south Texas roots, he wasn’t accustomed to this kind of heat.
He took a long puff of the sweet leaf as he reached the third floor and blew it out into the open space. He could still see where the walls of the apartments had once been, but Faraz’s home looked relatively clean and hospitable despite a mishmash of old plaster and new drywall. The whole floor was one big open space. The air here smelled like sweat and vanilla-scented incense.
Faraz lay atop a bed in one corner of the penthouse, oblivious to Baxter’s approach. The detective had a strange talent for approaching people without making a sound, perhaps something inherited from distant Na
tive American ancestors. The Iranian pimp’s buttocks were exposed and moving up and down as he pressed himself into a girl who, to Baxter’s eyes, looked to be about fourteen. He assumed she was probably older. Faraz was actually a pretty stand-up guy, as far as pimps were concerned, but Baxter would check her out to be sure. If she was underage, then he knew a few people who didn’t take kindly to pedophiles of any kind. With a phone call, Faraz would be dead or wishing he was.
“Am I interrupting?” Baxter said.
Faraz rolled off the girl in a tumbling mass of flailing limbs and snatched a 9mm Beretta pistol from the nightstand beside his bed. The Iranian huffed and puffed, his face red with exertion.
Baxter didn’t even flinch. He said, “I heard you were looking for me.”
The pimp muttered something in a language that was unintelligible to Kincaid as he laid the pistol back on the nightstand. In English, Faraz said, “How did you get up here?”
“Your pet monkey was taking a nap. How old is that girl?”
Faraz shook his head. “Don’t worry, Kincaid. She’s nineteen. I checked her ID. Even I have a code of conduct.”
“I’ll be checking into that. So is this her interview for employment?”
“I have to make sure all of the girls under my employ are top notch. You’re not a cop anymore, remember.”
“I’m well aware. And I understand that brand management is important. As long as she knows what she’s getting into and makes a fair wage for her troubles, she can make her own choices. Now, why are you wanting to see me?”
Around his naked waist, Faraz wrapped a robe which sported a three foot dragon beside Bruce Lee’s face and said, “One of my best girls, Sammy, she has a sister in college who’s gone missing.”
“How long has the girl been unaccounted for?”
“Nearly two weeks.”
“That’s a mighty frigid trail, partner. What about the cops?”
“They didn’t do much more than file a report.”
“I doubt that.”
Baxter considered his options. He didn’t really need the money, and he didn’t want to earn a reputation for working for the dregs of society like Faraz. But he also had a soft spot for the downtrodden and the underdogs, which had earned him the nickname of the “People’s Pig” through his pro-bono work catering to all those who normal society would prefer didn’t exist.
He said, “I’ll need to speak with Sammy directly, and if this is some attempt to trick me into tracking down one of your wayward harem, then I’ll come back here and circumcise that turtlehead between your legs with a rusty spoon. You dig, brah?”
18
Ackerman moved his chess piece across the board, unable to hide a small smile. His elation didn’t stem from the fact that he intended to win the game. Not that he was typically of a mindset to let anyone defeat him. But, in this case, he couldn’t help but allow the boy to take him. Dylan—Marcus’s son and his nephew—wasn’t even double digits yet and here he was trying to emulate the famous chess game known as Kasparov’s Immortal in which the Russian grandmaster defeated Topalov in forty-four moves. Ackerman couldn’t resist playing the role of Topalov as the boy astounded him with his ingenuity. Either Dylan had inherited Marcus’s amazing memory or Ackerman’s genius. Perhaps a bit of both. The thought filled him with a strange warmth—what great and terrible things could be achieved by someone who was an amalgamation of he and his brother. Dylan fascinated him. The boy seemed more and more like a tiny version of himself by the day.
Dylan said, “Checkmate.”
Ackerman beamed with pride. “So it is.”
“Want to play again?”
“Maybe after a bit, young Kasparov. Let’s chat for a while.”
The hotel room was much like countless others Ackerman had played in over the years. Off-white walls and no overhead lighting, which he suspected was to hide the dust and grime. Low quality prints of beaches and sunsets adorned the disgustingly tropical walls. Ackerman felt like Jimmy Buffet had puked all over the entire motor inn.
Emily Morgan sat in a chair beside Dylan, reading a paperback novel. She looked up with suspicion as Ackerman mentioned having a “chat.”
Her impeccable intuition served her well. He suspected that she wouldn’t be entirely pleased with the nature of the following conversation.
Ackerman said, “How do you feel about spending time with other kids your age?”
Dylan didn’t make eye contact, and Ackerman had noticed that he seldom did. “They tend not to understand me.”
Tend not … Dylan spoke with a formality and polished adultness that was unusual for a boy his age.
“You say they don’t understand you. But do you understand them?”
“Not really. It seems like I always say the wrong thing.”
Emily Morgan, his babysitter and Dylan’s self-appointed protector, said, “What are you doing?”
Ackerman ignored her. “Dylan, would you prefer to play alone with your Legos or play baseball with other kids?”
“I like playing chess with you.”
“But what about boys your own age?”
“Not really. I prefer to play alone.”
Emily stood and took Dylan by the hand. She shot Ackerman a scathing glance and said, “Let’s go see if your dad is back yet, buddy.”
Dylan scowled but followed her from the room. A moment later, Emily returned, slamming the door behind her. “What exactly was that all about?”
He didn’t look up at her. He busied himself breaking down the chess set and putting it away. She walked closer and said, “I could have you thrown back in the darkest hole they can find. Is that what you want?”
Ackerman met her gaze and shook his head. “I have a better question. When do you plan to share Dylan’s diagnosis with my brother?”
19
The area they were using for the briefing was called a corporate center. It was basically just one of the normal hotel rooms with everything stripped out of it and replaced with a conference table and some flat-screen monitors. Having taken custody of the room as their informal staging area while in Oklahoma, Marcus had wasted little time making the space his own. Almost every wall was covered with printouts and pictures, but he had left the conference table.
Marcus waited for everyone to take their seats before starting the briefing. He said, “I met with the Director and Valdas this morning.” He went on to explain about the organized-crime connection, the mutilated bodies, Mr. King, the undercover agent, and the urban legend.
Andrew asked, “What about the bodies?”
Marcus gestured to the packet of information. Just seeing the physical file folder made him angry. He had been in the process of moving all of the SO’s files over to digital. Unfortunately, Ackerman always insisted on reviewing paper records.
“There’s the file on the bodies. You tell me, Dr. Garrison.”
Andrew, a former medical examiner in Boston, opened the file and scanned the documents. After a moment, he commented, “All the limbs were removed postmortem. Cause of death is hard to determine in the reduced state, but the ME notes bruising, broken bones, and internal bleeding all over the cores of the male victims. Which happened while they were still alive. Like they were beaten to death.”
Studying the photos with a curious fascination, Ackerman added, “The person doing the skinning has an experienced hand or some formal training.”
“Doctor? Medical student?” Marcus asked.
“Possibly. At least a taxidermist or seasoned hunter,” Ackerman said. Then he walked over to an easel and a giant pad of presentation and meeting paper. Marcus also hated the old-school paper and markers method. He had a high-tech organic LED touch screen mounted to one wall, but his favorite digital display board had hardly been used since his brother had started working cases with them.
At the board, Ackerman continued, “Let’s look at everything we know so far. Let’s dissect this thing, just crack the breast bone, separate the ribcage, a
nd reach up to the heart of it …”
Ackerman wrote “Gladiator” across the top of one page. Then he wrote down each thought as he spoke it.
“He works for Demon. How did that happen? Where is he from? What is his…hunger?”
Marcus added, “Contracted to King to murder and leave bodies in public places.”
Leaning back with her feet on the conference table, Maggie said, “What about the two bodies that they’ve identified but can’t connect to King?”
“Probably just part of one’s smokescreen and one’s hunger,” Marcus replied. “It leads the trail of evidence away from King, and those two bodies that were identified—the marine and the boxer—they were worthy opponents.”
Ackerman smiled. “Right, they were two victims whom the Gladiator chose himself. So he’s definitely wanting a challenge, looking for a worthy adversary.”
“Then let’s not keep him waiting,” Marcus said in a voice that was half growl.
Stepping up to the easel, marker in hand, Ackerman said, “Let’s look at the methods of execution.” As he spoke, he wrote a note about each point. “He removes their hands and feet and skin. Possible trophies. Or it could simply be to obscure their identities. If it’s the latter, then those acts are just part of the job. They serve a purpose. They don’t fulfill any of his personal desires. So what parts of these crimes do fulfill his desires. We need to isolate what’s part of the job and what’s part of the killer.”
Marcus said, “The beatings are his thing. He’s picking worthy opponents and then pummeling them to death, probably arena style.”
“But what about the women?” Ackerman mused.
Marcus said, “What really stands out to me is the faces and the skulls being crushed. If they’re already dead, or at least very close to it when he finishes with the hammer, that act has to have personal significance. If he’s already planning to remove the skin and appendages, he could simply cut the head off with the rest. He doesn’t need to destroy their faces like that. He wants to do it.”
