by John Locke
“You got his phone number?”
“I do.”
Emma goes in the house, comes back with Frank’s business card, hands it to Sheriff Cox.
“I’ll need Jack’s phone number, too.”
“Who?”
“Jack Russell. Your fiancé?”
“Why?”
“A murder has been committed on his property.”
“Right. Hang on a minute.”
She turns, starts heading back to the house.
“Wait!” Sheriff Cox says. “Where are you going?”
“To get Jack’s cell phone number.”
“You’re telling me you don’t know your own fiancé’s cell phone number by heart?”
“Not off-hand. I usually just press a number on speed dial.”
“Uh huh. So what’s your cell phone number?”
“I’ll get my phone and tell you.”
“You don’t know your own number?”
“It’s a new one. I got it at the mall this morning.”
“What was your old number?”
“This is the first cell phone I’ve ever owned.”
“I thought you said Jack’s number was programmed in your cell phone.”
“I was referring to my girlfriend’s cell phone. She let me use it from time to time.”
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“None of your business.”
“What were you doing in Memphis, Tennessee, two nights ago?”
“Hailing a cab.”
“Besides that.”
“None of your business.”
“Get me Jack’s number. Now!”
Emma leaves to get Jack’s number, and never comes back.
Between the sudden arrival of the evidence-gathering team at the crime scene, the field report from those who searched the hill, crowd-control issues, interviews with possible witnesses, and the arrival of the coroner—it takes Sheriff Cox fifteen minutes to realize Emma hasn’t returned. He and some volunteers search the house and back yard, then he tells them to move the search to the front yard and road, where a hundred townies have gathered. Then he calls in an APB on a cab with Tennessee plates. He knows Emma didn’t kill Darryl, but finds it likely the cab driver did. If so, he either kidnapped her, or she’s run off with him.
At least that’s the working theory.
The evidence team is already in the kitchen, which means Sheriff Cox will need to rope off the house so they can do their job without interruption. He doubts they’ll get much, but the fingerprints and DNA samples might help him determine Emma’s identity, if she’s ever been arrested. If so, who knows what they might be able to uncover?
His thoughts are interrupted by the crackling sound from his walkie-talkie. He presses the button and says, “Sheriff Cox.”
“Sheriff? You’ll want to see this before we tag it and send it off to the lab,” Ghostly Edwards says.
“Where are you, Ghostly?”
“Kitchen.”
Sheriff Cox enters, sees Ghostly holding a plastic trash bag.
“What have you found?”
“Bra, knife, pair of panties.”
“Emma Wilson’s bra and panties?”
“Size appears right.”
“And the knife?”
“If I counted correctly, there’s one missing from the drawer.”
He opens the bag.
Sheriff Cox looks inside and says, “That’s a regular knife. Tableware.”
“It is,” Ghostly says. “But who’d throw away a perfectly fine piece of tableware?”
Sheriff adds, “Not to mention a bra and panties.”
“I can answer that part. They’re soiled.”
“Soiled? How?”
“My guess? Semen stains. In copious quantities.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Are you familiar with the term backflow?”
“Pretend I’m not.”
“When a man ejaculates into a woman’s vagina, less than twenty percent of the sperm swims in the right direction.” He winks, then adds, “Which explains why either you or Mrs. Cox has to sleep on the wet spot every night.”
Sheriff Cox frowns. “How about you give me more point and less commentary?”
Ghostly says, “Ejaculate enters the vagina in a thick, milky consistency. After a few minutes, it liquefies, and starts seeping back out.”
“Meaning?”
“If a woman puts her panties back on after sex, some of the sperm will collect in them. We call it backflow.”
“You think that’s what happened here?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, that’s not what happened here.”
“It’s not?”
“Of course not!”
Sheriff frowns again and yells, “Then why the hell did you tell me all that?”
“Because backflow typically leaves residual stains, not pools.”
“So?”
“This is too much sperm. Way too much!”
“What if it was a big load?”
“That might explain the panties. But the bra?”
“What about it?”
“One of the cups is wet. And has been for more than an hour.”
“You can tell how old the stains are?”
“No. But people have been coming in and out of here for hours, right? I doubt Emma had the time or opportunity to engage in coitus.”
Sheriff Cox removes his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sighs, puts his hat back on and says, “You got a theory?”
Ghostly smiles. “I do.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I believe someone, probably Darryl Rhodes, jacked off on her bra, then used her panties to wipe himself dry.”
“Charming.”
“It’s just a theory.”
“Why didn’t Emma just wash her underwear?”
“I’m betting she wasn’t here when it happened. Probably saw what he’d done to her clothes and was disgusted. Probably came home from jogging, like she said, found Darryl in the house. He came out, Emma—or someone else—shot him.”
“What about Abbie?”
“Maybe she was in the house with him.”
“And the knife?”
“My guess is she went into the house after Abbie ran down the street. She went to the bedroom to gather her things to make a run for it, saw the underwear on the floor, used a knife to carry her bra and panties so she wouldn’t have to touch them.”
“Then put them in the trash bag?”
“That’s my guess.”
Sheriff Cox says, “Unless the knife was already in the bedroom, which I doubt, she’d have to make a trip to the kitchen to get it. Then back to the bedroom. Then back to the kitchen to toss it out. Then back to the bedroom to gather her things.”
“So?”
“You think she’d take the time to do all that with Abbie running down the road, screaming? Wouldn’t she just leave the bra and panties where she found them?”
“She’s a woman.”
“So?”
“Some women don’t want to leave a mess behind. Even if it means getting caught.”
Sheriff Cox frowns for the third time since beginning the discussion with Ghostly. “You know what I think?”
“What’s that?”
“I think you’re right about Darryl, and the bra and panties. Except I think Darryl came here to discuss the rumor about Jack and Abbie. He probably told Abbie to stay in the car while he talked to Emma. But Emma was out jogging, so she didn’t answer the door. We’ve got proof someone kicked the back door open, and I expect it was Darryl. He probably searched the house for valuables, found her underwear drawer, and got sidetracked. I expect Abbie got tired of waiting, came in through the back door, saw what her husband had just done. I expect she got the knife from the kitchen, used it to carry the bra and panties to the trash bag. Then they both went out the back door and ran into Emma, who’d just fi
nished her jog.”
“Those TV cop shows have nothing on us,” Ghostly says. Except that on TV, DNA samples come back from the lab before the end of the show. Here it takes three months.”
“Any way you can rush it? This is a murder investigation, after all.”
“Rushing it means three months. But it has to be Darryl’s sperm. If not, whose could it possibly be?”
“Actually, I can think of two people. One, Frank Sturgiss, the cab driver.”
“And the other?”
“Jack Russell.”
Down below, in the secret room, Emma listens and waits. She hears endless footsteps walking up and down the hallway, hears pieces of conversations. The last thing she hears before everything goes quiet is Sheriff Cox instructing his deputy to park on the hill and keep an eye out in case Emma, Frank Sturgis, or Jack Russell shows up. She waits a few minutes longer, then focuses her attention on the last thing Jack told her about the secret room…
Five Days Earlier.
Davis, Kentucky, Friday Night.
Jack Tallow, a.k.a. Jack Russell
Jill Whittaker, a.k.a. Emma Wilson
The entertainment reporter called Favors Strip Club an institution.
So’s Eddyville State Prison, Jack thinks, entering the worst club he’s ever seen. This place isn’t a dump, he decides. It’s a shithole, gone to seed.
The reporter wrote, “The bar, a full-service oasis, caters to the hottest women you’ll find in any club.”
Jack agrees the women are hot. So are the men. But only because the air conditioning system is woefully inadequate.
He grabs one of several empty seats at the bar.
Bartender says, “What’ll you have?”
She’s…female, Jack decides, though he wouldn’t put money on it. He orders a scotch, nods at the woman who quickly grabs one of the two empty seats beside him. The cute brunette in shorts and tank top who’s definitely female.
She says, “You read the write up.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“The reporter should be arrested for fraud,” Jack says.
“I know, right?” she says. “He’s working off a debt.”
“He must’ve owed a lot.”
She smiles. “Still, it worked.”
“How so?”
“It got you here.”
“Once.”
“Once might be enough.”
“That sounds promising.”
She says, “I’m glad you found us. Even though it’s not your type of place.”
He looks around. “What sort of place do you see me in?”
“Air conditioned. Elegant. High class call girls.”
“Call girls?”
“I’d think so.”
He studies her body a moment. “You’re a dancer?”
She nods. “I’m the new girl. Lace.”
“Lace?”
She nods.
“You’re not a lap dancer.”
“I’m not?”
“I mean, you seem…ah—”
She waits him out, daring him to say it. Finally, he does. “You seem a little old for lap dancing. No offense.”
“I’m thirty.”
“I hope you didn’t take that wrong. I think you’re extremely attractive.”
“That’s actually more offensive than calling me ‘a little old.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. But like you say, older women are attractive.”
“And that’s insulting because?”
“Younger women are cute. Adorable. Gorgeous. You’re calling me a pocket book instead of a hand bag.”
“I believe I said extremely attractive. I didn’t say that to upset you.”
“I’m not upset. I’m just being honest about my age. And you’re right.”
“About what?”
“I’m not a lap dancer. I’m a stage stripper.”
Jack looks her over again and says, “Doesn’t fit.”
“What doesn’t?”
“You. In this place. Stripping.”
“What should I be doing?”
“Raising your kids. With a wealthy husband. In the suburbs.”
“A trophy wife?”
“Yes. And that’s a compliment.”
“So we’re both out of our element,” she says.
“You’re sure about that?”
She laughs. “I’m not sure about anything, mister. That’s why I’m here instead of where I ought to be. The question is why are you reading reviews about a place like this?”
“Never hurts to meet new people.”
She extends her hand. “In that case, what’s your name?”
He takes her hand, shakes it. “Leather.”
“Leather?”
He nods.
“That’s a bullshit name,” she says.
“So’s Lace.”
“It’s my stage name.”
“Then I guess we’re Leather and Lace,” he says.
“I don’t like it.”
“You won’t like my real name much, either.”
“Try me.”
“You first.”
“I’m Jill. Jill Whittaker.”
“Jack Tallow.”
“Tallow?”
“Uh huh.”
“Tallow, like the stuff in soap and candles?”
“Tallow’s actually rendered beef or mutton fat. But yeah, they make soap and candles from it. Or used to, anyway.”
She laughs.
He says, “I can go back to Leather if you like.”
“No. I like Jack Tallow.”
They look at each other a minute. Jill says, “We should do it!”
“We should?”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if we did?”
“Funny? That’s not the word I’d choose.”
“Where’s your sense of humor?”
“I’m sorry. What are we talking about?”
“Going up the hill, of course.”
“Excuse me?”
“The nursery rhyme? Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water?”
He shakes his head and says, “For a minute I thought you were offering me sex.”
She locks her eyes on his and says, “If I were, how much would you pay?”
“I wouldn’t pay for sex,” Jack says.
“Ever?”
“No. But I’m generous.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means if I had a girlfriend who needed a thousand bucks for a new refrigerator, or tires for her car, all she’d have to do is ask.”
“Sounds like the same thing to me,” she says.
“Which proves you’re not a district attorney.”
“Good point. Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Could a thirty-year-old mother of two be your girlfriend?”
“If she looked like you, she could.”
Jill smiles. “And if someone who looks like me happened to be interested, how would she let you know without appearing to be a slut?”
“She’d say yes to a real date.”
“You mean like dinner and dancing? That kind of date?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, you’ve surprised me. This is a first.”
“Does that mean you’re interested?”
“I don’t get off work till two. That’s pretty late for dinner and dancing.”
“We could wait till your day off.”
“Three problems with that idea,” she says.
“Tell me.”
“First, the club prohibits us from dating customers, and I need this job. Second, I spend my days off with my kids.”
“And third?”
“My car needs tires right now.”
“Three solutions,” Jack says. “First, I’m not a customer.”
“You ordered a drink.”
“I haven’t got it yet. When it com
es, I’ll send it back. Second, you’ll hire a babysitter. My treat. And third—”
He reaches into his suit jacket, removes a bank envelope, and places it on her lap.
“For me?” she says.
“You’ll need tires to drive to the restaurant. When’s your day off?”
“Sunday and Monday. But Sunday’s reserved for my girls.”
“Monday then,” Jack says.
“You’re trusting me to show up?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“What if I don’t?”
“I’ll have to find a new girlfriend.”
Jill thinks it over a minute. “You haven’t asked for my address.”
“You’ve got daughters. You can’t give your address to a guy you barely know.”
“Good point. Which restaurant did you have in mind?”
“Le Pirouette.”
An angry look darkens her face. “What the fuck’s going on here?”
“A dinner invitation. But you seem upset, somehow.”
“Look,” she says, “we both know what this is. If you want to dress it up and call it a real date, I’m fine with that. But don’t give me a thousand bucks and ask me to meet you at a swanky restaurant like Le Pirouette.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d have to spend half the contents of this envelope on a dress to wear. And I can’t tell you how badly I need every nickel. And more.”
Jack removes another envelope from his pocket, places it on her lap. “Perhaps this will help you buy a suitable dress.”
Jill takes a deep breath, holds it, then sighs. “I don’t wish to appear ungrateful…”
“But?”
“A five hundred dollar dress is an extravagance. An indulgence. A waste of resources.”
“Not to me.”
“Why, because you’re rich?”
“Because I’d love to see it on you.”
“And perhaps off me, after our date?”
“I’d be lying if I said no. But that will be entirely up to you.”
“Can I keep whatever’s left over after buying the dress?”
“Of course. This is a gift, not a payment. No strings attached.”
She eyes him carefully. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“For lack of a better word? Slumming. Does it make you feel powerful to toss this type of money around? I’m supposed to what, swoon over you? Could you possibly be more pompous or arrogant?”
“I thought it’d be fun for you. Thought you’d enjoy buying a nice dress, getting your hair and nails done, going somewhere special for dinner.”
