I put out the fifth unsmoked cigarette that I’d lit as cover and jogged across the street. As expected, the front door was secure, and hitting all the buzzers only got me invitations to piss off. Friendly place. Back at home, odds were at least one person had ordered out for dinner. I supposed that’s why Londoners were, on average, more fit than most Americans. On a hunch, I went around to the rear and found a stone courtyard walled off by an iron-gated fence. The fence locked, but whoever came through last left it ajar, just enough so that the lock didn’t catch and I could slip through. A quick scan told me gaining entrance would be simple. First of all, in the back, as in the front, none of the ground-floor units had bars over the windows. That generally meant either the building was in a safe location, as the Internet indicated this was, or there was a robust enough security system that the owners felt building their own little prisons was unwarranted. There was a single, black, metal door that sat at the top of a landing three steps up. I saw no security cameras and no special wiring that would indicate alarm systems. There were plenty of flats that faced the rear and a few with open curtains, but the back was dimly lit with only a nearby street light for illumination. For one-bedroom flats costing nearly three-quarters of a million dollars, you would have expected better security. I made a point of walking slowly to the door, as residents don’t generally run to an entrance as if they’re in a spy movie. If an alert resident spotted me, all they’d see was a bored, clean-shaven man in an expensive suit who looked as if he belonged there. Vanity wasn’t the only reason for my attire. The first rule I learned during my stint in the service was dress the part: learn the local uniform and wear it.
Once at the door, it was fairly easy to pick the lock and invite myself in. I took the leap that a place that didn’t bother to install a security light or cameras wouldn’t have invested in underground wiring for an alarm system. I was right. Were I a burglar, I could have picked this place clean. I made it to apartment 2C, Rosie’s flat, without encountering anyone. It was just where I’d predicted—in the front, third from the right. It was easy to find once I’d traced her perfume down the corridor. Given we’d had Rosie in for questioning, I could have called her and requested a follow-up meeting. However, I wanted the real girl, not the bellicose one whose guard would likely be up. I needed her to see me as more than a cop-for-hire. If I was lucky, she’d assume I’d come to take her up on her offer. Part of me wondered if I had. I told that part to shut the hell up.
I straightened my tie, snarled at myself for preening, and rapped on the door. That took fully ten seconds, as I went back and forth in my head about whether to give her a forceful policeman’s knock or use the gentle approach. Stupidly, I’d not decided on my interview strategy beforehand, being preoccupied with insane French women with too-close lips. Given Rosie’s hostility at Scotland Yard, I opted to approach her as the good cop come to follow-up. I rapped on the door using just the knuckles of two fingers. Rosie opened the door almost immediately.
She said, “It took you long enough to come up.”
I tried to pretend she’d not caught me off-guard by jerking the door open so quickly. “Mind if I come in?” I asked.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. I got pretty just for you.”
She pulled the door open the rest of the way and I stepped in. All I saw for five seconds was the sexiest pair of legs I’d ever encountered. They started at her perfect little feet, which were adorned in high-heel slippers with little, pink puff balls on the tops, extended through her stockinged thighs, and ended at her hips, which were feathered by a tiny, asymmetrical skirt with a split to her waist. She complemented it with a sheer blouse that revealed taut abs and a frilly black bra. Rosie smiled as she caught me looking and pushed the door shut behind me. Rather than move, she stood there leaning against the door frame with her stunning body sideways to me. Her hair was loose, flowing to her mid-back. It seemed longer than when I saw her before, although I struggled to picture her any other way than she was right then. One thing was certain; my visit came as no surprise to her. The woman was dressed for company. In my current state I was sorely tempted to give her some.
“Can I get you something?” Her voice was a warm purr. “I have beer, vodka … or maybe a beautiful little burgundy wine I bought in France. I have a whole case of it.” I must have given her quite the wide-eyed look, because she grinned at me. “Even when I lie, I tell the truth.” She took a step towards me and placed a too-warm hand on my tie-burdened chest. “Why don’t we skip the wine and just go in the bedroom and have fun until the sun comes up. I’m off tomorrow.” She looked up at me and gave me an intense stare. “I can be a lot of fun.” I didn’t doubt it for a second.
I stood stupidly for three beats, with a voice inside my head screaming to pick fun. She needed to be interviewed, and I wanted to interview her something fierce. I wanted to interview her all night long and hard—to interrogate all of her sexy little bits starting with those pretty feet and ending with the pink tongue that was teasing the tip of her top lip. Being the pro that I am, however, I managed to shake my head and say, “I only came here to talk, Rosie.” I almost believed it myself.
She smiled at me and stepped back. “Sure you did.” She winked, approached me, and kissed my cheek. “We’ll have fun after,” she said, whispering in my ear.
This woman was trouble and my favorite kind at that.
7 - Mother Knows
The advantage of visiting a suspect who owns a restaurant was that she made the best café filtré I’d ever had outside of my sister’s kitchen. It sang to me in notes of golden brown that reminded me of a Coltrane solo. While Foss entertained himself by trying to sleep with that confused girl under the patronage of the United States government, I was busy sipping chocolate-infused arabica coffee and doing actual detective work at the home of Helen Rao. Helen wore a loose-fitting silk pantsuit that made her look like a Christmas tree against her crimson furniture. She greeted me as if I were a friend, which, of course, I was by now. It was an easy interview, or would have been under normal circumstances. Unfortunately, I had to fight through the sallow emotional cloud that drifted my way from my temporarily estranged partner. For most of the meeting I felt vague waves of boredom. But then, without warning, I was awash in a surge of excitement that caused me to almost spill my coffee. I attempted to ignore it and even managed to get Helen to relax as she folded herself into her furniture as if she were a green, silk throw pillow. To my dismay, precisely as she was beginning to open up regarding her daughter, the vague excitement transformed into a surge of passion clothed in purple heat that could have come from no one but Foss. I’d know that man’s energy were he banished to purgatory. When I finished with him, he would be.
“Are you okay?” Helen asked.
I was sitting, holding my head, which had suddenly begun to spin. To make matters worse, I was feeling both flushed and as mad as a French hornet. “Yes,” was all I managed to get out. Not believing me, Helen rushed to get me a glass of cool water, which did help, as it gave me sufficient time to disconnect myself from Foss. He would be on his own, and it would serve him right.
Gathering myself, I again allowed myself to feel Helen’s energy. It is difficult to explain precisely the mechanism by which I have always been able to do so, as it is neither precisely due to my synesthesia nor is it related to some supposed psychic power or ESP. In fact, I am probably more skeptical of so-called psychics than the average person. I pride myself on being devoutly rational. Most psychics are no more talented than card sharks, pickpockets, or witch doctors, in my experience. When I connect with someone, or even just upon hearing their name, I begin to get a sense of them right away. Perhaps it is the universe’s dark energy, or God, or simply the low levels of electrical energy that emanate from the brain. Whichever mechanism it is, I can feel it, see it, harness it. Personally, I believe it is the latter, though mostly I get emotional transference, which I assume emanates from the frontal lobe. With a few, gifted i
ndividuals, like Foss, I can pick up stronger signals that my brain interprets as images, as if I am seeing variants of what they see, think, or feel.
Similarly, I can sometimes see what I call auras, although they are unrelated to the pseudo-science that most paranormal experts refer to. Instead, my visual cortex takes signals from the ambient light, as per usual. However, the interpretation of those signals seems to interact with the part of my brain responsible for intuition and with my subconscious. The effect is that when I see something, my strong intuition affects what I see, and my subconscious maps it with images that I have encountered anywhere, including dreams. As I said, it is rare, but with some, to whom I connect strongly, I can see the essence of them. Most people are skeptical such a thing is possible; however, Stephen Hawking, while paralyzed, learned to write on his computer using only brain waves. Is it so impossible to believe I can also pick up such energy? I would put my brain up against any computer.
Upon meeting Helen and her daughter, for example, I was given energy that I interpreted as strong traces of lime green, which even their names invoked. This put me in the mind of a fundamental weakness of spirit in the two women, despite their being in charge at the restaurant. What I felt from them was follower energy, not leadership. After spending time with both of them, I could not imagine either of them being the mastermind behind a murder, much less a terrorist plot. Helen was weak—a sweet, though pliant tool, who my mind’s eye likened to a blade of grass bending under others’ will. Rosie was nearly as weak, but with a trace of yellow madness that could make her dangerous under the right conditions. She believed herself to be in charge and so acted accordingly, impulsively. I only hoped that she would remain calm, feeding off Foss’s energy long enough for me to learn what I needed from her mother. I had already obtained the girl’s address, and if my obstinate partner had followed my lead, we could have spoken with her together once I was done with Helen.
Unfortunately, time was now of the essence, as Foss had apparently decided to continue his unprofessional behavior on his solo adventure with the girl. As such, I was more direct with Helen than normal. I normally allow an interview to evolve organically, without a predetermined line of questioning. It allows for a fuller reading. This night, however, I had to jump right to the point. “Tell me about Rosie’s love life,” I said.
She winced, as if I’d asked her how her daughter would die. That, I already knew. “What do you mean her ‘love life?’” she asked.
“I mean, tell me about who she loves. Surely such a pretty girl has someone.” Rosie was the leader of her small pride; however, I was convinced whatever her involvement, it was not solely her doing. I had held the girl in my arms. The swirls of conflicted emotional energy I received were sufficient that I was certain I had read her correctly.
Helen stood and began pacing. Back and forth she trod as if trying to mark a path in her plush carpet. She would not look at me, but I felt her nonetheless. Foss reads expressions; I read the entire person. Finally, she stopped, gave me a brief glance and spoke. “It’s that Danny. I am certain he is up to no good.”
“Danny is her boyfriend?”
She gave an expression that reminded me of a wolf’s snarl. “If you want to call it that. A good-for-nothing is more like it.” She looked at me directly. Her face was hard, with her jaw muscles pulled tight. “If you ask me, that idiot’s behind all the grief at the …” Her eyes widened, and she clamped her jaw shut and turned away. She could not turn her mind away as easily.
I stood, getting a flash of dizzying energy as I rose too quickly to my feet. In my mind, I saw Foster with that girl on top, felt his fire for her, her touch on his skin, and then a cold energy that was neither of theirs. It was cloying, invasive; it susurrated in my head, along my spine. I felt as if I needed to wash.
“Are you alright, love?” Helen asked, taking me by the shoulders.
“I am fine,” I said and pulled away. My reaction was perhaps too harsh, but I do not like people treating me as if I broken when in fact, I am using my gifts. “You were telling me about Danny.”
Helen sighed heavily. “Yes, the boyfriend.” She slumped down on the sofa as if she were weighted by rocks. I joined her there. “He’s a little shit of a Svengali, that one. Got Rosie doing whatever he asks. I try to talk sense into her, but she’s in love.” She made a face that made me worry again for Foss’s safety. If her daughter was truly as enamored as Helen believed, my partner could be putting himself in a trap.
“Can you describe Danny for me? Is he tall, short, light, dark?”
She shrugged. “I dunno, he’s fit, you know? Not too tall, about five eight, five nine, dark hair … a bit skinnier than any of the blokes I’ve seen Rosie with, but like I said, he’s a proper looker. But if you ask me, he’s a total clot.”
“A clot?”
She made swirls around her head with her finger. “Dumber than rocks. You know how it is. A girl sees a pretty face on a bloke and that’s enough. No one ever thinks about how stupid the grandkids might be one day.”
I suppressed my smile when I realized she was serious. “So you don’t like him for her.”
Again she gave the snarling gesture. “I don’t like him for any of my girls.” It seemed an odd comment for the mother of one, until I realized she was speaking about her waitresses. She was dropping me hints about the goings on at the restaurant, while simultaneously trying to keep whatever was going on secret. I sensed the conflict was tormenting her. It was time to press forward. I took Helen’s slender hand, which was prematurely aged and surprisingly rough from years of hard kitchen work. The touch had the proper effect, however, as she immediately softened and stared into my eyes. “Please, you must explain the trouble you mentioned—at the restaurant I presume?”
She nodded. Simultaneously, I felt a nauseating wave of tumultuous emotional energy from her. I had to release her hand for fear I would vomit all over her. Her Siamese cat must have felt the same wave, as he sat himself in Helen’s lap the moment I moved away. Almost without looking, she began stroking the hairy beast and I felt her energy calm.
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you about that,” she finally said.
“Then perhaps you can listen and tell me when I am wrong.” Helen looked up from her pet, a look of curious surprise on her face. “Rosie and her staff are not working solely for you in the restaurant. In fact, you have begun to suspect she only works there in order to meet clients.” I tilted my head, in part to see around the fat fur ball in her lap, but also because she had begun to cry. My hunch was correct.
“It’s that damned Danny, I tell you. Rosie is a good girl. She was always so sweet. In fact, I was happy when she met him because I was beginning to fear she’d never … well, like I said, she was a good girl.” I lost her for a moment to her flood of hot tears. Rosie was no virgin, but I was not about to break the news to her mother. Helen was apparently unaware of her husband’s indiscretions with her daughter.
“Listen, I need you to be precise. What exactly do you think your daughter is up to?”
She wiped her eyes and spoke, looking again at the cat. “I think that Danny has her and some of the wait staff seeing customers for private parties.”
“Meaning sex parties,” I said.
She looked at me in horror. “Not like orgies. Just … well, never mind. ”
“Ah, an upscale escort service.” The look on her face told me I was correct. “And you think Rosie is working as an escort too?”
Helen stood and walked to the far side of the room, with her fat cat languishing in her arms as if it were melting. I didn’t need Foster to understand why she’d separated herself from me. “Oh God no. She’d never do that,” she said. She didn’t believe that any more than I did, which was not at all. She continued. “Besides, from what I understand, that boyfriend of hers is … jealous, you know? He’d kill anyone who tried to touch Rosie.”
I nodded. “Oui, amour fou.” I wanted to ask her if that included her
husband, but I didn’t have to. If anyone were destined to die to uphold the girl’s honor, it would have been Arjun Rao. Instead, I asked a final, more pressing question. “Where does this Danny live?”
“Why, with Rosie, of course. The address I gave you is his flat up in Islington.” She sniffled and gave me a pointed look. “I tell you, he must be making quite a few quid to live in that part of town.” She turned her back to me and began looking around at the cramped quarters of her own flat. “Maybe I’m in the wrong business.”
I was no longer listening. Instead, I was up and headed out the door. If I was right, Foss was in trouble, and though it served him right, I did not want to lose my partner at the hands of a jealous lover, especially one as dangerous as I believed Danny to be. Besides, I still wanted to kiss Foss myself.
Kill. I meant kill—English is not my first language.
8 - Rosemary’s Baby
My interview with Rosie wasn’t going at all like I’d planned. I suppose it might have been due to the fact that I let myself like her enough that I didn’t want to rough her up emotionally. You need to stay objective, if not antagonistic toward your subject during questioning. I’d failed. It could also have been the fact that the girl was a lot brighter than I expected a glorified waitress to be. Mostly, however, it was the fact that the woman was playing a game she called “Strip Interview,” during which she removed an article of clothing each time I asked her a personal question or one she deemed to be stupid. My refusal to play earned me an open door and a demand to leave. Not being the police, that left me with one of three options: stop the interview, conduct it under duress (which is technically kidnapping), or risk having a naked subject sitting across from me. Like I’ve said before, I’m a professional. I wasn’t about to stop the interview over some half-assed female bullying technique, much less go to some English prison. Besides, I’d conducted plenty of interviews of nude subjects during my time in Afghanistan. Granted, none of those Taliban freaks looked anything like Rosie, but my theory was if I thought of her as just a subject, the results would be the same.
The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure Page 11
