In practice, the woman was killing me. All I’d learned during my time there was that being head waitress wasn’t her only source of income, judging by the expensive furnishings and her lovely, lace undergarments. When asked, she claimed not to be involved in the drug trade. I tried to ask her a more general question, “Are you involved in any illegal activity?”
She shook her head. “Too broad,” she said, and removed a second gartered stocking. Then she put her slipper back on. I wasn’t sure how, but she’d figured out I had a thing for pretty feet. She pointed them and smiled, admiring her work. “I’m going to keep these on when we have sex, since you like them so much.”
I tried to ignore those little toes wiggling at me. “Too broad wasn’t in your rules,” I said.
“Too stupid was,” she said. “I’m wearing six hundred quid’s worth of lingerie for you and I’m a waitress. Of course I’m doing something that ain’t fucking legal.”
I changed the subject to information that wasn’t germane to the case, but which I had already independently verified from other sources. I’d know immediately if she were lying to me. She answered every question candidly. That told me that however strange her little game was, she was keeping her word: as long as I didn’t violate her rules, she’d answer the questions honestly. On impulse, I asked her point blank if she’d killed her stepfather, and without hesitation, she said, “No.” I believed her, though I admit I wished Dark had been with me to give me her opinion. “Do you know who did?” I asked.
She hesitated, the first time she’d done so, and then said. “Not for sure, no.”
“Rosie, if you know something, you have to tell me. The police will charge you for certain.”
“I don’t know anything, I just have my suspicions, same as you do.”
“Your suspicions could be considered evidence.” I leaned forward. “You need to tell me.”
She shook her head. “They’re just my opinions, and opinions are personal. I’ll tell you if you want, but I strip naked after.” Another black widow smile. “Except for the shoes.”
The woman was as exasperatingly stubborn as Dark. So of course, I was smitten. “What happens when you’re naked?” I’d avoided asking that until just then, but I was close enough to wrapping up this interview, I reckoned it might be worth the risk. All I needed was to get out the door without touching her and hope she never told anyone I’d allowed her to strip.
She pointed a long arm and slender hand toward the bedroom door. “We go in there, both of us, and we don’t come out.” The look on her face was one of hopeful determination.
“Why, Rosie?” I regretted it as soon as I’d mouthed the question.
The garter came off. “I want you, you feckin’ idiot. Want to know why?”
This time, I kept my mouth shut.
Rosie’s game wasn’t all silliness, however. A key interviewer’s technique is getting the subject rattled—asking her to relate the story out of sequence or even forcing her to relay the events backwards via questioning. By Rosie’s rules, those techniques were out, because doing so meant asking the same question in a different way, which she’d write off as a stupid question, refuse to answer it, or strip. As I pondered this, I began pacing back and forth while she quietly watched me as if this were a match at Wimbledon.
My frustration subsided when it hit me: she was doing this on purpose. She needed me off-guard, and if it wasn’t just a game, then it must be important. I decided to find out why. I stopped pacing and sat on her leather sofa, positioning myself again across from her. She looked small, but supremely confident seated in her black cowhide armchair wearing a black lace bra, matching panties, and those damned fuzzy slippers. Technically, the shoes didn’t count, since I’d already lost those. She only kept them to keep me noticing her feet. The way I saw it, I had to figure out what I needed to know in the next two questions, or somebody was going to be in a world of hurt.
“You’re pretty familiar with police procedure, aren’t you?” I asked.
She gave me a sly smile and crossed her legs. “Is that an official question?” She was trying to scare me off. It didn’t work.
“It is.”
“Then yes, I am.” She gave me the exaggerated pout she’d give every time she didn’t get to remove clothes. I actually sighed in relief.
“The police here say you have no arrest record, and I could find no law enforcement contacts in your family, so unless this is a hobby, I’m guessing you learned all of this because you’re interested in criminal justice for some reason.”
She gave a short, breathy laugh. “Yeah, believe it or not, I used to want to be a cop. Thought I’d be the female head of Scotland Yard one day.”
I resisted the urge to ask her why her career goals deviated, which is what I would normally have done just to get her talking about herself. I’d learned the hard way she’d label her non-case-related motives “personal” and strip instead of answering. If she hadn’t been wearing jewelry when I arrived, she’d already be naked. Her pointed stare almost dared me to ask. Still, even without the answer, I got confirmation of a key point. She absolutely wanted to get naked instead of answering my few questions and getting me the hell out of there, and I didn’t believe for a second it was about sex.
“Rosie, why are you doing this? Why this game instead of just answering my questions?”
She grinned at me and kicked off her slippers, one a time, flinging them in my direction. I caught the second one and held it too long before dropping it. That little error earned me a wink and she re-crossed her legs, swinging the upper one and pointing her toes at me.
“Want to kiss it?” she asked.
I did. I lied. Then I asked, “You wanna tell me why that was a dumb question?”
“It wasn’t. I was just fucking with you. Besides, I already told you, I want you.”
“I’m calling bullshit on that one, Rosie. You aren’t being straight with me, which means you violated our agreement. The deal’s off.” I stood up. “We’ll just continue this back down at police headquarters.”
She stood too and rushed to intercept me, standing in my way. “I didn’t cheat, I promise. It’s just …” She paused, and for the first time, she looked as if she were no longer in control. When she spoke, her voice was softer. “It’s just, I really do like you. I thought maybe you like me too.” She looked up in my eyes. “Sort of an icebreaker, you know? Like party games.”
“Party games.” I took her by the shoulder and leaned into her face for emphasis. I could just make out freckles beneath her makeup that almost derailed my train of thought. “Believe it or not, Rosie, I do like you too. I’m trying to help you. The police want to at least charge you as an accessory because they need to know where the polonium came from.” I stood straight and released her. “But you’ve got to let me help you.”
She nodded and I sat back on the couch. This time, she joined me, sitting close enough that I could smell her perfume. I liked it. “I haven’t been with a man I trusted in a long time,” she said, as if I’d asked her that. “You make me feel safe. I just wanted—you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, and did. She wanted me to like her enough that I would protect her. Instead of just being straightforward, she was using the only tool she knew to use—herself. It was a lesson her scumbag stepfather had taught all too well. I was less than aggrieved the man was dead. “What are you afraid of, Rosie? What have you gotten yourself into?”
She gave me a dark smirk. “If you’d asked me that right off, I’d still be dressed.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, and handed her back her skirt and top.
While she got herself dressed, she relayed the details behind the setup at the restaurant. From her account, the restaurant did decent business, but nothing outstanding, and they often struggled to bring in the type of upscale clientele that can make or break a place. Then, one day, she was contacted by a friend of a friend who was “well-connected” in government. He would arr
ange to have some private parties catered by Rosie and her staff, and all they needed to do is have people willing to provide a “full-service menu.” It wasn’t hard to figure out what was on the menu. I initially thought I’d latched onto a motive for Rao’s killing, to silence him after he discovered the prostitution ring working out of his restaurant, but Rosie was certain he knew nothing about it. His health problems and the gout kept him from working nights, and all the parties happened after normal working hours. Once I got her talking, there was no stopping her. I practically knew her entire life’s story when she finished, except for the one piece of information I needed most: the name of the contact who set up the escort ring in the first place.
“So, a guy you don’t know approaches you with a proposition and you and the wait staff are suddenly in the midst of a prostitution ring, but you don’t even know his name?” I shook my head. “Doesn’t sound likely.”
“I told you, he’s a friend of a friend. My friend handles the business arrangements. All I do is arrange for catering.”
“What’s your friend’s name, then?” She waited a long time before answering. “I need something, Rosie, or I’ll never be able to corroborate your story.”
“It’s Danny,” she said, “my boyfriend.”
I looked at her. “I thought you told me you hadn’t been with a man in a while.”
“Not one I’ve trusted, no.” She nodded toward the fireplace’s mantel. “That’s Danny,” she said.
I turned and saw a photo of a profoundly average-looking guy with short, dark hair. He had a slim build, schoolboyish features, and a scowl I wanted to smack off his round, pimply face. It was the sort of expression that sang of middleclass cool, of the sort of faux-urban reputation you get from knowing the right gansta rap tunes and hanging out past daddy’s curfew. He even sported a cigarette behind his ear. James Dean cool, South London, rude-boy style. Somehow though, he was just the sort of wanker I’d picture a girl with low self-esteem latching onto. My dislike was immediate and visceral. Maybe Dark was beginning to rub off on me. I decided to push the envelope a bit. Rosie had just revealed for the first time she had a lover, had his photo prominently displayed, and yet she was still sitting right next to me as if we were waiting for her mom to take prom photos. If she were ashamed of her actions or lying about being involved in the murder, I would have expected some space between us, but there wasn’t enough room for a single sheet of paper. It was time for the push.
“I never would have pegged you for a hooker,” I said. “I’m sure Danny must be proud.”
She whipped her head toward me, glowered, and slapped the holy shitting hell out of me. It was an impressive shot given the limited room to maneuver. “I’m not a fucking tart,” she screamed, pointing a long index finger at me. “Call me that one more time, and I’ll have you, I swear.”
“No, you’re just a pimp.” I wanted to rub my cheek, but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
She swung again, but this time I caught her hand and twisted it, holding it gently but firmly against her chest. To my surprise, she began smiling. “You do like me,” she said.
“How do you figure?”
“I’ve met a lot rougher in my day. You’re still being sweet to me, even after I slapped you.”
“I don’t believe in hurting women.” I don’t know why I felt I needed to explain, but I did.
“I know that now.” She eased her wrist out of my hand. I gave her one of my warning looks. “I’ll behave, promise” She pointed her finger at me again. “But you fucking stop calling me names. I’m not a bad person, you know.”
“Yeah, you’re not bad, you’re just drawn that way.”
She cackled with laughter. The sound reminded me of seagulls. I laughed too. She said, “I love that movie.”
“It figures.”
“Oh, shut up.” She smiled at me and held eye contact long enough that I thought I was about to get kissed. Instead, she said, “For the record, I’m more of an events organizer. I make the arrangements, but it’s that lot at the restaurant who decides when they want to work. I take my commission, but I don’t do any of the dirty work.”
“Smart girl.”
She shrugged. “It’s just a bit of fun and a little cash for the staff.”
“It’s a prostitution ring, Rosie.”
“You can’t prove that. Hell, I can’t even prove that. I’ve never personally witnessed any sex.”
“And you swear you’ve never been with a client? Not even one?”
She slid a long leg over mine. “Nope. Been saving myself for you, I suppose.” I was just about to push her off me and end the interview when I heard a buzzing from her pocket. She looked over my shoulder at a clock that sat on the mantel. “Fucking hell! We need to get out of here, now.” She fumbled with her phone for a bit, and then jumped up, slid on her shoes, and headed toward the door. After three quick paces, she turned to me, “Come on, Foster!” she implored.
I shook my head, stood and followed her to the door. Her hands were shaking when she reached the knob, which surprised me, given how calm she’d been all along. She hesitated and spoke, not turning from the door. “Foster, tell me the truth,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Are you attracted to me at all?”
I almost ignored the question, but there was an urgency in her voice that touched me. “To be honest, most of the time tonight I was hoping I’d lose the game.”
It wasn’t true, but sometimes a small lie goes a long way. Instead of smiling, she sniffled and turned the knob. She stood behind the open door gesturing me through. I didn’t move because I was staring at her, wondering the reason for her sudden sadness, when I saw a flash of movement. I didn’t even have time to raise my arm to protect myself before I felt a thunderbolt of pain above my left eye, and all the lights went out.
***
I woke up in a fog some time later to a splitting headache and the sound of persistent rapping. I was lying in a heap, pretty much where I’d been standing, drooling spittle into a minor pool of dried blood. I groaned myself to motion and felt my throbbing temple. There was dried blood there too—not a lot, but enough to explain the world’s spinning backwards. I sat facing the door trying to regain my equilibrium and get a handle on what had happened. My head sported a sizeable knot from where parties unknown had clocked me with something blunt and hard. They’d not meant me dead, as the darkness in the place suggested I’d been asleep there for some time. Had they wanted to kill me, there’d been ample opportunity. I reasoned the culprit must have been Danny, otherwise I suspected I’d have found myself in the street or an alley. I’m too much of a load for one skinny guy to carry, and slender Rosie would have been no help. That was as far as I got in my clouded reasoning when I heard the rapping again and a soft voice imploring from beyond the door.
“Foss, are you there? Please open the door.” Silence and then, “Please.”
I crawled over and managed to pull open the door. Dark practically spilled into the flat on top of me. It was the last time I ever questioned whether she really cared about me. She looked even worse than I felt.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” she said, holding my head to hers. Either it was raining inside Rosie’s flat, or she was crying something fierce.
9 - Blind Alleys
Dark wanted me in a hospital, but I didn’t need to sit in some English emergency room for hours just to find out I had a concussion. I’d had them before. Whatever brains I had left were already scrambled enough that one more didn’t matter. I wasn’t vomiting, wasn’t having trouble staying awake, and the only numbness I felt was from where Jeanne kept pressing ice packs against my head. I finally got her to relax by looking up the symptoms herself. As brain rattles go, mine was pretty mild. For the second time, I was grateful for Danny’s spindly build. A bigger man would’ve put me in the hospital, or worse. Besides, we were paying almost $400 per night for the room. I intended to use it.
I’d been trained to notice small
details and to remember them no matter the stress or the situation. Even from the brief flash before my lights when out, I was able to put together a few particulars. There was a round-faced grimace, a hand held aloft, and what could have been a metal bar. My description wouldn’t have stood up in court under cross-examination, but I was reasonably certain my attacker matched Danny’s photo from the mantelpiece. Given that a subsequent check had shown Rosie and her boyfriend had taken most of their clothes and fled, I didn’t need forensics to make my own mental conviction. Dark and I slipped out the back door and sure enough, we found one of the wrought-iron fence railings had been wrenched loose and was missing. That was almost certainly what he hit me with. I guessed it was unplanned, as given I was in his home, he could have surely found an easier weapon had he and Rosie set this up together.
Dark was less certain. “Foss, you said you were hit just as Rosie opened the door.”
“Yeah. I’m guessing Danny was waiting and listening outside the door. He must have heard us talking, and rather than storming the place, he waited until she opened it.”
The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure Page 12
