Death of an Escort

by Nathan Pennington

  That was better done from my work computer, where my wife wouldn't see it. So, I decided I'd stop there first, but it didn't require a change in direction. It was on the way.

  Then the adrenaline crash began. I'd been running on a natural high, but no more. Heck, I'd assaulted a police officer doing her job. For that matter, I'd broken and entered, and I'd escaped.

  I was good at that. Escaping. So far anyway.

  The office building was nearing, and I slowed and made the turn into the deserted parking lot.

  I got out and locked my car. The air seemed extra heavy or maybe extra still. Probably due to the early hour. I looked at my watch. It was a little after two in the morning.

  I let myself in and went up to my private office. Some junk mail had been shoved through my slot. I threw it away.

  I turned my computer on, and it booted up fast. I opened a web browser. Then I typed the address shown on the pornographic flyer. A site opened up with a black background.

  Why did all porno sites use a black background?

  It had more of the same verbiage about being a true voyeur site. If that was really true, it meant it was also a very illegal website. To film someone in a pornographic way, you had to prove their age and keep that on file in a stated place.

  Given that if someone wasn't giving their consent to being filmed having sex, then it stood to reason that there was no filing of their proof of age.

  Very illegal, and the site was most likely hosted outside the USA. I could check into that in a minute.

  To access anything in the site, I was going to have to pay. They didn't even have one sample video up. I thought that was odd, but just the same, I wanted to see inside.

  The cheapest option was a three day trial that automatically re-billed into a thirty day subscription.

  However, even the three day trial seemed expensive. It was $7.99, and thirty days cost $59.99. The site claimed that the content was exclusive and not available anywhere or on any file sharing network, and it claimed to be the only 100% authentic voyeur site.

  I didn't really get what was so neat about voyeurism. After all, isn't all porn watching a voyeuristic experience?

  I had a dilemma here. I wanted to get in and see what was there. It was a gut level feeling. I needed to see what the fiancé was hiding. I knew it was important; I could feel it. But the only way to do that was to buy a porn subscription. I'd never done that before, and I really didn't want to start now, but as I thought about it, this was a billable expense, right? I could include this as a charge against the retainer from Macy.

  So, I signed up, but not until I'd used an online service to generate a one time use credit card number. That way, I couldn't get re-billed. The credit card number deactivated after a single charge, and the online service drew the money against my bank account securely.

  The webpage refreshed showing me the member's only area. A link caught my eye.

  It was a listing of the models on the site. I clicked it and it took me to a page of links. Each link was a model's name with a photo above the text. There were about twenty of them, but some of them seemed deactivated; I couldn't click them. I didn't know if that meant they had been models for the site at some time, or if they were future models and were promoted ahead of time.

  It wasn't clear about that.

  One of the faces was Kelly Brandt. At least I thought it was. It wasn't clear. Actually none of the photos were. It was like they were headshots that were cut from other photos.

  In other words, none of the women had posed for the photo headshot. That did lend credence to the idea that it was a true voyeur site.

  I pulled up Kelly's website to confirm that it was really her by checking the photo on her site against what I was seeing on the porn site. After checking, I was sure. No doubt about it. It was her.

  I clicked her link, and a catalog of thumb-sized images came up. It was a directory listing of videos. There were eleven available.

  I clicked one in the middle. It took a minute to load. It started grainy and black, and then it showed a naked woman. It wasn't Kelly. Moments later Kelly crawled onto the bed with her.

  They started kissing. You could actually hear the kissing more clearly than you could see it. The video's only caption was 4-11-09. It was a date, and it was only several months ago.

  I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't turned on by what was playing on my screen, but it felt wrong. And the wrong feeling was stronger than the desire to watch.

  I clicked the back button. It was only then that I noticed that the dates were listed to the right of each video thumb.

  The date listed for the most recent video was 06-13-09. That was only days ago. In fact, that was Saturday. That was the day Kelly Brandt died.

  I clicked on the thumb. The video didn't load. After a moment, an error message popped up saying that the video was unable to be loaded. I right clicked with the mouse and selected the "View Source" option on the popup menu. The PHP code that the website was written in came up.

  I quickly searched the code for references to an MP4 or an FLV file, as those are the two most commonly used video file formats on the internet.

  About a third into the page, I found the file. It was called wefisd33992sx.mp4.

  I tried to download the file directly, but I got an error that the file didn't exist.

  This was frustrating. It seemed that Kelly had been filmed the day she died. Perhaps this was even footage of her in the motel room that I'd examined. If only I could see it, then I'd know.

  Why was the video down?

  Could it be that the murderer and the one murdered were caught on camera? Then I had a really wild idea. Was there some connection between the last to see her alive, the uncooperative Carlie Smith, and Kelly's fiancé Mickey Richardson?

  I decided to print some of the headshots of the other women. None of the women were identified by real names. Kelly wasn't called Kelly on the site, but with the pictures, someone might recognize one of other women.

  My brain felt foggy. It was very late, and I needed sleep.

  I checked the WHOIS records. That was supposed to show me who owned the website. However, WHOIS records can be made private by paying more when registering the domain name.

  This one was that way. It was marked private. I was unable to see who the real owner was.

  I navigated to Google Alerts, and created a new alert. Any time Google found a new reference to the keyword phrase "Kelly Brandt", this Google service would automatically email me.

  This feature of Google was mostly used by businesses to keep track of what was being said on the internet about them, but it served us private investigators too. We used it exactly how I was doing it now.

  If anyone posted anything on the internet about Kelly Brandt, and if Google found and indexed it, then I'd receive an email from Google about it.

  Time to go home now. It was really late. Before setting my computer to do its cleansing routine, I saved a copy of the webpage that showed the non-existent video of Kelly Brandt the day of her death.

  I dropped the saved webpage into a secure encrypted folder in my computer. Then I started the Scrambler program to clear any traces of what I'd been doing.

  I locked up and headed home. The next day I was back there.

  What was it about criminals always returning to the scene of the crime?

  I was back at Brass Works Wholesale but not in the office. And I didn't think it was a huge risk because no one had seen me or been able to identify me last night.

  For this visit I parked in a parking lot for an adjacent business and walked all the way over to the Brass Works loading dock. Yes, the same loading dock that I'd forced my way into.

  I had a hunch, and I wanted to follow up on it. In my pocket was the paper that I'd printed with the headshots of the models from that true voyeur website.

  I wanted to see if any of these guys who worked in the back end of this business knew anything about the other women.

 
; Again, I was operating way out in "hunch-land" here, and I knew it, but even a blind squirrel finds a nut sometimes, right?

  A black man was leaning against the middle overhead door. All three were open, and there was no semi trailer here right now.

  "Visitors need to check in up at the office," he said.

  "Thanks," I said. "But I really wanted to talk to you."

  He looked keenly at me. "Me? Do you know me?"

  "Not yet," I said. "But I'd like to ask a question, if I could?"

  "What?"

  I took the folded papers out of my pocket. In total there were three sheets, and each paper had six headshots printed on it.

  I handed the papers up to him. He unfolded them and began looking through them.

  "Do you recognize any of them?" I asked.

  "Should I?"

  "I don't know," I said. "That's why I'm checking with you. Do you see the big boss much?"

  He looked up. "Who? Johnson?"

  I had no idea who Johnson was. "No. Mickey, the owner."

  "Nah," he said. He handed the papers back. "I don't know any of them."

  "Who else works back here?" I asked.

  "Jimmy and Steve. Oh, and Johnson is the super."

  "Can I talk to them?" I asked.

  Now he seemed a little suspicious. "What's this about?"

  "These women," I said. I held out the folded papers. "I'm curious if any were seen around here."

  "Who are you?"

  "An investigator."

  "What are you investigating?" he asked.

  "Who these women are," I said.

  "You can play games with me, and I ain't going to help you," he said.

  "I can't say much more than that," I said. "But if I could talk to Johnson, that would be great."

  He sort of nodded. "Wait here." And he walked into the warehouse.

  Because of the height of the warehouse, I was about eye level with the floor. That was so they could bring a semi trailer right up to the docking area and load it without having to lift anything up, I knew.

  I lost site of his shoes, and I stood there waiting.

  Shortly he came back with a spry, and energetic man. He wasn't black, and his hair was gray, but the rest of his body didn't show his age.

  "Who are you?" he demanded in a high tenor voice.

  "Ray," I said. "I'm checking into these women and I believe they have a connection to Mickey, the owner."

  "You think one of them is like his girlfriend or something?"

  "I do," I said.

  "And why are you checking into this?"

  "That's confidential," I said.

  "Sorry," the man said. "I can't help you. Excuse us." They started walking away.

  I hoisted myself up onto the edge of the loading dock. "Hey!"

  They turned around.

  "I need something here," I said.

  "You can't come in," the older man said. "Insurance liability reasons."

  "Fine," I said. "Do you know where Mickey lives?"

  "Yeah," the older man said.

  "Can you tell me where it is?"

  "Yeah, but why should I? You might be some kind of a creep or something worse."

  I walked towards them. In my pocket, I always kept business cards, and I took one out.

  I held it out as I walked towards them, and they didn't move.

  Then when I was close enough for them to read it, I held it at eye level.

  They squinted as they studied it, and the old man reached for it. But I moved it out of the way of his grasp.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "But I can't leave it here. I don't really want word getting around that I was here."

  "Is the owner in trouble?" the black man asked.

  I shrugged. "No way to know yet. That's why I'm checking."

  "So, you're a private investigator?" the old man asked.

  I nodded. "Where does Mickey live?"

  "He's got two places here in town," the man said.

  "If you know the addresses, could you jot them down?"

  "I don't know the addresses," the man said. "But I can write down where they are if that's better for you."

  "Please," I said.

  He went to his shop office, which was nearby, and returned shortly with a sheet of paper that had directions scrawled on it. He gave it to me.

  "If you would, don't mention that I was here," I said.

  The old man nodded.

  I left and walked back to my car. I drove to the first address. It was a condo. No one was home, and neither was anyone at either of the units connected to the right or left.

  I drove to the second address. It was not what I expected.

  Chapter 6

  It was the Casino Royale Hotel at the border between the old and new downtown areas. Without question, this was the most expensive place to spend a night anywhere in town. Without question.

  It was the only place that I knew of that had a doorman standing outside all the time.

  I parked a block away on a side street to avoid having to pay parking fees, and I walked quickly back to the front entrance.

  The doorman ignored me as I approached. I stopped right in front of him. He stared right past me as if I wasn't there.

  "Excuse me?"

  No answer.

  "Hey. Excuse me?" I felt embarrassed, like there was something wrong with me, and that's why he wouldn't respond.

  Still no answer.

  I tapped him on the side.

  "Yes, sir?" he said in a thin voice.

  "Are any units rented out of the hotel here on a long term basis?"

  No answer.

  "I guess I'll go inside and ask," I said.

  He put a hand out and kept the black glass door closed. Cars rushed by on the street ten feet away. There were far too many people around for me to "encourage" him in any way. I had to stick with standard, civilized methods.

  "The top," I said taking a shot in the dark. "There are condos or apartments that are leased on top. They aren't actual hotel rooms, right?"

  No answer.

  I took out a business card and held it in front of his eyes. "Obstructing justice is a crime. Should I report you? What is your name?"

  For the first time he looked at me. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know you were official."

  "Well, I am," I said. I don't know what he meant by that, but if it made him cooperative, then it was all good.

  "The top units are leased apartments."

  "And Mickey Richardson is one of the tenants?"

  "I am not at liberty to discuss tenants," he said.

  It had worked last time, so I tried it again. I held out the business card that said I was a private investigator. "I'm a registered PI working on an official case," I said speaking a wad of bullcrap. "It's okay to tell me."

  He nodded after looking at the card again. "Yes. Mr. Richardson is a tenant. He is only here occasionally."

  I took out the pictures of the women. "Do you recognize any of these women? With Mr. Richardson perhaps?"

  He studied them intently. It looked like he was really giving thought to this.

  "I recognize some of them," he said.

  My heart leaped. "Yes?"

  "At least half of them have been with Mr. Richardson at various times."

  Jackpot. "By any chance would you happen to know the names of these women?"

  "Actually, I know the names of three of them. They introduced themselves." He looked displeased. "I think they are not used to doormen."

  I nodded like I sympathized. I didn't. In my pocket I had a pen. I took it out and gave it to him.

  "Could you write the names under their pictures?"

  He did that. And he wrote last names under them too. "Last names too? You remember that?" I was impressed.

  "Photographic memory," he said. "I remember your name from when you flashed your business card. Ray Crusafi."

  "Spooky," I said, and I meant it.

  I took the papers back. "Do doormen get tippe
d?"

  He looked uncomfortable.

  I took that as a yes and fished a one dollar bill out of my pocket. He looked even more uncomfortable as I gave it to him. If he thought I was giving him a ten or something like that, he was crazy.

  Judging by the look on his face as he looked at the one dollar bill, he was crazy.

  I went to my office and looked up all three women.

  Something here was off. Put simply, there was this businessman, Mickey. He looked normal on the surface, but underneath it's a different story.

  But he has a fiancée who was a prostitute. She was anti porn, but was in porn. This porn was on a website that was on a flier in the office of her fiancé.

  Furthermore, besides having a regular residence, he had a very expensive apartment that he leased above the most expensive place in town. Without a doubt, he was not the normal clientele for that place.

  Average businessmen cannot afford a place there.

  As I said, something was off-kilter here.

  And add to that, he's been seen with a handful of the other women that were featured on the porn site.

  Yep, something was odd, and I was going to figure it out. I found addresses for the three women the doorman identified. With that list, I headed out.

  The first was a dance instructor. She had a little dance studio that sat in front of her house. I pulled up and parked out front.

  I let myself in, and saw she had two early teen girls in the studio, and she was giving lessons to them.

  All three of them were in body leotards. The woman, Shellie McCormick, was in a black one. It fit her body perfectly; or rather her body was perfect. I had to keep myself from drooling watching her dance around, and I had to remind myself that I already had a wife. It wasn't legal to have two.

  I was Catholic not Mormon.

  The music playing died down, and they all came to a resting position. The girls picked up colored water bottles. Shellie turned around and noticed me.

  She came over. "Can I help you?"

  "I'm a private investigator," I said. I held out a business card for her.

  She studied it. Then she looked up. "How can I help you, Mr. Crusafi?"

  "Real simple," I said. "Do you know Mickey Richardson?"