Death of an Escort

by Nathan Pennington

  "I'm good, Gracie. What have you been up to?"

  "I'm stayin' home nights now," he said. "No more partying for me."

  "Yeah? Why?" I didn't really care, but I've noticed people are far more helpful if you act interested in them first.

  "I dunno," he said. "I'm tryin' to be normal, right?"

  "Good luck," I said.

  He looked over at me like I'd called his mom a bitch. "What?" he said sharply.

  "I mean, what's normal? I'm certainly not normal."

  "You seem normal," he said.

  "Looks are deceiving." How true.

  "Yeah," he said. "Word bro. Let me print up the photos for you. It's all electronically archived."

  I leaned against an island counter that had papers and computer disks and CDs scattered on it. He went to one of the computer terminals and punched in some info. A little later a huge laser printer hummed to life. It fed out three sheets of paper.

  They were closer to him. So he took them and brought them over to me.

  "Here's what we got," he said. He handed them to me.

  Chapter 8

  "Thanks," I said distractedly as I started to study them. There were three pictures and each had a different angle of the body of Kelly Brandt. She had a heavy-duty plastic bag over her head in all the pictures.

  Her pants were black, and I couldn't tell if they were latex or leather.

  Her top was latex. I could tell because of the glossy reflection of the camera flash off her breasts. And because of the way it hugged and shrunk around her upper torso.

  There were no buttons of any kind.

  "Do you know if she had other clothes or anything else to wear?"

  "Don't think so," he said. "That was all they took pictures of. If there was anything else of interest, they would have taken a pic of it, you know?"

  "Thanks," I said. "This was helpful."

  "Done already?"

  "Yeah," I said. "What do I owe you?"

  "Nah," he said. "But remember if I ever need to ask you a favor."

  "You've never asked me a favor," I said.

  He shrugged. "Don't worry about it." And he buried himself in his work again.

  I took that as my sign that it was time to leave, so I did.

  As I got to my car, I'll admit I felt confused. I knew that Mickey Richardson was a scumbag, and that he might have a video of Kelly the night she was murdered.

  I knew that I had a button that belonged to the person that hired me, and I knew that she claimed that she hadn't been at the scene.

  And that raised the odd question of how the button got there. And the other question of did it even matter?

  How did you tell what mattered? What was noise and what actually meant something?

  I had no idea.

  I decided to drive to CarTech. I'd seen Carlie, the last to see Kelly alive, wearing a shirt from CarTech. It was a good guess that she worked there, and as it was early afternoon now, it was a good guess that she'd be at work working the first shift.

  I'd seen her in the mid or late afternoon the first time, and she looked like she'd gotten home from some dirty work. That would place her as a first shift worker in the factory.

  It took about fifteen minutes to drive out there, and I pulled into the actual employee parking.

  I didn't want to go through the front and sign in and all that. I wanted to wander into the factory and surprise Carlie. For some reason, I thought that would be a good idea.

  I let myself into the lunchroom on the side of the building. It was easy enough to find as directly outside the lunchroom was a patio area. I let myself in and now wondered how I was going to find Carlie. The place was huge. Through windows on the inside of the lunchroom, I could look into the plant.

  I could see forklifts moving around in the aisles. Everyone had safety glasses on and was wearing earplugs. Everything out there had a grayish hue to it.

  It sort of looked like a futuristic city in a way. The four foot aisles were painted on the floor with yellow paint. They looked like narrow streets.

  In between them were the city blocks, I imagined. Towering up were huge grayish machines, and the dull-eyed workers operating them moved around and amongst them.

  The machine closest to me had to be a press of some kind. I moved closer to the window to get a better look at it. It was at least thirty feet tall.

  Its inner workings rose up most of that distance, and then it fell hard on to the surface. Something was spit out into a large metal bin that looked a little like a trash dumpster. Then the inner workings rose up higher than twenty feet again, paused there for a moment, and plunged down.

  There was a slight vibration when it hit. Everything in the lunchroom quivered a little. The sound of the dull thud when it hit was loud in here; it must be extreme in the actual shop. That would be why they were all wearing earplugs.

  I was still wondering how I was going to go about finding Carlie, when I noticed a telephone mounted on the wall closer to the door out to the shop floor.

  Under it was a sign. It said, "Push 1115 for intercom."

  I picked up the phone and pressed it to my ear. There was the normal dial tone. I pressed the four digits indicated.

  The dial tone stopped. The phone seemed dead, but I noticed those walking by the front of the lunchroom out in the shop were looking up and then looking over at me.

  I must be on, I thought.

  "Carlie Smith to the lunchroom. Carlie to the lunchroom. Thank you," I said. My voice boomed out over the shop floor. The phone clicked loudly as I hung it up.

  Impressive.

  I went deeper into the lunchroom, closer to the exterior wall and away from the interior windows. I didn't really want her to come and see me right away.

  Moments later, the noise volume in the room increased as someone opened the door from the shop and stepped in. I waited for a moment, and then I turned around.

  It was her.

  "You?" she said.

  "Have a seat," I said. "Can I buy you a soda?"

  Those must be the magic words because she walked right towards me and sat.

  "I'll have a Mountain Dew," she said.

  And now I hoped I had enough change in my pockets for that purchase. Luckily, I did.

  I pushed the coins into the machine's coin slot and selected a twenty ounce Mountain Dew soda. It came clanking out of the bottom, and I retrieved it and sat down opposite her.

  "So, I wanted to ask you a question quickly," I said. I knew what I was going to ask, and I was already feeling uncomfortable.

  She twisted the top off the soda. "Make it quick," she said. "I'm not supposed to be on a break right now. I thought you were my supervisor, but if he catches me here."

  I waited for her to finish the thought, but she didn't.

  "Okay," I said. "I'm not going to beat around the bush on this one. I have a question, and it's not an easy thing to ask."

  She stared hard at me, and she wasn't making this any easier.

  "Go," she said. "Ask. I have to get back on the floor."

  "Okay," I said. "Was your encounter with Kelly taped?" I had looked down; so I didn't see the facial reaction, but judging how she went all silent, she wasn't amused by the question. Finally, I looked up.

  She looked like she was going to punch me. "No," she finally said. It was said in a strained calm voice.

  "I have reason to believe that the whole thing, uh, between you and her was recorded. You don't know anything about that?"

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I don't know," I muttered.

  "What business is it of yours, you creep?" Her voice was getting louder.

  "So, does that mean you don't know anything about it?" I asked. This wasn't easy, but I did want to get some feel for whether or not there was a connection between Mickey and her. Most likely, she had no involvement, but I didn't want to assume.

  Her hands dropped below the table. "You are disgusting," she said. "My private life i
s none of your damn business. Got it?"

  "Last thing," I said quietly. "Have you ever heard of the website TrueVoyeurLive.com?"

  Her hand came up, and I saw an object in her hand. It was the last thing I saw.

  A wad of stinging and burning gunk hit me in the face. I yelled and put my hands to my eyes. She kept spraying me. It was pepper spray or mace.

  "Creep!" she yelled. "Leave me alone." I heard her get up, and run back to the shop. The door opened and she exited.

  I was left there writhing on the floor. The pain, the pain . . . there isn't any way to describe the pain. I'd rather have sharpened sticks driven into my eye sockets. Really.

  My hands were clamped tightly to my face. I wasn't rubbing. I wanted to. Oh, I really wanted to, but I didn't.

  That would only make it worse. I learned that the first two times I'd been hit with pepper spray. Yes, this was the third time.

  Like a blind man, I felt my way for the outside wall. I found it and stumbled along until I found the door that led outside.

  No one had been on the patio when I came in, and from what I could tell, no one was there now. I wished someone had been there to help me.

  I had to find my car, blinded. I imagined a dozen ways I would kill Carlie. Each was more violent and bloody than the last.

  I tripped over a picnic table bench and fell to the ground. My shin stung, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of an army of fire ants eating my eyeballs.

  My eyes were watering at an extreme rate, and I must have been a sight, but no one was around to see it.

  Water was useless to get pepper spray off. The stuff can only be removed with petroleum based products, paint thinner, or acetone. I was heading for my car because I kept a small can of gas in the trunk for emergencies.

  Never did I imagine that would include washing my face in the stuff, but life is stranger than fiction they say.

  I remembered that I'd parked several cars over from the door to the lunchroom, and I was in the second row of cars.

  Still, using one hand to guide me, I made my way out to the parking lot and beyond the first row of cars.

  I grunted as I walked into the back of a truck in the second row. Now I had to make my way to the right. How many cars over was I? Three, four, six? I didn't really remember.

  Would I be able to recognize my car by the feeling? Did I know what my car felt like? I doubted it.

  But without any other choice, I began making my way toward the area where I had parked.

  I counted out three cars. The third car was parked with the front out. I could feel the grill, and I knew that wasn't mine. I had parked pulling in.

  The next car had giant fins. It must have been a car from the Fifties or Sixties when they made cars like that. It wasn't mine.

  The next car felt right. Then I had the idea to feel for the name of the car. I felt, and I found it. I traced the letters with my hand. It was Toyota. So was mine.

  I trailed my hand across to the other side feeling for the model name. My hand traced the letters again. C-O-R-O-L-L-A. My car was a Corolla.

  I got my keys out of my pocket and fumbled around trying to jab the key in the trunk keyhole without looking. Not very easy.

  Finally, I got it, and the trunk popped open. In the right corner, behind the carjack was a small metal can. It was about half full of gasoline.

  Stuffed next to it were some oily rags. I took them out too. I sat on the pavement next to my car and for the first time, took my other hand off my face.

  Blindly I tried to get the gas can open. I heard a car roll by slowly, but no one stopped to help me. The lid loosened, and I was able to get some dabbed on a rag.

  Now I began to clean my face. It smelled terrible, but I could feel it thinning the viscous mixture and lessening the amount on my face.

  I kept cleaning. Finally, I got my face cleaned off. Gingerly, I opened an eye. The fumes from the gas stung it, and it watered more. Using a dry rag, I scrubbed my face.

  Now I was able to open my eyes, but I smelled like a gas station, and I was quite flammable too.

  I decided the best thing would be to wash here before anything else. So, I locked my trunk and re-entered the lunch room.

  There was a kitchen-styled sink against the short wall. It was the same wall that had the vending machines against it.

  Here I took paper towel and water, and I washed. Ten minutes later I was back at my car, and I caught a look at myself in the rear view mirror. My eyes looked pure red. Way beyond bloodshot.

  But at least, I had the gunk off me, and I could see again. I looked at my watch. It was almost three in the afternoon. Carlie would be off work soon, but the little kid sister might be home from school.

  Perhaps she'd spill the beans about her older sister. Carlie, like the other suspects, was hiding something.

  It may be nothing more than her lesbian urges, but I had a feeling it was more than that.

  I left CarTech and headed to the home of Carlie and her younger sister.

  After arriving, I went up the stairs and knocked on the door to their unit. After a bit, the door opened up slightly. It was held by a chain that wouldn't let it open all the way.

  "Carlie?" The early-teen girl looked out.

  "No. It's me again," I said.

  She looked up at me. "What's with you? Have you been drinking?"

  "No," I said. "I had a reaction to something that got in my eyes. Can we talk about your sister for a moment?"

  "Is she okay?"

  "I think so," I said. "I saw her earlier and she seemed fine."

  The girl seemed relieved, but she still kept the door chained and wouldn't open it all the way.

  "I'm Ray Crusafi, by the way," I said.

  "Okay," she said. "I'm Adrienne."

  "Your sister will be back soon?"

  "Yeah," she said.

  "And you're not supposed to let strangers in?"

  "Yeah," she said.

  "Do you know where your sister was Saturday night?" I asked.

  "Yeah," she said.

  I was surprised. "Where was she?"

  Chapter 9

  "At a motel. She goes often. Meets other people."

  "Do you know who she was meeting Saturday?" I asked.

  "Yeah," she said. She looked upset.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "It's nothing," she said. But she looked upset.

  "You seem angry," I said.

  "Well, I am," she said indignantly. "I mean it's cool that Carlie lets me stay with her. If she didn't, I'd be in a foster home. But—"

  "Go on," I prodded.

  "She's got these habits. Spends way too much."

  "Drug habits?" I asked.

  "No," she said forcefully. "Nothing like that. She spends money on people."

  "Like Kelly Brandt?" I asked.

  "She was her favorite," Adrienne said bitterly. "Sometimes I have to eat at my friend's place because there isn't any food here. The money is all gone."

  Kids nowadays were very educated on sex, and I figured Adrienne was too. "How old are you?" I asked.

  "Thirteen," she said.

  "And you know about sex?"

  She nodded.

  "Do you think your sister is a sex addict?"

  She nodded without hesitation. "But don't say anything, promise? It really is better being here than in a foster home."

  "Yeah, yeah," I said. "I won't say anything, but it's not a good environment for you."

  "Trust me," she said. "Foster homes are worse."

  "So you guys are often short on money?"

  "Yeah," she said. "I never get to do any of the things I want to."

  "Like what?" I asked.

  "I like rock climbing," she said. "There's this place off the main highway. It's cool. There's this big rock wall you can climb."

  "I've seen it," I said. "The rock wall is visible from the road. It's all windows in front of it."

  "Yeah," she said.

  I heard the
squeal of breaks, and I saw Carlie had pulled up. "I got to go," I said. "I'll keep your secret if you promise not to say I was here."

  She looked undecided for a moment.

  "Remember what a foster home is like," I said.

  She nodded. "Okay." She shut the door.

  Carlie was getting out of the car. She'd see me if I left the normal way. So I didn't.

  I stood on the rickety railing and grabbed a hold of the edge of the roof. Then I jumped. I got over half of my body laying on the edge of the roof, and I quickly scrambled up the rest of the way getting myself out of sight.

  Shortly after that I heard Carlie clomping up the stairs. I heard her knocking. I heard the chain being slid back from inside. The door opened. There was muffled conversation as they said hello to each other.

  The door shut. The chain was slid back into place. Now I waited for a little bit more. I wanted to give them time to move into their apartment.

  After about thirty seconds, I slid off the roof and into a heap on the landing. I thudded louder than I meant to, and I jumped up and took the stairs down three at a time to get out of there fast in case Carlie took a look outside.

  Whether she did or not, I don't know. I didn't look back. Rather I reached the ground level and got around the corner of the building. Then I wasted no time getting to my car and getting out of there.

  My phone rang. I looked at it. The number was the disposable phone I'd given my wife to call me. She was strictly forbidden to call me on the house phone or her personal cell phone. For that matter, her personal cell wasn't even programmed into this phone.

  I didn't want links to her if something, or someone got me.

  "Yes?" I said answering.

  "Sorry about this, but you need to come home," she said.

  "What's wrong?" I'd never gotten a phone call like this and instantly I felt a little panic.

  "Relax," she said. "It's bad, but not that bad. For some reason, we've had pipes burst."

  It wasn't winter. So, it couldn't be freezing. How else did pipes burst? "I don't understand," I said.

  "Neither do I," she said. "I've got a plumber on the way, but the water damage is massive. You should be here."

  In the middle of the road, I did a u-turn and headed home.