Escort service?
That would explain all the equipment in her bedroom—and Goode figured it also fit with his drug ring theory, because prostitution and stimulants often went hand in hand. Tania was a smart cookie. Why not make some profit from all of her contacts? Of course, it could be a legitimate escort service, with no illicit drugs and no sex, but that was unlikely.
“What was the name of the woman she was discussing the escort service with?” Goode asked.
“The sign-on name was M-S-M-O-N-I-C-A, Ms. Monica,” London said, smiling a little wider now as he spelled it out. “I’m assuming it was a woman, although the messages were rather suggestive in nature.”
London said that only somewhat professionally, but Goode wanted to cut that particular topic short before it got disrespectful to his victim. “‘Nough said, Mr. London,” Goode said. “I’ll check it out.”
London handed him the binder and said he’d call once he searched the other materials.
“Go ahead and call if you think of any other keywords you want me to search for,” he said.
“Will do,” Goode said. “Carry on.”
Carrying the binder to his van with enthusiasm, he decided to read a few emails to get the flavor of them and see if they were significantly different from the diary entries. He scanned through the most recent ones, including those referring to the escort service.
As he had suspected, Tania was bringing her long list of men to the negotiating table—and some girlfriends she thought would be eager and willing to make some good money. This was going to be a coed service, it seemed, where single rich women would be looking for arm candy as well. La Jolla was certainly a good place to find both genders. Ms. Monica said she would supply some of the Johns, but her main contribution was going to be her years of business experience, most of which came from selling real estate. The messages continued right up until Friday, the day before Tania was murdered.
All of this sounds good, Ms. Tania. Let’s meet for dinner to talk more on Monday, Ms. Monica wrote in the last incoming message in Goode’s binder. I think we’re going to have a very profitable future together, not to mention a little more fun on the side as well. Cheers.
Goode felt a little overloaded with leads, but he was on a high like he hadn’t felt in years. This case was really hitting his buttons, but in a good way. He decided to read more of the emails somewhere more private so he could concentrate, perhaps after he got to his hotel in LA.
His immediate question was whether the drug ring and escort service could be tied back to the Head Forward School of Hair Design. Since it was also a business school, Goode thought it likely that Tania had met Ms. Monica there. His obvious next step would be to head over to Nona’s, his hair stylist, to get the scoop on the place from her because her shop was right down the street in Bird Rock. The neighborhood, which was on the southern outskirts of La Jolla, had been undergoing a facelift in recent years, with more boutiques, coffee houses and wine shops moving in. It was a ways from the Village of La Jolla, but was becoming more upscale.
Making the most of his visit, Goode asked Nona for a trim, but not too much. He felt naked with his ears showing, but it would be good to have the hair out of his eyes.
The subject of beauty school must’ve brought back some bad memories for her. Waving the scissors around as she talked, she told Goode about everything she’d hated about the experience, particularly the lazy women who assumed they’d “do hair” for a living.
The idea seemed simple enough: Earn a certificate in a year and the money would flow in fast and easy after that. Wrong.
“What most students don’t know,” she said, “is that doing hair does not turn out to be a huge money-making career for most of us.” This was something Nona said to him every time she gave him a haircut, but he figured she was just trying to get a bigger tip because she never quit the salon. He’d nicknamed her Nona the Cat because she could be catty, but she was also wily, as cats can be.
“But this new school is a whole different ball game,” she said, explaining that it attracted a much more educated and affluent group of students than your average cosmetology joint. “These are career girls, and most seem to have family money.”
Apparently, the school taught students how to run a salon. Nona heard it was almost like getting a master’s degree in business administration right along with the regular beauty stuff. From what she said, it sounded like the perfect front for an escort service, not to mention a sales operation for illicit stimulants. The school gave out a few scholarships, but otherwise tuition was pretty steep. It had only just opened, and Nona was already worried.
“I heard they’re going to start practicing on people soon and that’s going to hurt my business even more,” she said. “Just my luck, I’ll probably have to move.”
After his trim, Goode took a walk over there. As he approached the building, he watched himself in the façade of black tinted glass. It reminded him of the windows of a drug dealer’s BMW. He felt an immediate sense of distrust, especially because he suspected criminal doings inside.
He half-expected to see what Nona described of her own school experience: A fog of aerosol toxins, women squealing with petty chit-chat about soap operas as they sat around pulling, brushing and spraying the nylon hair of doll heads, or, if they were daring or stupid, each other’s. Instead, Goode saw that it was, as advertised, a different kind of beauty school. Once the heavy glass door had whooshed shut behind him, he was engulfed by an unexpected quiet. The air smacked of ambition and promise.
A few seconds later, a woman in a periwinkle silk suit and a freshwater pearl necklace emerged from an office at the end of the hall and started walking toward him. As her heels clicked on the green marble floor, she swung her hips provocatively, as if she were modeling high fashion on the runway, although she was a bit too old for that. Her blond hair was cut in that same calculatedly haphazard style as the actresses on nighttime TV, framing one of the most symmetrical faces Goode had ever seen. As she came closer, he could see that her skin was smooth and her tiny nose was a little too straight and pointy to be natural. She looked like she’d had some work done, too much for his taste, in fact. Perfection was overrated. He liked women with a few flaws.
“Hello, I’m Samantha Williams, the CEO of Head Forward School of Hair Design,” she purred in a voice like a late-night DJ. “We’re closed.”
“Detective Ken Goode, San Diego Homicide,” he said, pulling out his badge.
Samantha seemed surprised for a second, but quickly regained her composure as she gave him a soft, feminine handshake that ended in a slow slide across his flesh. Her skin was cold, hard and soft, all at the same time. Her nails looked as if they could inflict pain, if you liked that sort of thing. Goode didn’t.
He found it hard to keep a straight face as he connected the dots. This had to be Ms. Monica, or Mistress Monica, businesswoman extraordinaire. The question was, could she also be Ms. X in the diary? Is that what Ms. Monica meant by “a little more fun on the side”?
Samantha wasted no time in taking him by the arm and leading him into her office. Before he could ask a question, she launched into an explanation of “the goals and purposes of the operation” while preparing two double cappuccinos with chocolate sprinkles. As she handed him a white cup and saucer with gilt edges, he caught her staring at the opening of his shirt collar. She did it in a way that wasn’t offensive, but he felt a bit like tuna tartare on toast nonetheless. She was most definitely comfortable with her sexuality.
“Here,” she said, continuing her spiel, “ambitious men and women are taught how to launch designer salons. They not only learn the basics about cutting hair, setting perms and doing nails, but they study the economics of the industry and draft a complete business plan. The tuition is too high for students who aren’t serious about their futures.”
Samantha then led Goode on a brief tour of the facility, starting with the foyer, where the black marble walls merged with an ar
ched ceiling, softly lit by white track lights above and purple footlights below. Art prints and small bronze statuettes gave the place a feminine touch, not to mention a pretentiousness Goode’s cottage would never know.
Back in her office, he sat on a suede lavender sofa to conduct his brief interview. The cushion was unusually hard. He much preferred his beat-up leather couch and recliner, with its lower-back massager, to this hip furniture that would make his ass fall asleep in no time. But he wasn’t planning to stay long. Mostly, he had come on a reconnaissance mission—to gather some info and to observe.
“What was your impression of Tania Marcus?” Goode asked Samantha, who was pacing around her desk, nervously rearranging books and papers.
“Well,” she said, “the program lasts two years and we’re only a month or so into it. I haven’t really gotten to know the girls all that well yet.”
“How about a general impression then?”
Samantha came around the desk to pat his forearm. Her touch was firm, not impersonal, yet not too personal either. She gave him a seductive smile.
She’s good, he thought, feeling himself respond a little. He also felt the flush of embarrassment from his body’s apparent lack of self-control.
“Tania, Tania,” she said.
The back of the sofa sloped down diagonally, so Goode could either rest his head to one side or get whiplash as he tried to look up at her. He rubbed the back of his neck. What he really felt like doing was putting on a wetsuit and going surfing.
“Hmmm,” she purred. “Let me see what I can remember off the top of my head.” She let go of his arm and walked back behind the desk. “Oh, yes, she was the dark-haired beauty.”
Goode nodded for her to continue. Her uncertainty about Tania seemed feigned. Samantha sat down in a rather plush desk chair, facing him.
“Well, Detective Goode,” she said, pausing and turning her head down slightly so that she could look up at him coyly. “I heard that she had a lot of boyfriends. I think one of them may have killed her, don’t you? Or is it too early to discuss that sort of thing?”
Samantha, the escort service entrepreneur pretending to be armchair-detective, was laying it on thick. Goode hated it when salespeople used his name in a sentence. As if that was really going to make him feel more like buying whatever it was they were selling. For now, he would play along with her, and wait to see if she would trip over herself.
“It’s still early in the investigation, but yes, it may have been someone she had been intimate with,” he said. “Do you remember seeing her acting edgy or upset lately?”
“No, now that I think about it, she seemed happy to be here. She was very focused, more so than most of the other girls. She told me on the first day that she wanted to make a lot of money. Her goal was to be first in her graduating class. She paid her fees up front for the entire year, and always looked exceptionally well put-together, which, as you might understand, is very important for those of us in this business.”
“Did you ever see any men come to pick her up?” Goode asked. He shifted around on the sofa, trying desperately to find a comfortable position.
“Her father came down once to take her to dinner, but no one else.”
“What about drugs? Have you ever caught any of your students with cocaine, meth or any other substances?”
Samantha’s eyes flashed with irritation. Her seductive act sank into her like a tropical flower closing at nightfall. “We don’t attract that kind of girl here, detective. Does it look like that sort of place to you?”
The lady was getting a tad defensive. He pressed on. “Now why would that question offend you?” he asked.
Samantha, clearly uncomfortable, abruptly stood up, and went back to shuffling papers on her desk. “I’m not offended,” she said, forcing a smile. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, we have a feeling that her death may have been drug-related.”
Samantha raised her eyebrows, sighed, and sat down again. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just upset that this could happen to one of my girls. I know this may sound selfish, but I really don’t want this incident to reflect badly on my school. Appearances are so important in this town, and we only just opened.”
“So I take it the answer is ‘No’ to drugs?”
“Yes, I mean, no, I haven’t seen any around. We don’t search the girls’ purses though, and I can’t control what they do outside this building. I have to tell you, detective, I find the whole drug scenario highly unlikely and rather unseemly for one of my girls.”
Goode smiled, noting her use of the phrase “my girls.”
“These young women come from solid backgrounds,” she continued, “and most have quite affluent parents, many of whom own their own businesses. This is the only school of its kind in the country, you know.”
I’ll bet it is, Goode thought, as he sucked down the rest of his cappuccino and briefly revisited his vow to consume less caffeine.
“Have you crossed paths with a guy named Seth Kennedy?”
“No, that name isn’t familiar,” she said.
“How about Keith Warner or Jack O’Mallory?”
“Sorry, no.”
“I understand you have a student named Clover here, is that correct?”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Could you give me her last name, address and phone number? We’d like to talk to her.”
“It’s Clover Ziegler,” Samantha said, reciting her contact information off a list next to her phone. “Why, is she in any trouble?”
“Not that I know of,” Goode said, although Samantha’s curiosity about Clover only served to pique his. He stood up and started for the door. “I guess I’d better be going. Thanks for your time and I hope things get better around here, for both of our sakes.”
“Thanks. Sorry if I was a little rough on you, but I’m sure you can understand how stressful this has been. Here,” she said, handing him a business card embossed with gold letters: SAMANTHA M. WILLIAMS. “Let me know if you ever want a full-body scrub. We’ll let one of the girls practice on you.”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Monica,” she said, frowning. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just curious,” Goode said. “It looks nice in print and now that you mention it, it has such a nice ring to it, Samantha M. Williams. And you look far too young to have done so well.”
Ms. Monica, he presumed, raised her eyebrows, shrugged, and smiled. “Why, thank you, detective.”
Her suspicions were apparently relieved. Her mistake, Goode thought, chuckling silently. “I’m guessing thirty-two,” he said, purposely undercounting by five to seven years.
“Pretty close,” she said.
He figured he was about right. As he walked to his van, Goode saw her black Lexus convertible in the parking lot and called in the license plate to Fletcher. Goode gave him her approximate year of birth, so he could run her name, and get her address, social security number, and credit report to look for aliases and old addresses. Then, Fletcher could run all that through the state and national crime computer systems. Goode was particularly interested to see if she had any previous prostitution or drug arrests.
He drove the few miles to his house, picked up an overnight bag with clothes for the memorial service the next morning, and made one quick stop before he hopped on the freeway toward LA. As he went over the interview in his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder what a full-body scrub would feel like.
Chapter 16
Goode
Goode wanted to catch Gary B. before he left the office for happy hour, so he drove for three hours, the last of which he spent snarled in the stop-and-go traffic that only LA drivers were crazy enough to put up with.
He’d been talking to Fletcher, Slausson, Byron, and Stone on a conference call on his cell most of the drive up, as they updated each other and brainstormed again about how to proceed. After his visit to Gary B., Goode was going to talk to a few of Tania’s other LA contac
ts, whose names he’d cross-checked in the diary, her phone, and the more recent addresses Slausson and Fletcher had turned up. So far, none of Tania’s friends had any serious criminal records, but Goode was keeping an eye out for potential escort candidates. If he couldn’t identify any murder suspects, maybe he could make some narcotics and pandering busts.
Goode’s instincts had been right about Samantha M. Williams. Fletcher found a couple of prostitution arrests for Samantha Williams, AKA Monica Williams, fifteen years earlier in Las Vegas.
It would have been too easy for her to have drug trafficking or assault charges, too. The killer most likely is a man anyway, given the two semen deposits.
Subsequent records checks found some old addresses for Samantha in Vegas, where prostitution is illegal, but not in some nearby rural counties. More recently, she’d lived in the LA area, primarily in the Hollywood Hills, so she probably had movie industry connections. She’d moved to La Jolla a year ago and was living in a spacious house in the Muirlands neighborhood. About two miles from the ocean as the crow flies, some of the homes there had pretty nice views, along with healthy property values. Ms. Monica had done well for herself since she was a streetwalker on the Strip. Goode asked Fletcher to go deeper and see if he could find any business or other connections, such as common addresses or previous employers, between Samantha M. Williams and Tania, Seth, and Keith.
Goode hadn’t had time to check in with the taxi driver, so Slausson was going to visit the guy personally and ask if he’d dropped off Alison and then Tania. Goode also gave Slausson the contact information for Clover he’d gotten from Samantha. He wanted to see if she had any useful information about Tania or her whereabouts Saturday night— and the name of her cocaine dealer in particular.
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