by Graham Smith
Alfonse rubs the back of his neck. ‘If they are involved in organised crime, why do you think they didn’t use some of their own girls?’
The question shows Alfonse’s naivety. ‘Either they’re not involved in prostitution or they wanted stunning girls to act as their honey traps instead of street walkers.’
‘I figure.’
‘You’ve read the messages between Kira and her clients, right? It doesn’t seem like there’s anything she wouldn’t do upon request. Imagine the leverage a few photos of some of that stuff would give you.’
While reading the messages Kira had exchanged with her clients, I had been surprised at her willingness to play whatever part was requested of her. Nothing was too kinky or off limits. By turn she’d been submissive, dominant or compliant to her clients’ most base and degrading whims.
‘So, what’s our next move, Jake? Do we fly around half the country pestering wealthy men about their sexual antics with a dead hooker or do we try another angle?’
I think for a moment. ‘You find out who the tenth man is. I’ll deal with the other nine.’
Seeing Alfonse’s eyes narrow as a thought comes to him, I raise an eyebrow.
‘Do you think it could be her father or brother? I mean, maybe they found out about her hooking and decided the only way to stop her was to kill her.’
‘Why hire us then?’
‘Cover. Or maybe her father doesn’t know and it was her brother.’
‘I don’t buy it, Alfonse. It’s too much of a stretch to be her father. If it was her brother, Farrage and his goon squad will be looking at them as a matter of course.’
‘True.’
‘Besides, what about the forensic reports from where she was found? Didn’t Emily say the tests would be done by now?’
He looks at his watch and curses. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting her in an hour for dinner. I’ve to pick her up at the Coroner’s Office and she’ll let me see the reports before we eat.’
‘Off you go then. Enjoy your date.’ The look he shoots me is pure venom. ‘I’ll stay here and keep digging.’
Setting myself before his laptop, I go to the home page of Fantasy Courtesans for another look around the site. As I search through the various pages, I put in a call to my mother.
I have to ignore the mixed messages my brain is getting from my eyes and ears until we’ve gone through the usual small talk. After five minutes of chatter I’ve got the number of her psychologist so I bid her goodbye and hang up.
My mother has embraced American culture and all of its foibles and nuances with a fervent zeal since we moved here. Her accent is now a mish-mash of Glasgow and Utah, and shows favouritism to one or the other depending on her frame of mind. Seeing a psychologist is all part of the lifestyle for her.
I don’t believe she’ll ever get over the way my father just upped and left one morning, but if seeing Dr Edwards helps her come to terms with his abandonment, I’m all for it.
Calling the psychologist’s office, I manage to catch the receptionist before she leaves for the day. My luck is in. Dr Edwards has a window tomorrow morning.
Laying down my phone I refocus all my brain power on the Fantasy Courtesans website. Earlier, I’d skimmed across the site until I’d found Kira. Now I’m taking a proper look.
Everything I see suggests Young has walked a fine line. The site offers companionship and a girlfriend experience from all its ‘models’. The text indicates the girls would help ‘distinguished gentlemen live out their fantasies’, in a way which promises much without admitting anything illegal.
There are six other girls working for Fantasy Courtesans but their whereabouts are vague at best. Kira’s location is listed simply as Utah.
I’m surprised Young hasn’t taken down the page featuring Kira. In his position it would be the first thing I’d do. Picking up my cell, I call him, intending to apply some pressure.
‘What do you want, Boulder?’
‘I want to know if your girls have got back to you yet. Also I want to know if you’ve had any problems with any of your customers, particularly the ones who’ve seen Kira.’
‘Give me a chance. I’ve only just gotten back from the emergency room. My man is on crutches, thanks to you.’
My natural sarcasm gets the better of me. ‘While I’m pleased to hear you care about employee welfare, I’m trying to catch a killer and need that information as soon as possible.’
‘I’m on it. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.’
‘Make sure you do. The police can’t be far behind me.’
There’s little point pushing him any harder, so I hang up and create a new email address. Then I send the same email to each of the nine people Alfonse has identified.
I’m not happy about the content of the email or the tone it carries, but time is pressing and I know the odds of catching a killer decrease with every passing hour.
14
I stride into the police station and find the same lethargic sergeant as yesterday still rooted to his chair.
He ignores me as I take the corridor towards Chief Watson’s office. I wait for a response to my knock but get nothing. Three more times I knock, hoping the chief is taking a call. Nothing.
A laughing voice echoes up the corridor. ‘Chief ain’t in.’
I return to the desk and ask where the chief is, but the sergeant just shrugs at me with a malicious smirk twisting his mouth.
As I turn to leave, Chief Watson bursts through the door. The way his brow carries extra furrows doesn’t bode well.
‘What do you want, Boulder?’
‘I’m here to update you on what we’ve learned about Kira Niemeyer.’
His eyes flash as he waves me towards his office. ‘You just bought yourself two minutes.’
He makes notes as I speak. I pay close attention to his face when speaking and there is a tiny glimmer of surprise when he hears about Kira’s hooking. That one split second of lost composure tells me all I need to know about Farrage’s progress. I tell him everything apart from the fight with Mr Steroids and the identities of Kira’s clients.
It takes a lot of self-control not to ask him how Farrage’s investigation is going, but I need to keep the chief onside.
He asks the odd question then sits back in his chair. ‘Overlooking the illegal methods you and your buddy used, I’d have to say you’ve made decent progress.’
He speaks again while I am still considering how to reply to his dig about illegal methods. ‘From what you’ve told me, the list of suspects could be massive.’
‘It should also include her family members.’ The chief’s eyebrow lifts. ‘Her father is an influential man who would lose a lot of standing if her secret came out. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he or her brother were responsible. Unlikely, but not impossible. The brother will also stand to gain a larger inheritance now.’
He rises to his feet indicating the meeting is over. ‘Thanks for coming in. Because of your report, I now know which way to point Lieutenant Farrage.’
My nose for trouble has often caused me grief, but it is now twitching enough for me to pay it some heed.
‘There’s something else going on isn’t there, Chief?’
There’s a moment’s hesitation before he answers. ‘You could say that. A man has been found in the trunk of his car with his face mashed to a pulp.’
I can’t stop the low whistle passing my lips. ‘Two bodies found in three days. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve got a serial killer on the loose.’
The haunted expression on his face tells me that’s what he’s afraid of.
Serial killers, despite all the movies and books suggesting otherwise, are a rare occurrence. Spree killers are more common, but whomever is behind the killings in Casperton it isn’t a spree killer. It may not even be a serial killer as the methods are different.
Somehow I know serial killers are only recognised as such when they’ve been accredite
d with five or more murders. I guess that when the magic number is reached the feds will swoop in and take over.
I can empathise with Chief Watson. If he does have a serial killer on the loose, he has big problems. Farrage and his buddies aren’t equipped to deal with a high-profile and intense investigation. That leaves him as the only competent detective in Casperton PD.
In all probability, three more people have to die before the chief gets the help he needs.
‘Have you identified the body?’
‘Yeah. I’ve just come back from informing his family.’
I don’t ask the question. I just look at him until he answers it.
‘Paul Johnson. He’s divorced with one kid and worked up at Panchtraik Reservoir. The car was parked halfway between here and there. It looks like he stopped to change a flat and got himself killed.’
‘It doesn’t match, does it? Were his wallet and cell taken?’
‘No. And the keys to his car were in the ignition.’
‘Doesn’t sound like a robbery. Good luck with that.’
‘You’re not taking an interest?’
I shake my head. ‘We’ve been hired to investigate Kira’s murder. It’s your job to investigate every homicide.’
Leaving the chief to his thankless task, I drive towards the Tree. I’m due to start work soon and I’m hoping it will be busy. I have a bunch of questions I need answers for.
15
I wake up feeling only half refreshed. After speaking with dozens of people to no avail, I’d come home and worried at the mystery some more.
Alfonse has emailed me the key points from the forensic samples lifted at the site where Kira’s body was found. Other than specks of blood on a couple of branches, there was nothing of significance found within the immediate vicinity. Considering how Kira had been killed it was almost certain the blood would prove to be hers, but the CSI team will still test every drop found.
A wider search uncovered a few items of trash but they all showed signs of weathering and were probably dropped by hikers or kids partying.
Kira’s body has undergone the routine sweep for forensic samples and drug tests. The results coming back negative isn’t a surprise. Programs like CSI have made the general public forensically aware, which means anyone in possession of live cells takes precautions against leaving trace evidence.
On the other hand, the lack of fibres and hairs tell me Kira’s murder was planned in advance. Therefore, she was a specific target, killed for a reason.
Nobody I’d spoken to at the Tree had given me any information worth pursuing. Tallying with my own memory and impression of her, everyone agreed Kira had been an easy-going person who caused no offence and was more inclined to make friends than enemies.
I log on to my PC and check the email address I created to contact Kira’s clients.
I’ve got two replies already.
Both responders offered condolences and promise to call me at some point today.
I guess some may think it unprofessional of me to email potential suspects suggesting they call me to clear their names. Those people can go take a running jump at themselves. I need to speak to these guys and this is the best way I can think of to get their attention.
Because I don’t have the time or resources to see each one face to face, I’d instilled a measure of urgency into their responses by threatening to go and question them at their home or workplace. As I’d done with Hank Young, I’d reminded them how it was in their interests for Kira’s killer to be caught before the police knocked on their door.
I’m not proud of my actions, but sometimes the means are justified by the ends.
The first call from one of the nine comes as I am stepping into the shower. I lift the new cell I’d bought in Salt Lake City and answer the call. I hang up after five minutes feeling none the wiser.
The person I’d spoken to broke down in tears when questioned about his times with Kira. His protestations of innocence carried a truthful ring. Throughout the call, my bullshit detector had remained silent. While not infallible, it tends to be right ninety-five per cent of the time.
I never feel comfortable with men crying, more so when the man in question is a stranger. To me the whole idea of baring your soul in such a public fashion feels sordid and grubby. My skin begins to prickle and itch as I strike a mental line through his name and climb into the shower, where I scrub myself under a jet of cool water until I feel clean and invigorated.
Forgoing my usual jeans and T-shirt combo, I dress in my best shirt and add a jacket. The shoes I choose are the ones least in need of a good polish.
While I’m not concerned about my appointment with Dr Edwards, I want to make the right impression. It is no secret the good doctor has been urging my mother to have me visit him. For some reason he is positive the issues affecting her will one day manifest themselves in me. He is either caring enough to try and make a pre-emptive strike, or dispassionate enough to get his claws onto my wallet as soon as possible.
Being a fighter by nature, I register the value of a pre-emptive strike better than most, but there’s no way I’m prepared to expose my fears and worries to a shrink.
I’ll deal with my dark thoughts in the usual way, in the company of Jim Beam and Sam Adams.
16
Alfonse munches on a slice of toast as I inform him of my progress. The traces of raspberry jelly sticking to the moustache of his goatee give him a comical look I can’t forego taunting him for.
‘And one of them actually called you?’
‘Of course. I expect them all to call me.’
‘You’ve got some cojones…’ He breaks off at the ringing of my second cell.
Fighting to remove the smile from my voice, I answer it and reach for a pen and paper. Questions are asked and answered once again, although I am grateful this particular caller retains his composure.
I make a few subtle changes to my questions and listen not just to the answers but also to the pauses between them. I also pay close attention to the caller’s tone as he speaks.
Almost a whisper, his voice tells me he is worried about his involvement with Kira becoming public knowledge. I suspect he is calling from home and his wife or girlfriend is also in the house.
I listen as he gives his answers and offers me fifty grand if I find Kira’s killer before the police come to his door.
The extra payday is unexpected and unwelcome. His money is tainted with a sordid momentary guilt. If he really feels so bad about what he got up to with Kira, he shouldn’t have kept a regular appointment with her.
I am about to refuse his money when a better idea comes into my head. The fifty grand can be given to a charity supporting ex-hookers and their offspring.
Finishing the call, I use my pen to strike a line through his name and toss the cell to Alfonse.
‘I’ve an appointment I need to keep.’ There is no way I’m telling Alfonse I am going to see Dr Edwards unless I learn something useful when I’m there. After all the times I’ve decried shrinks of all forms, his mocking will be relentless. ‘You’ll have to answer the pervert hotline.’
‘Where you going?’
‘I’ve half an idea I want to run down.’
‘Do tell.’ I can see my evasiveness is intriguing him.
‘Never mind that. How did your date go?’
‘Five minutes in, I was reminded in stark detail exactly why I broke up with her last time.’ He gives a mock shudder. ‘That screeching laugh of hers goes through me quicker than an express train.’
‘I’m so glad I got you two back together.’
He flips me the bird. ‘She wants to see me tomorrow night and I couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse for saying no without us losing her help.’
I know I’d better change the subject before his anger becomes genuine, so I tell him of an idea I’ve had and ask him to look into it.
17
I arrive ten minutes early for my appointment with Dr Edwards. My inte
ntion is to allow myself time to get a feel for the environment and prepare myself for this step into the unknown.
When I walk into the building, I’m greeted by a pretty blonde receptionist in possession of the highest cheekbones I’ve ever had the good fortune to see.
All thoughts of preparation leave my head when I give an instinctive look at her left hand and see a bare ring finger. Her eyes see where mine go so I take her smile as a sign of encouragement.
Thickening my Scottish accent to the point where it melts the heart of most American girls, I give her my name and ask hers.
She looks for my name on her computer as she gives me hers. We flirt for a couple of minutes until a sobbing woman emerges from Dr Edwards’ office.
As she walks across to comfort the woman, she passes me an appointment card with a time, venue and date on it. I flash her a smile and a nod of agreement as I walk towards Dr Edwards’ office.
‘Come on in, Mr Boulder.’ He points at a huge leather couch. ‘Take a seat, or lie down if you prefer.’
I sit. Looking around, I see his office is all neutral calming tones. No hot reds or cold blues in here. Just soft beiges and creams, although I’m sure his interior designer described the darker colours as mushroom or honeyed teak.
Dr Edwards is similar in his dress sense. Flannel pants with light flecks and a cream shirt adorn his slim body.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Doctor. I’m afraid I’m not your usual type of patient.’
‘And what is my usual type of patient? If you know, please tell me – I thought us shrinks aren’t supposed to categorise people. I may have to discharge a few stereotypes to create a better balance.’
I give him a small nod. ‘Touché.’
I’d expected him to be sharp witted but I’m not prepared for caustic humour. If it wasn’t for the twinkle in his eye and his relaxed stance, I’d think he was having a genuine pop at me.
‘What I mean is that I’m not here for you to see me. I need to talk to you about a friend of mine.’ As soon as I finish speaking, I realise how lame my words sound.
