Skin

by Patricia Rosemoor

  Powerless.

  A too awful, too familiar feeling, intensified by the fact that, when she turned down her street, it seemed so very dark. After the sun went down, safety became questionable even here, as it did in all big cities; and tonight she had an unsettled feeling.

  All the emotional upheaval was threatening to undo her, she told herself, nothing more.

  As she got out of her car, she noticed an urban adventurer sitting on the curb. Layered in fraying, filthy clothes, an elderly woman sat guarding a grocery store cart filled with several black plastic bags.

  Hannah remembered what it had been like on the streets. No one should have to live like an animal, picking through other people’s garbage just to get along another day. She furtively slipped her hand into her pocket, drew closer, then made a pretense of picking something up from the ground near the woman’s feet.

  Rising, she said, “Excuse me.”

  Bleary, vacant eyes looked back.

  “You must’ve dropped this.”

  The eyes connected with the two C-notes Hannah was holding, lit, then went out. “Not mine.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Hannah said, finding the woman’s boney hand and pressing the money into it. “Get yourself a room for the night and have a good meal.”

  The woman took a closer look at her. “Bless you, girl.”

  Moving to her front door, Hannah figured she wasted plenty of money. What did it hurt to help someone else? No skin off her back.

  The sense of unease returned, more insistent this time, as she dug through her bag for her key ring. Damn, where the hell was it? She nicked the thing with her fingers and took a deep breath as she grabbed the keys and opened the door. One step inside and she deflated like a burst balloon. Her muscles suddenly felt like rubber as she turned to close the door.

  Just as a dark-clothed figure separated itself from the shadows and grabbed her arm and followed her inside.

  Before she could see what her assailant looked like, a foul-smelling rag was stuffed in her face. She tried to fight, but her head went light, and then all the fight drained out of her in one big whoosh...

  oOo

  PUCINSKI LED THE WAY into Club Paradise, his new young partner, Frankie DeSalvo, following on his heels.

  “I don’t get it,” DeSalvo muttered softly. “Not that I mind checkin’ out the talent on company time. But what the hell are we doin’ here when we got a plant?”

  “Putting on a show.” Pucinski gazed around the place in an effort to spot the cop working undercover. “We don’t act like we’re paying attention, the killer smells a rat.”

  “You think he’s here now?”

  “The killer? Why not?”

  He took in every detail of the club, gave the well-dressed patrons a once-over. He could be any one of them in their fine suits and expensive shoes. The ones salivating. The ones watching quietly, their fertile, obscene minds planning overtime. He’d worked the job too many years to think anyone was exempt.

  “Classy place,” Frankie muttered, practically in his ear.

  “That’s why they call it a gentlemen’s club.”

  “How much to join?”

  “Keep your eyes in your head and your ears open,” Pucinski ordered, as a man who looked like he was in charge approached them.

  “Gentlemen, can I help you?”

  Pucinski gave the guy in the flowered shirt and expensive suit the once-over and figured he was in the game. “You the manager?”

  “Sal Ruscio.”

  “Detective John Pucinski.” He flashed his identification and nodded that DeSalvo should do the same. “And this is Detective Frank DeSalvo. We have some questions concerning The Hunter Case. About the women who were murdered.”

  “I’d rather we didn’t talk here. How about the office.” Ruscio stood back and indicated they precede him.

  Pucinski didn’t hurry. Let the guy sweat a little. Not that he figured the manager was guilty. At least not of murder. But why should he make anything easy for a well-heeled pimp.

  The office was as polished as the interior of the club. Nothing like the cop shop with its municipal green walls, heavy wood furniture and piles of paperwork. Everything was neat. In its place.

  Ruscio settled behind the streamlined desk. “Can I offer you gentleman a drink?”

  “We’re on duty,” DeSalvo said.

  “A soft drink, then? Cappuccino? Designer water?”

  “Plain answers would do it for me,” Pucinski said.

  “Of course you have my full cooperation.”

  “How well did you know Rosie Harriman?”

  “Know her?” Ruscio shrugged his wide shoulders. “She was a good employee. Always on time. Gave good service. No complaints.”

  DeSalvo said, “When you say gave good service–”

  “Drinks. She was a waitress and served drinks.”

  Pucinski flashed his young partner a look. When would he get it through his skull that he was backup. He turned back to the manager. “So no one had a problem with her.”

  “Obviously someone had a problem, or Rosie would be alive.”

  “What about her? Did she have any complaints about a particular customer.”

  Ruscio shook his head. “Not that I remember. You know, I went over this with the police before.”

  “Now you’re telling me, because now it’s my case. What about any of the other girls. They have any complaints about your patrons?”

  “C’mon, you know how guys are when they get a few drinks in them. So they’re a little grabby–”

  ”Ever bounce the same guy twice?” DeSalvo asked.

  Good question. Pucinski didn’t glower at him.

  “I don’t keep no records of these incidents.”

  But Pucinski would bet his pension that the bouncers remembered the troublemakers and kept an eye out for them.

  “Let’s talk about the second victim,” he said. “Anita Long.”

  “Didn’t know her. She didn’t work for me.”

  “She worked your club.”

  “If you say so,” Ruscio said, tone stiff. “I am unaware of any illegal activities taking place here, Detective. If I’d’a known, I woulda escorted her out personally.”

  “Sure you would have.” Before Ruscio had time to protest, Pucinski said, “But you are aware of the woman in question.”

  “I know who she is...was.”

  “Did she have any problems with your customers?”

  “If she did, she wouldn’t’ve told me. But it’s a moot point. You don’t know that this working girl’s death had any connection to this club, not any more than did Rosie’s.”

  “You keep thinking that way; and when the next girl dies, you tell me that again.”

  “Next girl?”

  Ruscio blanched, but Pucinski was certain it had to do with his wallet rather than his heart.

  “Three would certainly be the charm, don’t you think, Mr. Ruscio? The newspapers would put it together, the customers would get nervous, the dancers might quit. Not a pretty picture any way you slice it. Maybe you should realize that not all of your customers are the pick of their litter.”

  A red-faced Ruscio checked his watch. “Detectives, your work here is finished. Okay, I’ve been properly warned. Any improprieties and you’ll be the first on my speed dial.”

  Pucinski left him his card, then ambled out into the club with DeSalvo behind him.

  “We didn’t learn anything new,” his partner complained when they hit the street.

  “We set up an atmosphere. Nothing gets by the manager of a place like this. He may very well know a lot more than he’s saying. Now he’ll be vigilant. Maybe even cooperate if he suspects someone. He can’t afford to screw up and lose business. His bosses wouldn’t like that.”

  Ruscio would be watching his patrons more closely. And his employees. Couldn’t forget them. Maybe Rosie Harriman had hooked up with a bodyguard or bartender turned deadly boyfriend. And maybe the perp turned to Anita
when he didn’t have Rosie to pound anymore.

  “Lots of questions. Lots to think about. That’s why we’ll be back.”

  Pucinski glanced back at the den of iniquity all lit up like a birthday cake, wondering which of these women would be the next murder victim.

  oOo

  NO ONE could save her now.

  Thrown across the backseat of the car, her hands cuffed behind her back and her feet trussed together, Hannah knew her time had come.

  She was exhausting herself thrashing, screaming through the foul-tasting gag in her mouth. If only she could talk. Plead. Maybe she could say something, make some promise that would give her a break. Buy her some time.

  She rubbed her face against the seat and was elated when she felt the cloth give a little. Dislodging the gag bit-by-bit, she rubbed until her face was raw. Finally she was able to spit out the disgusting material and take a normal breath.

  “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” she gasped. “Where are you taking me? You’re not really going to hurt me, are you?”

  She couldn’t say kill.

  She stared at the back of the dark-clothed figure behind the wheel. No answer. He had to be from the club, all right, but here she was without a clue. The dark clothes were baggy, hiding the guy’s body, and a billed cap was pulled down low, hiding any hint of hair.

  Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to cry. “Say something, damn you!”

  She might as well be talking to herself for all the response she got. Nothing. Like the times she’d pleaded with her stepfather to leave Mama alone. He’d hurt her instead. She’d put herself in this situation, too.

  This time, she would be lucky if all she got was hurt.

  So this bastard was the killer. The one who’d done the waitress and the prostitute. How could she have been around him and not known? How could she have gotten so close, probably night after night, and not smelled death on him? How could she not know who he was even now?

  The vehicle slowed and stopped. When the car door opened, Hannah swallowed a sob and fought the pain of being pulled from the car by her hair. Of hitting the ground awkwardly, arm twisted beneath her. The pain of knowing she wasn’t going to come out of this alive. She bit her lip, tasted her own blood and the salt of her tears and turned to get a look at the face beneath the billed cap.

  No dice. The face smeared with camouflage paint and eyes covered by heavy dark glasses were too disguised to figure it out. Even now her intended killer didn’t want her to know his identity.

  He pulled a gun and indicated she should move toward the abandoned building. The whole neighborhood looked abandoned, though the parked cars told her otherwise. Where the hell was she? A quick look around revealed high rises in the distance. They were somewhere west of the Loop. In the real inner city.

  “What is it you want?” she asked, stopping so suddenly the gun barrel smacked into her.

  She whipped around and stepped back, unable to believe she’d been so stupid, that she hadn’t seen beneath the bastard’s disguise. Whoever the hell he was, he’d played her. She’d never been a sucker before. Men were the suckers. Not that she’d ever hurt anyone beyond lightening up their wallets a little.

  Why her? What had she done to encourage such hatred?

  “What did I do to you?” she choked out.

  Hannah knew this was her own fault. Lilith had warned her, but she’d waited too long to get out. Shooting a hand to her throat, to the heart-half, she tried to find courage in this link to the sister who’d done what she hadn’t been able to.

  In a low raspy whisper, her captor commanded, “Open the door and get inside, bitch!”

  When she didn’t immediately move, he shoved the gun barrel into her gut and reached behind her for the door.

  As if he knew Hannah thought to fight him, he growled softly into her ear, “Try it and die now.”

  Die now...

  She was going to die. At least that was the bastard’s plan. But not now. They’d said he’d kept the other women for a while before he’d killed them. That gave her wiggle room, opportunity for escape. She’d always managed to take care of herself, to get out of dangerous jams, right? So why should now be any different?

  She had time... days... more than a whole week to figure him out before he decided to end her life. At least that’s what he’d given the other women.

  But what was he going to do to her in the meantime?

  Hannah choked back tears. She’d learned long ago not to show her true feelings. It was how she had survived until now.

  And now she feared there might be worse things than dying.

  oOo

  Chapter 7

  THE BLINKING RED EYE of the telephone console informed Lilith that she already had a message when she entered the office early the next morning. Retrieving it, she expected to hear Elena’s voice. Or maybe Carmen’s.

  “Hey, it’s me, Hannah...I, uh, do want us to be sisters again, even if you don’t approve of me.” Lilith held her breath as she heard her sister say, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  She played it over... registered the words... and played it again.

  “Hannah...”

  The back of her throat thickened, and tears slid down her cheeks. Even if they had serious differences, this was a sign that they could get past them. That maybe she could get her sister out of a dangerous situation. Finally, Lilith settled the receiver into its cradle and mopped up her face.

  She hadn’t been able to eat the night before. Instead, she’d taken the cat onto the porch, sat there for hours, wondering how she’d been so stupid.

  Why had she let Hannah bait her like that? And why had her sister done so? It was as if Hannah had been determined to be rejected. Foolishly, she’d played right into the confrontation, when she should have kept her thoughts about Hannah’s lifestyle to herself.

  Still a little sick inside, Lilith sighed. If she’d only kept what she thought to herself, she would have shared dinner with Hannah instead of having her empty stomach twist itself into a knot. She wouldn’t have had to wonder if her sister would come back for more. They would already have made inroads to some kind of relationship. Well, the next time she would be smarter. She wouldn’t let herself be forced into saying things best left unsaid.

  Being Hannah’s sister again would have to be enough for her. As Elena said, Hannah might not want to change. Lilith would accept that rather than lose her again.

  Even though she was tempted to sit before the phone all day in case her sister called, Lilith knew she couldn’t. She had work. Responsibilities.

  And all day, an internal clock tick-tick-ticked as she subconsciously waited for another call from Hannah that never came. By late afternoon, unease slid through her. What if Hannah had regretted making the call?

  Lilith decided the ball was in her court. She knew where to find her little sister. She would just have to be late to her Street Survival class.

  oOo

  ENTERING THE CLUB was easier this time. Lilith wasn’t exactly in her comfort zone, but at least she knew what to expect. She ignored the stares and murmured comments from patrons as she made her way to the bar area, where she stood and looked around. She was busy scanning the dancers working the crowd, when she felt another presence directly behind her.

  Turning, she faced Michael.

  “Looking for someone?” he asked.

  “Not you.”

  He tried to hide a smile. “You don’t have to remind me. A customer or one of the dancers? Maybe I can help.”

  Remembering how he’d come to her rescue in the alley with the creep who’d been hitting on her, she softened her tone. “I don’t need your help tonight, but thanks.”

  She gave the club another once-over but still didn’t see Hannah. Maybe her sister was getting ready to go on stage.

  “What do you need?” Michael asked, moving next to her. “What did you say your name was?”

  Lilith turned back to him. “I didn’t
.” He was persistent but not obnoxious. “I’m not looking for a date.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Then what is your interest?”

  “You.”

  The way he was staring at her, as if trying to see inside her, nearly took away her breath. Not that she thought the interest was personal. It was hard to remain unaffected by an attractive man who oozed such intensity.

  “You don’t seem like the typical Club Paradise customer,” Lilith said, remembering what he’d asked her the other night and turning the tables on him.

  “Touché.” His lips softened into a smile. “Maybe I’m attracted by the drama of it all.”

  “It sounds like you’re comparing the club to a soap opera.”

  “Hmm, interesting analogy.”

  Just then, a waitress stopped to ask, “Can I get you drinks?”

  As Michael ordered a beer, Lilith turned her attention back to the stage. Still no Hannah. The waitress cleared her throat, and Lilith realized she was waiting for an order.

  “I don’t see Anna Youngheart. Can you get a message to her for me? Tell her Lilith is here.”

  “Sorry, but Anna didn’t come in tonight.”

  “So she’s not scheduled to work?”

  “She is, actually. Sal is pretty ticked, too. She didn’t even call in.”

  “Oh... well, thanks.” Did that mean she’d gotten to her sister? Lilith wondered. Did Hannah decide to quit, after all?

  “So you don’t want a drink?” the waitress asked.

  Lilith shook her head. “No. I’m just leaving.”

  Shrugging, the waitress moved to the bar, and Lilith turned to go.

  “Nice seeing you again... Lilith.”

  Though Michael Wyndham’s low tone whispered down her spine, she didn’t look back.

  Waiting for the bus, she checked voice mail both at home and at work to see if Hannah had called as promised. No messages from anyone. She’d picked up Hannah’s cell number from her incoming call and so tried that. It went directly to voice mail.

  “Hi, Hannah. I’m just leaving the club. I came here looking for you. Please call me.”

  As the bus stopped before her, she checked her watch. If they didn’t get caught in traffic, she might be able to squeak into class right on time. Not that she really felt like working out tonight. But anything to keep her mind busy until she heard from her sister.