Nobody Dies For Free

by Pro Se Press

  The ballroom was an enormous chamber with shining chandeliers, a marble floor, and walls covered with mirrors cut into intricate designs. An ice sculpture of the hotel adorned a tabletop and the bar took up an entire wall of the place.

  Upon a platform stood the table at which were seated the mayor and his party of former mayors and other prominent officials, as well as the Crown ownership and Cyril Benson. Everyone else was relegated to the floor of the ballroom where tables had been set up evenly spaced along the perimeter, leaving a generous open dance floor. Few of the guests had sat down yet, most of them still milling about, mingling, greeting each other and looking to see who had shown up with who and who was wearing what.

  Monroe took a glass of wine offered by a passing tray-bearing waiter. He did not intend to drink it, but decided he’d look less like he was inspecting everyone around him if he had something in his hand. He turned his gaze first to the figures on the raised platform, particularly Cyril Benson. Benson was fifty-seven years old, a fact Monroe knew not by visual estimate but from an article he had read online earlier in the day. Benson was a thick man, the sort who carried weight that had once been tough muscle but had long since turned to a ring of lazy fat. His face was still a handsome one though, and there was only a speckling of gray in his otherwise dark hair. The nose was wide and the lips were full, the sort of face that could look mean as a bulldog when intimidation was necessary. But now, in a mask proper for the occasion and the media, it had curved into a pleasant, generous jolliness that was just a big beard short of a Santa smile. Monroe understood that sort of changeable face: men who looked like Cyril Benson tended to get what they wanted most of the time, and severely punish those who failed them on the other occasions. Monroe also noticed that Benson, alone among the important figures on the dais, did not have a female companion. Benson was unmarried, but could probably have had his pick from among many single women in Boston unless, Monroe guessed, something was well-known enough in society circles to make respectable women avoid close company with the magnate. Monroe also guessed that Benson would not mind the lack of formal companionship if he could—as most men who run escort empires can—make use of his live merchandise when, where, and how he pleased.

  Monroe decided quickly and definitively that he disliked Cyril Benson. That opinion now formed in granite, he turned his attention to the rest of the party. His skills at observation and quick judgments were still there and he was able to pick out with a glance which of the attendees had spent time in prison, which had military service in their pasts, which were used to getting what they wanted and which were the servants and underlings who groveled beneath the wills of their stronger masters. Monroe knew who would be a threat in a confrontation and who would be easy to take down. And he not only scoped out the room for potential dangers, but appreciatively inspected the many female guests, with his eyes only of course—for now at least.

  The mayor made a speech, the usual empty gibberish common to such occasions. Cyril Benson nodded throughout the mayor’s words and then uttered a few of his own, doing his best to sound sincere, but Monroe, with trained and practiced ears, almost cringed at the undercurrent of conceit and venom in Benson’s voice.

  Quickly growing bored with the hot air of politicians and crooked businessmen, Monroe looked away from the dignitaries and scanned the crowd again. That was when she entered the room. She was fashionably late, it seemed, and knew how to make an entrance. Spencer Archer had been right on all counts: she did have what the car thief had called a “killer body.” Athletic, lithe, expertly sculpted in all the right ways with no one particular area overshadowing the others. Her face was a sweet one but with the potential for severity and confidence, with a glittering diamond of a smile just below a naturally well-shaped nose which in turn sat beneath a pair of eyes that were the shade of roasted almonds, deep brown and warm. Her skin was pale but with a healthy red glow that required very little makeup. And, just as Archer had said, the hair was what made the picture so striking. It was pure white and looked oddly, ethereally enchanting as it flowed down the shoulders to frame a face that Monroe estimated to be somewhere in the range of twenty-seven to thirty-two with certainty that he could narrow that number down when he got close enough to take a better look. She was indeed startling in appearance. Her attire was well-chosen, too: a tight, strapless evening gown of dark purple that bordered on black but did not cross the line. She wore little jewelry, just a simple gold bracelet on one wrist and a matching band around one ankle. Her shoes were high-heeled but not exaggeratedly steep, with closed toes and a color that matched the dress exactly. She carried a small handbag, also the color of purple flirting with black. Every man in the room, with the exception of an elderly gentleman with a white cane and dark glasses, turned to steal at least a quick glance at the white-haired angel who had strolled in to grace the gathering with her presence. Monroe forced himself to look away for an instant lest he become too mesmerized to keep his mind on the mission. He took a sip of his wine, which could have been a lot better than it was, and then went back to watching her walk across the room. She nodded to several people as she passed, glances of familiarity being exchanged. In the background, the mayor was making a few further remarks, but Monroe was tuning it out.

  Once the mayor shut up, dinner was served. Monroe was seated at a table with a reporter, two attorneys, and a police captain and his wife. Monroe ate sparingly. Although the food was good and probably would have cost a small fortune had he actually been paying for it in a restaurant, he did not want the dragging tiredness that can come with a full stomach, so he ate just enough to satisfy his hunger without overdoing it. Monroe made small talk with the reporter, a fiftyish man with curly hair. The cop and the lawyers seemed to know each other so they conversed while ignoring the two strangers. Monroe was fine with that; he would have rather talked to the reporter anyway since lawyers are paid to keep their mouths shut and cops are careful what they say, especially in rooms full of brass. But reporters live to share information.

  “How’d you get on the list?” the reporter asked.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Monroe lied. “I just recently set up shop in Boston, haven’t made many friends yet, and here comes this fancy invitation in the mail a few days ago. So I ran out, got myself a new tux, and here I am eating stuff I couldn’t afford to order and listening to the mayor making useless noise.”

  “Useless noise,” the reporter repeated, “I guess you’re a Republican, huh?”

  “No,” Monroe answered, “I love my country…and I think the two-party system is one of the biggest messes it’s ever gotten itself into. I can’t judge issues in bunches; I’d much rather make up my mind one problem at a time. So if I vote, it’s for the candidate and not the party.”

  “Understood,” the reporter nodded. “So what kind of business are you in?”

  Monroe decided to dodge the question. A man in a naturally inquisitive profession like his new press friend was likely to ask more questions than Monroe had lies to cover. He put down his fork, leaned just an inch closer to the reporter to make it seem like a personal conversation, as if they were old friends, and posed a question of his own.

  “Tell me, since you seem to know who’s who and what’s what in this city: who in the world is that stunning creature with the snow-white mane?”

  The reporter laughed. It was a loud whoop at first but he quieted himself when the cop across the table shot him a dirty look for squeaking like that. “She does get noticed a lot, so I’m not surprised she caught your eye. It’s funny: she has hair like that, which can’t be natural at her age so she’s got to be fishing for attention, yet she never seems to bring a date to any of these big events. Does she look for attention just for the fun of turning men away? What a bitch, don’t you think?”

  Monroe sighed as the reporter’s spiel went on, finally interrupting with, “But who is she?”

  “Her name, if you can believe it,” the reporter said in a whisper, making a dr
amatic face like he was about to divulge a state secret, “is Winter Willows.”

  Monroe liked it. Real or not—and he had his instinctive doubts as to its authenticity—the name was poetically fitting for a woman of her unique appearance.

  “What does she do?”

  “She works for the mayor.”

  “Doing what?”

  “That, my friend, remains a mystery. Nobody’s really sure what she does. The mayoral staff is pretty tight-lipped about certain matters and Ms. Willows is one of those subjects. She showed up in Boston a couple years ago working for a modeling agency but seemed to switch occupations pretty fast. She moved into political circles and God only knows what she does now. But I don’t think she’s his mistress or anything like that. The mayor’s wife doesn’t seem to have anything against her, so I don’t think the mayor has anything against her either. Whatever her function is…I’d love to be the one to break that story. She gets around though, shows up at all the big parties, sits in at closed-door staff meetings, and seems to know everybody but gets close to nobody. The girl is a sweet little enigma.”

  “Interesting,” Monroe said. “You know, I love a good mystery. I always have. I read plenty of Agatha Christie when I was younger.”

  The reporter laughed again. “Don’t even think about it, buddy. Look around. Politicians, gangsters, actors…and none of them have a shot with the lovely Ms. Willows. Do you really think you’ll do any better?”

  “It’s not whether you win or lose,” Monroe said with a smile, “but how much fun you have playing the game.” He meant not a word of that of course. He had every intention of winning his prize. He made up his mind to go after Winter Willows and would do everything in his power to crack that particular mystery. He finished his wine, put the empty glass down, and excused himself from the reporter’s company with a quick, “Nice talking to you.”

  The time for eating was over now and music began to fill the air of the ballroom. Couples got up and began to dance. Monroe made his way over to the bar and got a scotch, took a sip, and stood watching the crowd. Several of the women whom Monroe guessed worked as escorts in Cyril Benson’s employ had caught hold of gentlemen of prominent positions and were dancing seductively with them, either trying to coax favors out of them or beginning an evening of paying them back for favors already done for Benson. As for Benson himself, Monroe saw that he remained seated, not bothering to keep up his chat with the mayor, but simply sitting up there on the dais and looking down upon the revelers like a king surveying the serfs.

  Now Monroe turned his attention to the table where Winter Willows sat for dinner. She was still in her chair. She sat there for a moment as if considering what to do next, said something to her table companions, flashed that diamond smile again, and got up. Monroe watched her move across the floor, weaving left and right to gracefully detour around the dancing couples, not dancing herself but taking the shortest route through the ballroom. Monroe saw that she seemed to be heading in his direction and he readied himself.

  Chapter 10: One or the Other

  The glorious thing about being the new kid in town, Monroe decided, was that the cliques were still uncharted. Considering who worked for who and who answered to who and probably also who slept with who, Willow Winters, to judge by the way others moved out of her path and nodded politely when they recognized her, was not someone who should be approached—let alone hit on—by a lowly marketing consultant who had just recently set up shop in Boston. But Monroe had his recent arrival to use as a perfect excuse for his ignorance and he intended to use that weapon like a master swordsman would. She approached, stepped right past Monroe, and stopped at the bar. The bartender was just finishing up with another customer and Monroe took advantage of the slight delay to intercept Winter Willows.

  “Excuse me,” he said, flashing his best smile, which was a warm one but not one that stepped too far over the border that divides friendliness from over-eagerness, “can I buy you a drink?”

  Winter Willows looked at him, or rather down at him and through him, for her gaze was a cold one, and the ice in her laugh matched it. “But drinks are free tonight,” she said condescendingly.

  “Then that’s all the better for me,” Monroe recovered and laughed. “What will you have?”

  Willows thought for a second. Should she humor the stranger or blow him off? Her eyes flashed at Monroe and went warm for just an instant.

  Good, Monroe thought, there’s just a chink in her armor.

  “Whiskey,” Willows said, “with plenty of rocks.”

  “Fine,” Monroe said, “a cold drink for a cold lady.”

  He got the whiskey, handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “So you’ve already decided I’m an ice queen?”

  “Well that’s a harsh look you gave me,” Monroe said, “but it suits you. Very businesslike, and I have to tell you that it matches that stunning look of yours.”

  “I appreciate the drink, but drop the charming act. It’s unnecessary and won’t get you anywhere.”

  “Can I at least ask your name?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m sure you already know my name, just as everyone else in this room does.”

  “But I’m a stranger to everyone here. I only just moved into Boston and I haven’t been keeping a scorecard. I know who the mayor is obviously, and Mr. Benson, but I’m afraid I haven’t a clue when it comes to you.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll give you that much in exchange for the drink.”

  She took a sip, swallowed, and said, “I’m Winter Willows.”

  “Richard, Richard Monroe.” And he shook her hand, happy to find her flesh warmer than her attitude.

  “So you don’t know anybody here,” Willows said, “and yet you managed to get invited to one of the biggest events of the year. Whatever did you do to deserve that?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” Monroe said. “I’m a consultant, so I suppose one of my associates thought they were doing me a favor by getting me invited. Perhaps they thought it would help me drum up some business. And what is it that brings you here, Ms. Willows? What do you do?”

  “You might call my occupation a consulting one as well,” she answered. Monroe got the impression that she was unwilling to go into detail so he decided to lighten the topic.

  He waved a hand in the general direction of the dance floor. “Everyone seems to be having a good time,” he said. “Handsome men, beautiful women: I suppose we’re lucky to be here tonight among all these happy people.”

  “Don’t get any bold ideas, Mr. Monroe,” Willows said. “I’m not one of those women.”

  “That’s good,” Monroe shot back, “because I’m not one of those men. I tend to take things much more seriously than those who bounce around drunk and look for a quick thrill. I always take the potential consequences of my actions into account before I leap. But once I have made up my mind, it’s not easy to stop me from getting what I’m after.”

  “You’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Willows asked.

  “A man who doesn’t know himself,” Monroe said, “doesn’t get very far in getting to know others. That’s one of my strictest rules.”

  “Let me give you a piece of advice, Mr. Monroe,” Willows said with a smile that fell somewhere between sarcasm and seriousness. “In this city, among these people, that cockiness of yours can do one of two things: it might get you well connected…or it might get you viciously shut down. Make your choices carefully and don’t assume anything before you know the score.”

  “You, Ms. Willows,” Monroe said, “are taking this conversation far too seriously. I’m only trying to enjoy your company.”

  “Look around, Richard,” she said, using his first name for the first time, “and you’ll see how much attention is already being thrown your way simply because you’re talking to me.”

  Monroe pretended to look about but had already noticed. People were staring, but he saw that as a good sign, a mark of
progress. “It doesn’t bother me in the least.”

  “I can see that,” Willows said.

  “So tell me, Winter,” Monroe put her first name into the conversation now that she had used his, keeping things evenly balanced, “did your consulting work have anything to do with the building of this lovely new hotel?”

  “I may have been slightly involved in the process,” she admitted.

  “Good,” Monroe said. “Here’s what I’m thinking: I’m guessing you know more about this place than just the ballroom. It’s getting a little loud in here for my tastes. Perhaps you’d like to take a walk with me and share some of the hotel’s secrets, for I’m sure it has many.”

  “You are daring, aren’t you?” Willows laughed. “Even after I warned you, still you try and try.”

  “Shall we take our drinks with us, then?” Monroe asked.

  “I think I’ve had enough for now,” Willows answered. “You were right. It’s a bit too cold already for so much ice.”

  She put her glass down on the bar and Monroe did the same with his. He followed her across the dance floor as the people parted to let Winter Willows and her companion pass. They reached the doors of the ballroom, which were efficiently held open by two staff members, and passed out of the loudness of the party into the much quieter corridor of the Boston Crown Hotel.

  They took the elevator up, stopping at the top story. The doors opened to reveal a circular room with a glass ceiling and walls made up mostly of windows. On all sides could be seen the city of Boston, a pageant of lights and tall buildings. Monroe thought the view was lovely and imagined that this might be what it felt like to be inside a snow globe looking out at the larger world beyond the transparent boundaries.