by P. D. Martin
Darren and I both stand up. Darren is closest and he extends his hand. “Ms. Dow, I’m Detective Darren Carter, and this is Special Agent Sophie Anderson from the FBI.”
She shakes his hand. “How’d you do.” She moves her focus to me and takes my extended hand. “Nice to meet you. And please, call me Kitty.”
Her voice is polished and well-rounded, but I get the feeling it’s an accent she learnt later in life because, like the receptionist’s smile, it’s too well-practiced to be natural.
“Terrible. Simply terrible about Malcolm.” Kitty gazes at his photo on the wall. “He was one of our best, you know. In high demand.” She gives me a knowing look. Any woman can see why Malcolm was in high demand.
She is sad, but it’s hard to tell if she feels real sorrow or is thinking more about how his death will hit her business.
“His regulars will be devastated.” She shakes her head. “Are you sure, absolutely positive it’s him?”
Darren nods. “We matched his fingerprints.”
She sighs. “Well, I guess you better come into my office so we can talk properly.” She glances at the redhead. “Hold my calls please, Mandy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We follow Kitty through the door, which opens into a large corridor. The office seems bigger than it needs to be, with only a few of the desks occupied—downsizing or upsizing? She walks past the open-plan area and takes us through another doorway into her office. Like the reception area, her office is covered with framed photos. She sits behind her desk and motions to the two chairs on the other side. Darren and I sit down.
She crosses her legs. “I still can’t believe it. Malcolm. He was so…” She trails off, unable to find the right word.
“So what?” I prompt.
“So fit and healthy. Such a perfect specimen.” She smiles as she says the word specimen.
The intonation arouses my curiosity. Is Kitty a woman who appreciates good-looking men, or does she take her male escorts for test drives?
“He was so full of life.” She flips open a folder and runs her hands over the large photo that sits on top. Again, I get a hint of sexuality in the way she touches his photo; it verges on a caress.
She sighs. “This is Malcolm’s file.” She hands it to us.
I flip through the folder, holding it between myself and Darren. It includes multiple photos, testimonials from clients, his original application form, police checks and a longer form.
“You knew Malcolm had a record?” I ask, scanning his police check to make sure it had come up.
“Yes.” She waves her hand in the air, dismissing the charge. “For having a bit of grass in his pocket. Honestly!”
“So you don’t have a policy? Regarding an employee’s criminal record?”
“I don’t discriminate.” She holds my gaze. “But I can’t expose my clients either. Malcolm’s was a small indiscretion, a few years ago. What kid hasn’t smoked pot? For that matter, some of my clients probably still do.”
I nod.
Darren finishes reading one of the testimonials. “So, tell us about Malcolm. How did he come to work for you?”
“I met Malcolm just over a year ago in Spoon, a bar over on North Wells Street.”
Neither the bar’s name nor its address means anything to us and Kitty realizes this.
“It’s a nice bar not too far from the lake. Popular. Anyway, I saw him behind the bar and knew he’d be fantastic in this line of work. I gave him my card and told him how much he could make. He called me about a week later. He came in, we got along real well, and I decided to take him on.”
“So how much could Malcolm earn?” I ask, out of both curiosity and professional thoroughness.
“Our official charge-out rate is $600 for an evening function. Of that, my boys and girls get $450.”
I nod slowly several times, absorbing the information. I certainly couldn’t afford Kitty’s service. “And how many gigs did Malcolm get?”
“He was extremely popular.” Again she gives me a knowing look. “Fridays and Saturdays were always booked up and he’d get one other night during the week, too. And more during holiday periods.”
Darren whistles. “Damn, that’s a lot of cash. Especially if you’re under thirty with no college education.”
Kitty nods. “That’s what most of my kids think.”
“Were all his clients women?” I ask.
“Some of my boys service both women and men, but not Malcolm. He was as straight as they come. Only available to women.”
I nod.
“And what does the fee include?” Darren asks tactfully.
“Not sex. That is what you’re getting at, isn’t it, Detective?”
“Yes.” Darren clears his throat. “So your employees and clients never have sex?”
She puts her hands up. “I can’t guarantee that. But it’s not part of the service, not part of the fee.” She pauses. “To be honest, I do give them advice on that subject and I’m afraid I’m not much of a feminist. I advise my girls against it. I think it cheapens the experience and the male client will then expect it from all his escorts. For my boys, though, I tell them to do whatever they like. We still live in a world of double standards. I know that, and I make sure my kids know it, too.”
As much as I hate to admit it, it’s a fair call.
“What was Malcolm’s last job? The one that took him to New York?”
Kitty raises her eyebrows. “There was no job in New York. At least, not through Rendez-Vous. Malcolm told me he was going there on vacation. That he would be gone for a few weeks, maybe even six or eight.”
Darren and I exchange a glance. So the story to the parents was a lie. Unless Kitty’s the one lying.
“Are you sure?” Darren’s tone is forceful, almost threatening. He’s going for the anything-you-say-can-and-will-be-held-againstyou tone.
Kitty gazes at him coolly. “Of course, Detective. There was no job. Malcolm was on vacation.”
I watch the exchange, keenly observing Kitty’s facial expressions and tone of voice. She’s either a damn good liar or she’s telling the truth. “So, who were Malcolm’s regulars?” I lean forward. “And what services did they get from him?”
“I’m afraid my client list is confidential.” She crosses her arms.
“Of course.” Darren stands up and looks past Kitty, out her window. “Do you do well, Kitty? From this business?”
She hesitates. “I do all right.”
“Profiting from others’ loneliness.” Darren’s voice has a hint of accusation in it.
She shrugs. “I provide a needed service. I don’t hear anyone complaining.”
“Except, perhaps, Malcolm.” He says it slowly, sadly. I know it’s an act, but Kitty doesn’t.
She stands up to face Darren. “His death has got nothing to do with this agency.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“I am. My employees and clients are thoroughly screened. There is no danger.”
I come into the conversation. “You’re probably right. But we do need to eliminate his clients as possible suspects.”
She shrugs. “Not my problem.”
Darren gives a long, loud sigh. “It’d be a pity really.”
“What?” Kitty’s uncertain.
“If the press found out. A scandal like this could ruin your business.” Darren stares at Kitty.
“Are you blackmailing me, Detective?”
“Of course not. I was just expressing my hope that this case and Malcolm’s occupation stays out of the newspapers.”
Kitty’s not happy. “Don’t you need a subpoena to access a client list?”
“That’s one road we can take. The public road.” Darren has a forcefulness in his voice that I haven’t heard before.
She shrugs, but also shoots Darren a disdainful look. She sits down at her computer and types in a few commands. Within a minute her personal printer is whirring into action and paper’s spitting out. �
��That’s his last six months of activity. The report includes the date of the job, the name and the person’s contact details.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
Kitty lets out a small snort. She isn’t exactly doing this out of the kindness of her heart. She matches Darren with a threat of her own. “You better show my clients respect and privacy when you speak to them. Otherwise I won’t mind contacting your superiors and telling them that you threatened me.”
As the more neutral party, I step in. “Don’t worry, Kitty. We just want to find Malcolm’s killer. We’ll play nice.”
She nods. “Thank you.” She says it to me, not Darren.
“I do have one more question for you, Kitty.” I hand Darren the printout and take the sketch from my bag.
“Yes?”
“Is this woman one of your clients or employees?” I show her the sketch.
She only studies it for a couple of seconds. “No.”
“She’s definitely not one of your girls? Or a client?” I press.
“No. I’ve never seen her before.”
I slump backward a little, unable to hide my frustration. I glance at Darren and sigh. We’re about to leave but I feel compelled to flick through the photos of Malcolm once more. There’s something about the photos, something not quite right. The photos show Malcolm in different styles, with different looks. There are a few of him dressed in a tuxedo, a couple in more casual suits, a few in jeans, and several that show off more of his body—Malcolm in only his boxers. Darren waits patiently as I study the pictures. Finally, I realize what’s missing. The tattoo. There are three photos that show off his body to the maximum and in all three the tattoo is missing. “The tattoo was recent?” I ask Kitty.
“What tattoo?”
“Malcolm had a small tattoo of a rose on the inside of his wrist. Here.” I point to the place on one of the photos.
“Not that I know of. And my kids are supposed to talk to me about piercings and tattoos. Some of our clients don’t like that sort of thing.” She smiles. “And some love it. But I need to know.” She’s silent for a moment. “Are you sure? Malcolm’s not the tattoo type.”
“He definitely had a tattoo,” I say.
She seems puzzled by the revelation, but leaves it. So why didn’t Malcolm ask Kitty about getting a tattoo? By all accounts he had a carefree existence, funded by Rendez-Vous. Why would he break the rules and risk his livelihood?
Malcolm’s apartment is in a small, rundown block of ten. Guess he didn’t want to waste too much of his college tuition on rent, or maybe he spent more time at his clients’ homes. In his one-bedroom, top-floor apartment I walk around, trying to get a feel for him. The place is tidy and sparsely furnished—almost cold, but without the modern sleekness you see in some bachelor pads.
I linger in the bedroom, studying the bed. After much consideration I decide it’s not the one from the vision I had, not the one I saw him having sex on. I lie down on it and I’m instantly hit by a stream of images. First my mind is replaying reality: the photos of Malcolm from his Rendez-Vous file, images of his body at the University of Arizona, a flash of him lying on the ME’s slab. But then, amongst it all, I see a brief flash of a black rose. But this time it’s not a tattoo and it’s not on Malcolm’s wrist.
Darren stands in the doorway. “Anything?”
I sit up on the edge of the bed. “Maybe.” I close my eyes and can see a clear image of the rose. If only all my visions consisted of flowers.
“What did you see?”
“A black rose.” I say it slowly. “Like Malcolm’s tattoo, but it was a real one.” I sit on the bed, silent for a minute or so, and Darren leans on the door frame, watching me.
“Why didn’t he tell Kitty?” I say.
Darren shrugs. “Maybe he just got it done.” He smiles. “Hell, I wouldn’t tell Harris if I wanted to get a tattoo.”
“No, but Malcolm’s livelihood depended on Kitty. Surely he’d play by the rules.” I pause. There must be something to it.
“Hey, if he got it done recently, it should have been all red and scabby.”
“You’re right,” I say. “And I don’t think it was.”
Darren moves into the room. “Time to call the ME’s office and get someone to have a closer look at that tattoo.” Darren punches a number into his phone and relays our concerns. Darren looks up at me and covers the mouthpiece. “Johnson, the ME’s assistant, is on duty and he’s getting a lab technician to check the tattoo out right now.”
Great, instant results.
Darren keeps his hand over the phone but listens intently. Eventually he looks up at me. “Johnson said a recent tattoo should be quite obvious, that there’d be scab formation and inflammation for a couple of weeks. It’s also possible it’s a fake tatt, but he doubts the ME would have missed that.”
I nod. “What are the other options?”
Darren shrugs.
Several minutes pass before Darren says, “Yup, I’m here…really? Okay. So there’s no way it could have been done recently?… oh…oh. Okay.”
Darren hangs up the phone, an odd expression on his face. “It’s a real tattoo, but no inflammation or other indications that it’s recent.” He pauses. “Johnson said there was one other explanation…it could have been done postmortem.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That rose means something.” I pause. “And if the killer put it there, it’s part of his or her signature.”
Darren sits on the edge of the bed next to me. “Why don’t you see if it means anything to your VICAP guy?”
“Good idea.” I punch Evans’s number into my phone and he picks up on the second ring.
“Evans. Anderson here. Can you do a search for me on a black rose?”
He’s silent.
“Evans?”
“I don’t need to do a search. That’s the case I was telling you about. The woman who kills her victims during sex in the motel room. A black rose left on the bed, next to the dead body…it’s part of her signature. What have you got with a black rose?”
“That case from Tucson that we entered. The vic had a tattoo of a rose on his wrist and it’s possible it was done postmortem, which means by the killer.”
“Shit, Anderson, if you’ve got this woman in your sights…”
“We have to assume we do. It certainly throws a whole new light on Malcolm Jackson’s death.”
“I’ll say.”
I organize for Evans to send the details of the female perp’s earlier cases to Tucson before hanging up and filling Darren in. “I think we should go back to Tucson.”
Darren nods, and then pulls out his notebook and examines the list of Malcolm’s clients and friends. “We should be able to get through some of these this afternoon and tonight and then head back on a late flight. I’ll fax half the list to Stone and she can kick off with phone interviews.”
I nod. “Let’s do it.”
BlackWidow: It’ll probably be twenty-four hours until we hear from Psycho. It’s pretty intense in that house. Good intense.
NeverCaught: I can imagine.
BlackWidow: Poor Cindy.
NeverCaught: Here we go…
BlackWidow: Well, I liked her. She’d had a rough life.
NeverCaught: Do you ever feel sorry for your male gigolos?
BlackWidow: No, but that’s different. They deserve it.
NeverCaught: They all deserve it.
DialM: I wonder what Psycho’s doing to Cindy right now.
NeverCaught: I bet he’s **ing her. Unless she’s already dead.
11
Back in Tucson the next morning, we pull into the police department, ready to review the files Evans sent to Stone. Waiting on Darren’s desk is a large pile of printouts. He whistles, a long slow whistle, measuring the stack against his torso—two piles, each easily reaching his belly button.
“She’s been busy,” I say.
“Stone or the killer?”
“Well, I was talking about the kille
r,” I reply, “but it applies to Stone too.”
Stone’s on the phone…again. She gives us a quick wink.
Darren hands me one of the piles. “I’ll go halves with you. Let’s set up in the project room down the hall.” He looks in the direction of the ladies bathroom. I take one pile and make my way down the corridor, with Darren hot on my heels. I manage to prop the heavy files up between my body and the wall and open the door with the hand that’s underneath the stack.
“I thought you said you’ve been working out,” Darren teases, pushing the door open. “I gave you the smaller pile, you know.”
“Yeah, right.”
He switches the light on and releases his pile of files with a thud on the table. “So we’re definitely looking for a woman. Hard to believe.”
“Yes. It’s—”
“Kind of exciting?”
I unload my files next to Darren’s. “Well, yeah. I’ve never gone after a female killer. You?”
“Nope. This is a first.”
We both sit down and take a file from the top of the stack. I wonder if a photo of the brunette from my dream is sitting in a file on someone’s desk. What I dreamt could have happened years ago, yesterday, or maybe it’s about to happen. Or maybe it was just a nightmare, a figment of my subconscious. No, as much as I hate to admit it, she is, or was, real. Somehow I just know.
Before I’ve even flipped open the first folder, Darren stands up. “I’ll just go get us some notepads.” He disappears and I study the stack of files. It could take us days to go through them properly. The vacation is well and truly over. This case is too important to work on it part-time anymore.
Darren returns with a small arsenal of stationery: two large note-pads, two four-color pens, highlighters, Post-it Notes, two pencils and even a ruler.
Stone follows him. “You gotta give the man some cred. He knows his supplies.”
Darren lets the stationery spill onto the desk.
Stone closes the door and takes a seat. “Where are we at?”
