First Class Killing

by Lynne Heitman

  “I don’t suppose you would hook me up so I could talk to Arthur Margolies?”

  “Why?”

  “I have questions for him.”

  “I cannot let you speak to Mr. Margolies.”

  Figured. “Who is he, anyway?”

  He shook his head. “It was not his fault. It was a sloppy error on my part, for which you paid the price. Once again, I offer my sincerest apologies.” He picked up one of the cartons. “And soup.”

  When he offered it to me, I remembered the glass of water on the night table in Chicago and the neatly made bed in which I had found myself. I accepted his steaming offering of peace.

  The carton had some weight to it and felt warm in my hands. I lifted the lid. It smelled absolutely rejuvenating and made me realize how famished I was. When he offered a plastic spoon from his pocket, I snagged it and dug in, proving just how easy it is to win me over.

  “Are you from Bosnia?”

  He had the kind of face that transformed completely with a smile. “How did you know?”

  “You’re reading a paper from Sarajevo, and I can’t pronounce your name.”

  “I am from Dubrovnik. You can call me Bo.”

  “How do you say your name?”

  What he said sounded like “Juro Boolahtovitch.” He seemed pleased that I’d asked. When I finished, he nudged the second carton into my space without even looking at me.

  “You’ve paid your debt,” I said.

  “It is yours. Please, what else can I do for you?”

  This was an opportunity I didn’t want to waste. Not the soup, but the offer of support. “I need to find Monica. I need to talk to her.”

  “She is not at work,” he said. “She is not at home, and no one knows where to find her.”

  “Do you think…I mean, would your client have done something to her? Or had someone else do something to her?”

  “No. He left it to me to handle. He does not want her hurt. Only to understand that what she was doing was not acceptable.”

  I watched one of the duck boats, a dark purple one namedBeantown Bettie, chug out of the parking lot and merge into the heavy flow on Boylston. It was fully loaded in October, which spoke to the inexplicable popularity of these cheesy tours.

  “Bo?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you figure out that I wasn’t Monica?”

  “In Chicago. I looked at your driver’s license.”

  “After I passed out.”

  “Yes.”

  “So if your client had wanted me dead, I would be dead?”

  He let his gaze drift up to the clouds. “I do not see any point in making hypotheticals. He did not, and you are not.” He looked at my face and then my throat. “I remain in your debt.”

  He was clearly a man of high standards—attacking the wrong victim being a definite violation—and proud of his adherence to them. There was something in there worth trusting.

  “Does that mean you would be willing to do me a favor?”

  “I would need to know one thing,” he said. “Why did you not call the police in Chicago?”

  “It was not in my best interest to get the authorities involved.”

  “Is it because you do what Monica does?”

  “Am I a prostitute?”

  “No,” he asked. “Are you a blackmailer? Is that why you want to see Mr. Margolies?”

  “No. I’m not a blackmailer, and I’m not a prostitute. I’m looking for Monica because I need to find people she’s working with. I’m trying to break up the prostitution ring.”

  “Tell me what you need.”

  “Can you get me the e-mails that delivered Monica’s video to your client?”

  “I have them. He sent them all to me.”

  “Good. Here’s what I’d like for you to do.”

  I called Harvey on my way up to New Hampshire. He had left four messages for me. There was only so long I could avoid him, and, given our new spirit of sharing and cooperation, I had to brief him on my night in the North End. He took it remarkably well.

  “This man,” he asked, “this Bosnian, he helped you?”

  “I told you he wasn’t after me. He’s looking for Monica, one of many people looking for Monica. He’s going to help me find her.”

  “Who were the other two men?”

  “No idea. My best guess would be that they worked for some other client of hers that she’s trying to extort.”

  “My word. Where are you off to now?”

  “I’m going up to New Hampshire to meet Angel. She has a cabin up there.”

  “You are aware, are you not, that we are almost out of time. This will no doubt be your last chance to see her before the review.”

  “I know. I’m going to really push to meet her programmer. If I can’t get her to agree, I’ve got something working with Felix. Beyond that, I’m out of ideas.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “Please keep me posted. Let me know you are safe.”

  “I will.”

  “And thank you for telling me about last night.”

  “Sure. Thanks for not yelling at me.” I hung up.

  He hadn’t said a word about her, so how come all I could think about was Robin Sevitch?

  Chapter

  31

  ANGEL FLIPPED HER HAIR OFF HER SHOULDER.Her long blond mane looked particularly untamed today, as if she’d swept her fingers through it when she got up and let it fall where it wanted. It added to her relaxed appearance, which came, no doubt, from her stay in “the country,” as she called it.

  The two of us had settled in the den of her cabin, yet another of her many properties. It was lovely, exactly what you would expect in the woods of New England. It had a deep front porch with split log railing and a pitched roof with a stone chimney. The sound of a running stream came from the back of the property, but otherwise there was a blessed absence of sirens and car alarms and garbage trucks and grocery carts filled with aluminum cans rattling down alleys. It was peaceful. The air smelled clean. It was like being in a sacred place, which made our discussion feel all the more inappropriate.

  “I need a what, doll?”

  “A frequent fucker program,” I said. “That’s the answer.”

  “What was the question?”

  “How do you make both your women and your clients want to stay with you? You build a loyalty program and lock them in.”

  Her first reaction was a tweak around the corners of the mouth that could have been the beginning of a smile, but then she sank back into the couch’s downy cushions and continued to file her nails. “That won’t work.”

  I was only a fake consultant and she was only a fake client, and a criminal at that, but I had enough pride of ownership to want her to appreciate the subtlety and the creativity of the idea, and the absolutely pitch-perfect solution it represented.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I would have to give away free pussy and I don’t want to do that. Especially since I don’t have to.”

  I scooted out a little farther on my end of the L-shaped couch. The inside of the cabin had the same rough-hewn quality as the outside only softened in a very un-Angel-like way with lots of pillows and cushions and quilts. The couch was so soft I had a hard time sitting comfortably. If I wasn’t careful, I would sink down and disappear into its cushy folds.

  “You’re looking only at the cost. Let’s talk about the benefits first.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “A good, well-designed loyalty program would keep your current clients in the fold, it would be powerful enough to pull back the ones who have left, it would give your providers a reason to stay, and the best part is…” I paused for dramatic effect. “You can do it, and the women in LA can’t.”

  A slightly different tilt of her head signaled a subtle shift in the way she was listening. I had her attention.

  “How would it work?”

  “Just like the airline programs. It will have different tiers, or status lev
els, which clients qualify for based on the number of points they have. They earn points by buying services.”

  “My services. Dates.”

  “Right. The more they buy, the more points they earn. The more points they earn, the more hooked in they are to the provider of those services—you. You know how people are about their frequent flier miles. They’re insane.”

  “Which brings us to the awards, right? The free dates?”

  “You can’t think about them as being free. These guys will probably increase their activity to earn more points. More dates mean more revenue for you and your women. You also charge an annual subscription fee, right?”

  “I do.”

  “Every time a member qualifies for a higher tier, you raise his subscription fee. That will make it seem more valuable to him. You can name the tiers to reflect the status. Bronze, silver, and gold, or—”

  “Emerald, ruby, and diamond. I like that better. It’s not so common.”

  I made a note, although it was hard to see. When it had gotten dark outside, Angel had lit the fire in the fireplace with a flip of a wall switch. It was apparently a gas unit, now our only illumination. “The idea is to hook your customers and to dangle some free stuff out there to encourage them to spend more. It also gives you a way to reward the women who are the top earners.”

  “How does it do that?”

  “Right now you have a pool of beginners, women just starting out. You stop referring to them as the pool and start calling them emeralds. The other—”

  “I could even give the gals a little something, a kind of emerald pin or ring or doodad showing that they’re one of mine. ‘Emerald class.’ I like the sound of that.”

  I had her. She had put her fingermail file down, she was sitting up straight, and she was starting to think of the idea as her own, which meant it would work, at least for what I needed. “A little recognition never hurts. You use the emeralds just as you use your pool now—to service your lowest-tier clients. But once the woman develops enough of a list, she’s earned her right to move to the next level. What did you call them?”

  “Rubies.”

  “So, then she services your ruby-level clients, who have earned the right to be more selective because they’ve earned the points. They pay a higher subscription fee. At the same time, you raise the per-session fees so the women can make more money, too. That gives them incentive to climb the ladder and a reason to stay with you.”

  “What does a diamond get?”

  “Whatever you want to give him. You make this the ultra-elite tier and make it really hard to attain. They’ll love that. Once they get there, though, you have to give them something good. Maybe you put only your most expensive, experienced, and in-demand women in there. People like you.”

  “I’m a double black diamond, doll baby. There is no one else in my tier.” In spite of herself, a note of edgy excitement had worked its way into her tone. “What’s to keep the LA bitches from copying it like they do everything else?”

  “You have something they don’t have. You have history.”

  She nodded, which meant it was true, which meant I was one step closer to Web Boy.

  “So what? That’s all in the past.”

  “If you have records of all your clients’ activity to date, you can award points and status retroactively based on prior transactions. You’ll lock in the current customers, and you might get back some who have left you. Throw out a limited-time offer. Tell them they can come back within the month and get credit for all their prior activity.”

  “The LA group can make up history.”

  “It’s not the same. You know how much guys love those loyalty programs. They covet the status, they love earning those points or miles and getting free stuff, and they love to play the game. They love togame the game. This will work, Angel.”

  “This is like a real marketing strategy.”

  “It is a real strategy, and it solves both of your big problems.”

  She eased back and put both feet on the coffee table. In her loose-fitting jeans, bulky sweater, and thick woolen socks, she looked as if she’d just come in from a day of skiing. The dim light of the fire softened the rougher edges that usually showed in her face. Without all her makeup, she looked almost vulnerable. It was time to move in and try to wrap it up.

  “Ultimately,” I said, “the group in LA will figure it out and catch up. Competitors always do, so we should get started right away.”

  “We? You figure on sticking around, do you?”

  “Someone has to design the program.”

  “That’s why I have Sluggo.”

  “Sluggo?”

  “He’s my programmer. He looks like a slug.”

  The nape of my neck tingled. Finally, she acknowledged his existence, and he even had a name…sort of.

  “You just write it all out, and I’ll give it to him.”

  “To design a good program that fits your setup, I need to know how your data are stored and tagged. No offense, but using you as a go-between, it would take forever to go back and forth on this stuff.”

  “Sorry, sugar. No one meets Sluggo but me.”

  “If you don’t trust me, we can meet him together.” Not ideal but…

  “Bits and bytes make my eyes glaze over. Besides, every time I get around that boy, he drools all over me. I don’t believe he’s ever had sex. I should initiate him someday. That might be fun. His head would probably fly off.” She glanced over at me, looking for a reaction. I gave her nothing. “Cheer up, doll. I like your idea. It’s fun. I’m going to use it.”

  This was a problem. If she used my idea and didn’t give me what I needed to get her busted, I was in danger of actually making her business stronger. Not what the client had in mind. “You would put the future of your business into the hands of a programmer? A guy?”

  “My business already is in his hands. Besides, why would I put my business in your hands? I barely know you.”

  I set my notes on the coffee table. Shadows from the fire danced on the rug beneath it, clearly visible through the glass top. It was hard not to show my frustration. I’d already spent the entire afternoon with her, I had a long drive back to Boston, and I was bumping up on a deadline. Harvey was right. This was my last shot at her. If I were ever going to get what I needed, it would have to be now. I ran through my options. Offer up the rest of the names I had stolen in LA? It wouldn’t be enough. She understood that her programmer was her biggest vulnerability. Threaten to take the idea to her competitors? That was an empty threat. The only way to get what I needed was to play her game.

  “What would I have to do to get you to trust me, Angel?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “The rent is due, my credit cards are maxed out, and I’m out of money. I need to know what it will take. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”

  She looked at me with a satisfied smile as she stretched out and rubbed her feet together, feline style. She understood what I was doing, and she liked it.

  “There might just be something you could do for me.” She grabbed a strand of her hair and looked at it, as if inspecting for split ends. “Tell me, Alexandra, have you ever fucked a boy on the first date?”

  “A boy?”

  She shrugged. “A man. Have you ever put out on the first date, just because you couldn’t keep your hands off him?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been in a threesome?”

  “I’m not as adventurous as you.”

  “Have you ever had sex with another woman?”

  “I like men.”

  “Men are pigs.” She said it dismissively, as if it were a scientific fact. “Cocks with wallets is all they are. Or wallets with cocks if you like that better.”

  “Your sample is skewed. The men you do business with might all be pigs, but—”

  “What type is that?”

  “Those willing to pay for sex.”

  That brought one of her whoops of
delight. “Oh, doll baby. You really do need to learn the ways of the world. There isn’t a man alive who isn’t about one cocktail away from blowing everything he has in his life for a secret poke.” She winked. “Especially if it’s with me. I don’t care who or what he is, I’ll lead him to the trough, and I guarantee you, he’ll be snout deep in all that forbidden fruit before you know it. Men are easy. It’s women that are hard. Do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re so much smarter. Like you for instance.” She pulled her legs up underneath her and went up on all fours. Then she started toward me, doing a slow, seductive tiger crawl across the couch. Her hands and her knees sank down into the soft cushions so that when she was right next to me, it was hard not to tumble into her.

  Angel up close was such a vivid presence, she was almost too much to take. Her size. Her scent. The way her eyes shone. Tristan had said it best. She was always hungry, and I was just figuring out how famished she seemed tonight. She was almost purring. “You never answered my question.”

  “What was—”

  “Have you ever been naked with another woman?”

  “I’ve never had sex with another woman.”

  “But you’ve thought about it, haven’t you?”

  I was trying to stay a step ahead of her, trying to figure out what answers she would want to hear. But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help thinking that I had started something I wouldn’t be able to stop, something that wouldn’t go well for either one of us. “Maybe.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She curled her legs beneath her and sat back, which had the advantage of moving her half an arm’s length away. “When you close your eyes alone at night in your bed, you think about it, don’t you? About the way a woman’s lips would feel touching your skin or a tongue that knows what it’s doing, all warm and wet and exactly where you want it.” She started moving her hands over her own body, caressing herself. “Does this get you hot? Because I’m all hot now, sugar. I think you should stay here with me tonight.”