Reaching into the inside pocket of my leather jacket, I pulled out the flyer I’d grabbed off the bar of Misty’s Boom-Boom Room. Once I was close enough, I plopped the flyer on her desk, but Ms. Culare didn’t make any attempt to reach for it.
She looked down at the neon pink paper, instead, her eyes flickering over its image of drunk girls in wet T-shirts with a distasteful curl on her lipsticked mouth.
“...You probably don’t recognize this bunch,” I added. “They hid the money pretty good. But a lot of the talent shows you’ve been invited to here in the Northwest have been sponsored by the same group that owns this place.” I continued to watch her face as I spoke, although for what, I couldn’t be certain. A reaction, maybe. Some flicker of understanding. “I saw someone in there today who’s got a grudge against me. A big one. It struck me as a pretty weird coincidence, you know? A little too weird, if you catch my drift.”
Seeing Ms. Culare’s eyebrows go up again, I waved off the question I saw forming there.
“I doubt you’d know him,” I said. “Well,” I amended, thinking aloud. “...Not unless you were in on it in some way.” Seeing Ms. Culare’s eyebrows shoot up higher, I went on without waiting. “He’s just some guy related to an old case,” I added. “The details aren’t important. But it struck me as more than a coincidence, like I said. It also made me wonder if I was being set up. My naturally suspicious nature wonders if he deliberately got me mixed up in this case, and used you to do it. So now I want to know where you got your information about me.”
When Ms. Culare’s lips only firmed, I asked the question again.
“Who told you to call me, Ms. Culare?” I said, my voice still patient, but blunt. “Who gave you Gantry’s name, as a means of reaching me? If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out in some other way. Some way you might like a lot less.”
My last comment seemed to confuse her.
It also seemed to snap her out of her trance.
She frowned, but I didn’t get any real resistance on her, or avoidance really. Instead, my words, or maybe the questions I’d asked, seemed to make her go briefly blank. Then she shrugged, throwing her fingers up from their steepled position.
“A work colleague,” she said then. “An employee of mine, really.”
“Who?”
“Raphael.” Her eyes met mine. “His name is Raphael Flores. He does hair. Make-up, too.”
“Is he here? Today, I mean.”
She nodded, once, her expression still faintly surprised. “Yes.”
Hesitating only an instant more, she leaned over her desk, touching the button for the intercom delicately with a manicured nail.
“Clarice?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “...Clarice, bring Mr. Flores in here, if you please.” As if expecting an argument, she cut it off before it could begin. “Tell him it shouldn’t take more than a few moments...and that it’s important. Do not let him say no, Clarice. I do not care what he’s doing. I really don’t. Bring him here. Now.”
I didn’t hear the assistant reply, but it’s possible Ms. Culare took her finger off the button before she could.
Scarcely a minute later, a light knock came at the door. Ms. Culare summoned the person standing there and the door opened briskly and without a pause.
A man walked in with an audible, “Hmmmph!”
Raphael Flores was tall, but on the thin side, wearing a shirt open down to his navel. The shirt was a bright, baby blue sailor-type thing that might have been made for male on male porn movies. He also wore bright red pants. I didn’t see a single hair on his chest.
He gave me a scathing up and down glance, dismissed me in the same look, then turned his icy glare on the woman who was, presumably, his boss.
“I am in the middle of a highlight treatment,” he enunciated with feeling.
“This will be quick, Raphael.”
“Lovely,” Raphael said, not missing a beat. “If her locks fray to the consistency of a cat’s asshair, then you can just whine about it to someone else...”
Ms. Culare, to her credit, didn’t even roll her eyes.
“I understand,” she said neutrally. Holding out a hand, palm flat, towards me, without rising from her leather chair, she kept the same, even tone when she added, “This is Ms. Dakota Reyes, Raphael. As you might remember, she works for me temporarily.”
Again, the scathing once-over, but more critical that time.
“I don’t do fixer-uppers,” he pronounced, pursing his lips. “Tell her to visit a salon, and then I’ll have a look at those gorgeous cheekbones again...and they really are gorgeous, darling, but I simply can’t make an exception, I’m sorry.”
Ms. Culare let a small smile touch her lips that time.
“Liar,” she said, sitting back in the chair and looking up at Raphael almost fondly. “You’re practically salivating to get your hands on her, my darling...I know that look all too well. But sadly for you, that’s not why she’s here.”
“Oh?” Raphael looked between me and Ms. Culare sharply. In watching his face, I realized with some surprise that Ms. Culare had been right.
Raphael looked almost comically disappointed.
“Then what am I doing in here, pray tell?” he said, folding his also-hairless arms. “Or are you girls planning a party?”
“No party, dearest,” Ms. Culare said, sighing a bit. She leaned over her desk, clasping her hands into a tighter knot. “Don’t you recognize her name, Raphael?” she said, her voice more pointed. “You remember the flyer you showed me? And the discussion we had? Ms. Dakota Reyes...private detective. The one specializing in ‘hard to prosecute’ cases.”
Raphael gave me another look.
That one held a lot more overt scrutiny.
I couldn’t help noticing he really was kind of beautiful, if in a very feminine way for a guy. He had gorgeous brown eyes, full lips that looked always to be smiling, even when they jutted in their current near-pout. Looking at me, his eyebrows shot up and the smile slid wider over his face, making me smile back, almost involuntarily.
“Dakota Reyes,” he muttered. I watched his brown eyes change again as the light bulb in his mind blinked brighter. “This is her? Batgirl?”
I snorted a laugh at that; I couldn’t help it.
When he looked at me directly, meeting my gaze, I folded my arms, mirroring his pose and his stare, but not hiding my humor, either.
Raphael finally smiled back, as if conceding defeat.
“She’s darling!” he said. “Are you going to sign her on? You must. We could use some color around here...and I’m not talking about that lovely skin of hers, either. In fact, I insist! I may quit if I don’t get my way. We could design a whole new campaign around her...call it ‘Dangerous Women,’ dress her up as catwoman––”
“No,” Ms. Culare cut in, exhaling in some impatience that time. “No...Raphael, focus. I need you to tell me who it was that gave you Ms. Reyes’ name. You were the one who first told me about her, remember? You told me about Ms. Reyes and her services. And the name of that other man. Her colleague, Mister...Mister...”
Ms. Culare looked to me for help.
“Javier Gantry,” I supplied.
“Oh! I see. This is relevant somehow...interesting. And very exciting!”
“Yes, dear,” Ms. Culare said. “Could you be a dear and help us? Where did you first hear about her? It wasn’t from one of your bad boys, was it?”
Raphael went into a very staged-looking thinking pose, tapping his lips with one long forefinger while he jutted the corresponding hip. Then his brown eyes lit up again. For some reason, I was finding him utterly charming, despite his unnecessary delays and foot-dragging and in spite of his theatrics...or, okay, maybe partly because of them.
The last thing, anyway.
For all of his diva posturing, the guy simply radiated good humor.
“I remember now,” Raphael said, even as I thought it. “It was that adorable politician man I was speaking to. Or maybe it was h
is manager...I forget who mentioned it first. Anyway, the manager was a little creepy, as I recall...but I do so love a man in a suit who wants to help. And Mr. Politico was just soooo wanting to be helpful.”
“What was his name?” I said.
I felt a sinking sensation in my gut, even as I said it, just from Raphael’s few words.
Off the top of my head, I could think of at least one inter-dimensional politician type shape-shifter who could be extremely charming when he wanted to be, and was definitely good-looking enough to charm the socks off someone like Raphael. In human form at least, Razmun was quite the hottie. I remembered likening him to the cute guy at school, like the football star or the homecoming king, even when I first met him in Nik’s home dimension.
When Raphael’s face scrunched into another thinking expression, I asked, “Would you recognize a picture of either of them? The politician or his manager?”
“Oh, sure I would, darling,” Raphael said, that smile once more lighting up his face. “I never forget a beautiful man...much less two of them standing right next to one another.”
I motioned for Ms. Culare’s tablet, asking if I could borrow it.
She handed it over without a word.
Ignoring her questioning look, I did a quick search, pulling up the newscast from a however-many nights back that was, where Razmun gave several statements to reporters abut the bombing. Scrolling through the video, I found Razmun himself and showed the screen shot to Raphael.
“Oh, yes!” the stylist said, smiling. He practically clapped his hands. “That’s our young politician! I’d never forget those eyes...how remarkable! You knew him, knew exactly who I was talking about just from those few things I said?”
Biting my lip, I pulled the tablet back, that time doing a search for Michael Evers.
I almost wasn’t asking the question when I slid the tablet under Raphael’s nose that time.
“His campaign manager?” I said dryly.
“Oh, that’s him, darling...that’s him.” Raphael pushed playfully at my arm, beaming down at me. “You. Are. Good. Little Miss. You really are! I’m completely impressed,” he gushed.
Clutching my arm, he only let go when Ms. Culare motioned him off.
“Thank you, Raphael,” Ms. Culare said evenly. “You may go back to your highlights now.”
Raphael hesitated, looking between me and his boss.
I could see the curiosity burning in those brown, puppy dog eyes of his.
Despite all of his previous complaints, now Raphael didn’t want to go. He looked between me and Ms. Culare, as if trying to think of a good reason to stay. Clearly, he was now positive he’d be missing out on something juicy if he left. Further, his eyes burned into me with a deeper curiosity, as well––personally, I mean––enough that I could tell I really had impressed him with my search engine magic, despite how playfully he’d said it.
He must not have been able to come up with a good excuse to stay, though, given what he’d said before about ruining some model’s hair.
Eventually, his own self-importance as head stylist won out. He turned on his heel, aiming his feet for the office door with a somewhat overly-done purpose to his steps.
As he left, I heard Raphael say to Clarice in a muttered, near-threat.
“I want to hear everything later, sweetie. Everything.”
Clarice, a.k.a. Jessica Rabbit, murmured a quiet promise in return.
“You may go, too, Clarice,” Ms. Culare said, making it clear she’d heard them, too.
Both of them let out sighs, and again I might have laughed, but I was busy fighting to think through what I’d just learned from Raphael.
I looked down at Ms. Culare, even as I thought it.
“I should go, too,” I told her. “I’ll be in touch.”
That time, I was surprised to see a glimmer of frustration in her brown eyes, one that nearly mirrored Raphael’s. I didn’t let it stop me, or even pull me entirely out of my own head. The wheels were turning by then, fast enough to be smoking, and to be pushing me to decide where I should go next. So instead of answering Ms. Culare’s frustrated look, I followed Raphael and Jessica Rabbit out of her office without another word.
It occurred to me only when I’d taken the elevator down to the building’s main lobby, that Ms. Culare had been equally curious about how I’d known those two men.
Still, it was probably better if I didn’t push my luck, telling her too much.
As it was, I knew I’d have to bring Gantry into this now. I knew we’d probably have to do something a lot more drastic to deal with this whole situation, given that Razmun and Evers had been working together for awhile. That meeting in Misty’s Boom-Boom Room was only one of many such meetings between them, that much was clear.
Now that they were involving this Eastern European mafia group directly, things would definitely get more dangerous for all of us. That meant Nik and me, sure...but it also meant Jake, Gantry, Irene and possibly other people I really cared about.
The fact that Razmun and Evers had gotten me on this job, probably so they could track me, or maybe so they could make me disappear, worried me more than I really wanted to think about.
Maybe even now they were telling the mafia group what I was up to, so the crime syndicate could make me disappear. Knowing Evers, he probably knew Gantry and the cops were watching him. He probably wanted me gone in a way that would be difficult to trace back to him.
More than anything, I was frustrated. Mostly because I still felt like I was squinting at a puzzle with a number of key pieces missing.
I’d resolved to call on my friends at the Seattle PD, again, too.
No matter how pissed off Jo was at me. I needed to try again. If that didn’t work, I’d send Gantry...or maybe Irene. Maybe both of them. Maybe they could get Jo to listen.
Or at least come up with a more convincing story.
I needed to know the exact connection between Misty’s and those missing girls. Jo clearly knew something, which was why she’d tossed me in that direction. I could guess a connection, sure, but a guess alone wasn’t super helpful at this point. Not if I wanted to stop them before they put a hit out on me...assuming it wasn’t too late for that already.
Anyway, Jo obviously wanted me to to get at some connection or piece of evidence she couldn’t go after herself. She at least had a solid guess about Misty’s, so if she hadn’t pursued it on her own, someone must have warned her off.
Probably someone inside the PD itself. Jo didn’t rattle easily, so it had to be something official. Meaning yeah, whatever rich bigwig owned Misty’s likely had connections. Probably something high up in national or international law enforcement.
Whatever picture all of these pieces formed, it wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.
Given that that same group already had me in their crosshairs, however, I didn’t have a lot of choice at this point but to see it through. I might have done it anyway, because yeah, I’m dumb like that. And I promised Jazzy’s father.
As it turned out, I didn’t make it to the police station.
I didn’t make it a full two blocks.
I was walking, fast, looking for another cab...when, out of nowhere, everything went dark.
I didn’t see them come up behind me, so they might have done it from a distance.
I didn’t sense a damned thing.
I must have collapsed.
But I don’t think I even felt myself hit the pavement.
15
Bad Smells, Finding and Being Found
When I came to, I had a cloth bag over my head.
I could hear people talking somewhere not far from me, but I didn’t feel anyone right next to where I sat. My hip was sore, and off-center on some uneven, jagged piece of metal.
I was moving––up and down and forward, definitely the motion of a car.
I was also lying down, stretched out on my side, in what had to be the back seat of an old car. I guessed the last bit f
rom the bumping and the crappy springs under my weight and the way the shocks bounced under the car itself.
I tried to move...carefully.
I found my wrists handcuffed together. They’d been stretched out in front of me, more or less over my head. Those metal cuffs were also looped through and handcuffed with a separate set of cuffs to what had to be the door handle of the car. I figured most of that out by touch, of course, because I couldn’t manage to get the hood off my head. I tried to swing my legs around, but my ankles seemed to be tied in a similar way to what was probably the opposite door.
I figured they had me bound that way in part so I couldn’t raise my head above the windows, which made me wonder why they hadn’t just thrown me into the trunk.
Then I realized I might be in the trunk...sort of.
Meaning, that trunk just happened to be a big one, and the car happened to be a big one, too. Like a van or minivan or a Range Rover or some other kind of SUV. I couldn’t see past the bag over my head well enough to tell for sure. My money was on an old SUV. Something about the height of the car from the ground, and the height of the bounces on the crappy shocks every time they hit an uneven spot in the road.
I strained to listen to the guy I could hear in the front seat.
He sounded like he was talking on the phone. There were at least two of them, I realized...since another guy, not on the phone, kept adding things that may or may not have complemented the conversation taking place on the phone itself.
“...Ask them if they still want her to go to the place Southside,” the guy not on the phone was saying now. “Ask them...”
“I already did ask them that,” the other one said.
The second one, the one on the phone, had a thick, European accent. The other one sounded more East Coast America to me. Boston, to be precise. The European turned his head, changing the sound of his voice, probably to glare at Bean Town.
“Why the fuck you think I’m getting on the freeway?” he snarled.
“But she was at that old guy’s house,” Boston said, undaunted. “They know that, right? They know she talked to the Chink girl’s father?”
Crash Morph: Gate Shifter Book Two Page 22
