by Martha Woods
“I understand,” I say. “But they may need you. Humanity may need you, if war breaks out.”
“War is something else entirely,” he says. “We’ll cross that bridge if and when we get to it, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. I lean over and kiss his cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he says. “Be good.”
* * *
I meet with Rick right away, asking him to confirm the fourth death. We spend two hours reviewing photos and notes from the scene, and two more reviewing the other three murders. He sits back in his seat afterward, rubbing his temples with his palms.
“I can’t understand why the teams haven’t made these connections, Rick,” I say fiercely. “Four women dead. These are not random coincidences.”
“I am starting to believe that as well,” Rick says. “Though I did make inquiries. The teams did note the similarities but with witnesses to ID each of the suspects, there seemed to be no reason to push with further questioning.”
“Well, I am telling you that there is a reason. We just haven’t found it yet. There is no way that four crimes can be committed like this and not have some connection.”
We stare at the files in front of us for a long, heavy moment.
“I need more time, Rick,” I finally say. “I know I said a week, but I need more time.”
“Amy, this is already putting me in a weird position. I’ve asked the teams to hold off on moving these cases forward for now, but they can’t hold these suspects forever without charging them,” he says. “Get me something soon or I’m telling them to move forward by the book.”
“Then four people will be wrongly charged with crimes,” I say. “I believe it with all of my heart. None of them remembers the crime. None of them has a history of violence. None of them has a motive, for Christ’s sake.”
Rick throws his head back and pinches his nose between his fingertips. “You’re killing me, here. Find me something I can use. The levee won’t hold forever.”
“I won’t let you down,” I say. “I promise.”
I spend the rest of the day reviewing everything I’ve already reviewed. I read and reread witness accounts, investigators’ notes, photos from the scene, character accounts, and DNA samples. I nearly go cross-eyed from it all, but I just feel like there is something I am missing. It feels so close, yet so far away, and I want to scream from frustration – particularly when I see now four ghosts, all trying desperately to talk to me. They’re nearly corporeal, their wounds ghastly, three wombs ripped apart by steel. I feel sick looking at them, not just because of their gaping wounds but because I feel I am letting them down.
At about three, I get up to stretch, needing some fresh air and coffee. I wander outside and down the street to the coffee shop. After getting a large coffee, I meander back toward the building. When I walk back into the office, though, my papers and files are all over the floor and my computer screen is focused on a photo, again, this time with the imaged zoomed to a dark blob near a tree.
I start to pick up the papers but notice quickly that many are face-down. The only ones that are face-up are witness accounts. I scan them and realize that in all four cases, a key witness account is made by a person with an identical description. Different names – Adam Fray, Dan Westenbarger, Michael Chapman, Luke Rogers – but all with a medium build, height just shy of six feet, sandy blonde hair.
I look at my computer screen, taking it back to the original image. Just scanning the photo on my own, I would never have noticed it, but there is a dark figure in the photo, a man’s shape.
Could this be important? And what of the similar witness at each scene? I flip through the witness accounts again, looking for similarities in the neighbor accounts. And there it is…all four neighbors said they were out walking their dogs when they heard a commotion and ran toward the melee, only to find the act already in motion.
I call the investigators who took the statements. I ask them if they double-checked that the witnesses actually had dogs? I ask if the witnesses mentioned seeing another person near the scene. I ask if they confirmed whether or not the witnesses called 9-1-1.
They all think I’m nuts, but confirm that the answer is no in all four cases.
I pick up the phone and call the first witness on the list. Her name is Jody. When she answers, she sounds very young. I introduce myself as a special investigator and ask her if I can ask her a few follow-up questions.
“You mentioned in your statement that you were out walking your dog when you heard commotion and ran toward it. The officers did not mention a dog at the scene, though,” I say. “Did you take it home?”
“A dog?” she asks. “I said I was walking my dog?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “That’s what it says.”
“That is really weird,” she says. “I don’t have a dog.”
“Do you remember what you saw when you came upon the crime being committed?” I ask.
She’s quiet for a moment. “It’s really fuzzy,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I guess it was just a really traumatic night. I can hardly remember a single thing about it.”
“Okay, well, if you remember anything, please give me a call back,” I say.
We hang up and I call the next three, getting very similar responses – almost as if the witnesses had somehow been coerced into giving these accounts. Or worse, that they’d been under some kind of mind control that was now wearing off.
Stranger still is the fact that the male witness in each crime now has a disconnected phone number and while all of the names correspond to real people at the addresses provided, when I pull the drivers license information for each name, none of the men matches the physical descriptions provided by the officers who took statements.
“This is curious.” I say to myself as I sit back, my head pounding with a headache that had bloomed after so many hours reviewing evidence. I am utterly mystified by how weird this case is, yet I know I am on the right track.
I pack up well after quitting time and make my way home. Damon has left a note that he’s gone in to the Centerfold club for a team meeting, so I decide to go to the gym for the first time in forever. Maybe a workout is just what I need to get my head in order, to help work out the puzzle pieces. I use exercise to calm my mind, to help me focus. I haven’t been able to do nearly enough for my body lately.
* * *
My personal trainer, Zach, is working with another client when I arrive. He greets me loudly and gives me a ribbing for not coming in lately.
“I know, I know,” I say. “I’ve had a lot going on. I’ll be back in more regularly now.”
“Promises, promises,” he says. “Do you need a quick workout plan for today?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” I say. “I’ll let you know if I get stuck.”
I make my way to the rowing machine for a warm-up. As I’m rowing, I stew over the new leads I have found today. Well, been led to, anyway. I can’t imagine that those papers fell by accident in my absence, or that the screen zoomed in on an image by itself. I suppose I should be thanking my friendly neighborhood murder victims. I imagine they must have to gather an awful lot of energy to become so visible, and to be able to manipulate things in this world.
The fourth victim’s name is Misty, according to the crime reports. She was murdered by her own sister, who had come over to bring her a birthday gift before losing control and stabbing her multiple times, once again on a busy city street, once again with witnesses in full view.
The ghosts watch me as I work out and it’s only as I take a break after doing an arm set on the cable machine that I make note that all of their injuries are to their stomach areas. No damage was inflicted to any other parts of their bodies.
As I stare at the ghosts, two annoyed young women who ask if I’m done with the machine startle me. I had sort of forgotten that there were other people in the gym with me. I nod and wander off to grab a medicine ball, overhearing them talking about how one girl
’s boyfriend cheated on her and she has proof because she dressed in disguise and followed him after work one day.
This gives me an idea. I need to see what’s going on in that club myself. Damon hasn’t given me hardly anything I can use, so I will dress in disguise and go there myself.
A little while later, after finishing my workout and getting a shower, I text Cara, asking if I can come over for a makeover.
She sends me party emojis in response, so I take that as a yes and drive over to her apartment.
“This is so exciting!” she squeals when she opens the door.
“Well don’t get too worked up,” I say. “I just need a disguise so I can investigate a place without a warrant.”
Her eyes go wide. “You’re breaking the law for an investigation?”
“I guess, if you want to put it that way,” I say. “Plus, Damon works there and he’ll be pissed if he knows I’m poking around.”
She grins. “Well, I was hoping you were asking for a makeover just because, but I can help with this, too.”
“Why,” I ask innocently, “what’s wrong with my regular look?”
“Amy,” Cara grins, rolling her eyes, “You know that you put very little effort into your look.”
“I’m a forensic investigator, sometimes knee-deep in blood and guts. There is no reason to look pretty.”
“What about Damon?” she asks. “Wouldn’t he like to see you make an effort?”
“I don’t think he cares about that stuff at all,” I answer.
“All men care,” she says. “They’re basic that way.”
“I am telling you that he does not care if I’m in loafers or stilettos. It all comes off in bed anyway.”
She snickers. “That’s true.”
We catch up while she does my makeup and finds a wig she used for a Halloween costume a few years back. It’s long and black with thick bangs. I think I look ridiculous but I can see that it looks natural, and that it does succeed in transforming me into someone else.
She has me dress in a slinky black dress and sky-high heels that I’m sure will cause me at least one broken bone by the end of the night. I had to walk in heels at Olivia’s and it was quite a miracle that I did not end up flat on my face in front of a house full of hungry vampires.
“You look like one hot mama,” she says, whistling as I eyeball myself in her full-length mirror. “So you’re going in as a patron. A rich, eccentric woman who just happens to like other ladies. Pick someone and ask for a private performance. They’ll give it to you and then leave, and you’ll be able to sneak around the place. If you get caught, just say you got lost.”
I give her an amused look. “That plan is scarily good. Did you really just think of that out of nowhere?”
“What can I say? I missed my calling.” She shrugs. “My dream job is to be a spy.”
I laugh and give her a hug. “Thank you, Cara. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Be careful,” she says. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No,” I say, “but thank you.”
“Well, at least keep that outfit on for Damon later,” she says. “It will spice up your very boring sex life.”
When I give her a look, she laughs. “I know, I know, you two hump like bunnies. It’s depressing how much sex you have. Don’t remind me that I am relegated to electronic relationships.”
“Wait, computer?” I ask.
“No, vibrator,” she says, giggling.
“Ah, yes,” I say. “What about the hot lawyer?”
“Subject of many a fantasy,” she says. “But who knows. Maybe I’ll let the real thing in one of these days.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay, I’d better go get this over with.”
“Yep, go get your lap dance, bitch,” Cara says, cackling as she shoos me out the door.
* * *
When I arrive, the club is pretty busy, so it is easy to pay the cover charge and wander in mostly unnoticed. I ask the hostess to sit me somewhere inconspicuous, so she gives me a booth off to one side of the stage. I give her a tip and ask for a glass of red wine.
A performance starts, and I watch the dancer perform to a song heavy with a bass dance beat. She’s a pretty girl with doe eyes and a wraith’s body. She’s obviously had some dance training, though, because in addition to doing all of the titillating things she has to do as part of her job, she also does a nice job actually entertaining the crowd and putting on a nice routine.
It seems probable that calling it a “nice routine” would either mark me as a cop or as someone’s grandmother, so I am glad that my musings aren’t on display as I watch and try to act like a kinky, lesbian patron of this establishment.
I sip my wine and watch three more performances, all amazingly well done and tasteful. Now I can see Alexis’s influence on this place. It is not some seedy bar that covers for two-bit prostitution. It is a clean place and one that seems to value talent over simple sex-for-sale. As sex clubs go, I suppose this would be a good place to work. Minus the propensity for murder, of course.
The next performer catches my eye. She’s got honey-colored skin and a messy, curly, brown bob. She’s incredibly fit, with defined biceps and a six-pack of abs. I’m impressed, as a fellow gym rat. She does a military-inspired performance, and when she finishes, I ask the waitress if I can request her for a private show.
“India?” she asks. “Let me check.”
Ten minutes later, I’m led back through a labyrinth of hallways and into a small room that is decorated like a living room. There is a black, leather couch, a bright red armchair, a lamp, a coffee table, and a console table holding a radio and an assortment of food and beverage items. The walls are bright red and the lighting is soft and inviting.
I wait probably five minutes before India comes in, clad only in a black, lace bra and a thong.
She says, “What can I do for you tonight?”
I debate. The whole idea was just to get back here so I would have a way to sneak around the rest of the facility. I don’t necessarily want to make this woman perform for me. Maybe I should just be honest.
I say, “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course. What happens in the red room stays in the red room.”
I laugh. “I’m not here for a show. I’m here investigating the murders of your coworkers.”
Her eyes go wide.
“Can you answer some questions for me? I’ll still pay you whatever the rate is for the room,” I say.
She tilts her head and purses her lips. “There’s a camera in the corner. No sound but it will look weird if I don’t dance or something,” she says.
“What do you normally do in here?” I ask.
“A private dance, something more personal than what you’d get out there. I might sit on your lap. We might kiss.”
“Do you…have sex with people?” I ask.
“No, intercourse is against the rules,” she says. “But we can do other things if that’s what you like.”
“No, no,” I say quickly. “I’m not…I don’t want anything like that.”
She laughs. “Okay, then, sit back on the couch and I’ll do a dance while we talk.”
I do as told. She starts some music and it’s loud enough to drown out our conversation if somewhere was listening, but not so loud that I can’t hear her.
As she moves, I ask, “Have you noticed anything weird going on here?”
“Besides having four of my friends stabbed in the past month?” she asks. “Well, there’s this douchebag of a guy who says he works for the owner who comes around every few nights. He’s roughed all of us up here and there, especially if he hears us talking about the murders or being scared.”
“What do you mean he roughs you up?” I ask.
She bends over, her hair trailing on the ground and her rear facing my direction. She answers through her legs. “He choked my girl Sammy, and pushed me against my car. Told me the boss can’t lose any of us and wherever we
go, he’ll come find us and drag us back.”
I try to keep my expression neutral, but I want to wince at this. “That’s nuts,” I say.
“This has always been a nice club,” she says, unhooking her bra, exposing her breasts, which are adorned with gold hoop piercings. “Classy clientele, good tips, reasonable expectations. As a dancer, you have to audition and you have to be really good. But in the past six months, it’s just been weird around here. It feels…off…and not just because of the murders. Which, by the way, I do not believe for a second are unrelated.”
She makes her way closer to where I sit, curling up next to me. She reaches out and takes my hand, putting it to her breast as she leans close to my ear. “I think all four of the girls tried to quit. They were all really weird and scared the last few weeks of their lives. Shells of themselves.”
She leans in and kisses my neck. I tilt my head to give her access as she uses my hand to pinch at her nipple.
“I’m not…” I stammer. “I’m not really into girls,” I say. “I mean, you’re amazing and fit. Totally what I would pick if I was.”
She laughs. “Cameras, baby.”
She straddles my lap and pulls the straps of my dress down my arms, kissing my bare shoulders, grabbing at my covered breasts. She leans in close and says, “There’s an office about four doors down from here. Owner’s office but he’s never here. We’ve never seen him. Start there.”
She dismounts, puts her bra back on and curtsies. “Pay at the front before you leave,” she says as she leaves the room.
I sit, kind of dazed by the experience, until I realize someone will come to escort me out of the room if I don’t leave on my own.
As I slip out the door, I go the opposite way, counting four doors and slipping inside.
The office is large and dark. I fumble around, making my way to the desk. Mostly it’s full of things like personnel files and policies and procedures for the business.
I sift through things as quickly as I can, coming up empty-handed until I reach under the desk and find a hidden drawer. It’s locked, so I use a letter opener to pick it. When it springs open, it contains numerous items used for witchcraft ritual. Three black candles, a metal pentagram, and a wooden-handled dagger are just some of the items.
