Sacrifice

by Michael Arches

  She gulped her straight black coffee. “Not much. They’ve been operating for a couple of years. No complaints. Like you guys, we ignore them unless they cause trouble or become victims.”

  I ran down the operation I saw unfolding. In particular, I mentioned that we didn’t know yet whether the hookers had been involved in Natasha’s murder.

  Jackie nodded several times like she was on our wavelength.

  When I finished, she said, “Works for me, Hank. I’ll head over now and wait at the bar. Once you two make contact with the escort, the four of us can chat in my SUV.”

  I thanked her for helping us. She took off.

  Skip and I gave her a few minutes lead before going to L'Amore ourselves.

  We knew what Raquel looked like, thanks to the escorts’ website. Skip had driven in his late-model Camry, which looked a lot more like a rental car than my Rubicon. While we were still driving, our partner from Eagle County texted, Target hasn’t arrived yet.

  When we got there, Skip headed to the bar. I waited in his car to follow our target in. That would minimize the chance that she might make him as a cop and bolt.

  A few minutes later, Raquel drove up in a BMW coupe. I had no trouble recognizing her in the lights illuminating the parking lot.

  She got out and smoothed her red party dress. Definitely a delectable morsel with an innocent face, long flowing blonde hair, and porn star’s chest. Not a tall woman, but she made up for it with ankle breaker stilettos. I wondered how she managed to stay upright on the icy pavement. A light snow had just begun to fall.

  A moment after she passed behind the Camry, I hopped out and walked casually toward the entrance, keeping my distance. She didn’t look back. The whores in ski towns were incredibly brazen these days.

  L'Amore was a fancy Italian place Willow had eaten at last spring. Way too rich for my blood. If I got a chance, she told me, I should try the veal scaloppini at seventy bucks a plate. Not going to happen.

  A dozen people milled about the entrance on a Monday night. These were boom times for the resorts. Raquel said something to the hostess and headed for the bar.

  I followed and immediately noticed the aroma of roasted garlic and grilled steak. I hadn’t eaten for hours and wished I could find something here in my price range.

  The young woman at the hostess stand held up her hand to stop me. “Be right back.”

  “Just looking for someone at the bar,” I said, but she shook her head.

  “Sorry, I just heard in my earpiece. Bar’s completely full.”

  I flashed my go-anywhere-I-want-card, or rather badge. She shrugged.

  That tiny glitch held me up for only a minute, but I’d lost sight of our quarry.

  The bar was a large room, and it was so crowded I could barely move. Acid rock blasted, and people yelled to be heard. I couldn’t see my partners either.

  Not sure which path to take, I squeezed my way into one aisle between rows of tall, small tables and barstools. Then I spotted Raquel—on the next aisle over. But she was already headed back to the entrance. She must’ve caught on to us already.

  I yelled to be heard over the din of talking and music. “Police! Coming through!”

  Most people probably couldn’t hear me, and none got out of the way. But Raquel looked over. She had that hunted doe expression—big eyes and a wide-open mouth. And she was closer to the entrance.

  I kept yelling, and folks kept ignoring me. One drunk snow bunny backed into me without looking, and I almost knocked her on her ass. It took all my strength to keep her upright so she wouldn’t be trampled to death.

  Raquel made it back to the entrance a good ten seconds ahead of me. Once she got past the crowd, she stripped off the ankle breakers and bolted across the nasty pavement. I’d never seen a woman run barefoot over snow and ice before. She must’ve been a track star in her high school days because she had the moves.

  I was no slouch at running myself, but my sensible shoes slipped several times. Once, my fake ankle gave out. My kneecap slammed into the ice. I said very unladylike things to nobody in particular.

  Raquel made it to her car and got the engine started. But before she could back up, I caught up with her. “Stop! Police!”

  I stood behind her Beemer, my hand on my service pistol under my sport coat. By standing my ground, I kept her from backing up.

  That wasn’t as crazy as it might appear. If the backup lights came on, I could hop on her trunk to avoid getting run over. And Raquel wasn’t in any real trouble yet. There was a helluva big difference between whoring for fun and profit on the one hand, and assault with a deadly weapon against a police officer on the other. Then a nasty thought occurred to me—unless she had been involved in Natasha’s murder.

  Lucky for me, our quarry screamed and pounded her fists on her steering wheel. But she didn’t back into me.

  “Raquel, turn off the damned car. Get out. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  After a few seconds when I wondered whether she still might plow into me, she turned the engine off.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. Relief flooded through me. I hadn’t looked forward to jumping onto her trunk. I’d already fallen once onto the ice.

  Skip and Jackie, breathing hard, finally caught up with us.

  Raquel’s eyes flashed with fury. In a thick Brooklyn accent, she said, “What the fuck is your problem? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  I grabbed her by one arm and half-dragged her to Jackie’s SUV. Raquel and I sat in the back. The other two sat up front and turned to face us.

  Our witness and potential suspect muttered again, “Didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I fired back, “Yet! But we all know why you’re here.” I let that sink in for a moment, then said, “Listen, we don’t care about how you pay your rent. Nothing against working girls. We’re investigating a murder.”

  “Murder! I don’t even kill flies. You’re crazy.”

  I held up my hands, palms forward, as a gesture of peace. “Relax, Raquel, or whatever your real name is. If you’re telling the truth, we need your help as a witness in our investigation.”

  “Never saw any murder.”

  “Nobody said you did,” I said. “We’re investigating the murder of another escort, Natasha Rybár. You might know her as Monique.”

  She dialed back the frustration in her voice. “Monique’s dead? What happened? We haven’t heard from her for a couple of months. Just vanished.”

  I pointed to myself then Skip. “We’re cops out of Aspen. We found her body there a few days ago. But she was likely murdered a couple of months ago. We’re after her killer. You got all that?”

  Tears welled in Raquel’s eyes. “She was very nice. Lent me money a couple times when I needed it. Didn’t nag for me to repay her.”

  “Look, if you weren’t involved in her disappearance and she was your friend, you should help us find whoever killed her. First of all, we need to know where she was living.”

  The hooker glanced at all three of us. “If I tell you the truth, will you let me go?”

  “Absolutely. We don’t care what you do for a living. We’re here to find justice for Natasha, her friends, and her family.”

  She took a couple of deep breaths as though pondering whether she could trust us. After letting one out, she said, “You better not be lying to me. Cops lie all the time.”

  “Girl Scout’s honor,” I said, “and we ain’t got all night.”

  “Fine, she lives, lived, in the same apartment building that I do. She had a roommate, another girl in our service. Christy boxed up Natasha’s things, hoping she’d come back. On the first, Melissa moved into Natasha’s room.”

  “Fine,” I said. “We need to see Natasha’s stuff, particularly her phone. Let’s go.”

  Raquel shook her head. “We didn’t find Natasha’s phone. And before taking you there, I need to check with the others.”

 
To hell with that noise. “We don’t care about your roommates’ work any more than we care about yours, but we aren’t giving them a chance to get rid of Natasha’s stuff.”

  “Christy and Melissa might be working tonight.”

  “We don’t care. If needed, we’ll get a warrant, and the landlord will open the door. Let’s go.”

  “I’m not taking you there until I talk to them.”

  I had a limited tolerance for bullshit from whining criminals under the best of circumstances, and the woman had seriously considered running me over. “Get this. You either take us to your apartment building now, or Jackie here will book you into the county jail for soliciting and suspicion of murder. No more bullshit.”

  “Fine! I’ll lead you in my car.”

  We weren’t giving her a chance to outrun us, or more likely, to call her pals. “No problem. I’ll ride with you.”

  She huffed then said, “Shit, let’s get this over with.”

  Chapter 6

  At the apartment building, Raquel and I went up to Christy and Melissa’s apartment on the second floor and knocked. Jackie and Skip stayed back in the hallway.

  Raquel said, “Let me talk to them first. They’re going to go berserk, but I can calm them down…probably.”

  I’d been thinking about their reaction but couldn’t trust any of them. “Can’t risk possible destruction of evidence.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You have an overactive imagination.”

  Nonetheless, when a stunning redhead opened the door, I pushed Raquel aside.

  “Police! Keep your hands where I can see them. Is anyone else here?”

  “What! N-nobody. Raquel! What’s going on?”

  I motioned for Skip and Jackie to join me. Then I went through my spiel again about investigating Natasha’s murder. Finally, I asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Christy.” She glared at Raquel then me. “You’d better not be lying.”

  Why did people keep saying that? I was normally the most honest and forthright person I knew. “Look, I’m not asking any questions about you or Raquel, just about your dead friend. If you’re innocent in her murder, help us. First, show us her stuff.”

  After hesitating, Christy let us in and showed us four boxes stored in one of the bedrooms. The apartment smelled like tacos, which was apparently what Christy planned for dinner. I wished I could stop working long enough to join her. Not that she’d invite me. Her scowl didn’t waver.

  With three of us cops checking the boxes, it didn’t take long to find what we could use to find Natasha’s activities right before her death. Both hookers stood around watching us silently.

  I took Natasha’s laptop but couldn’t find any phone bills. So, I asked, “What phone number was she using?”

  Christy told me.

  “What name?”

  “Audrey Garrard,” Raquel said.

  “Email address?”

  Christy rattled it off.

  “If someone contacted Veronica for a date,” Raquel said, “she would send a text to the phone number I just gave you.”

  A few minutes later, we wrapped up our business. Neither hooker said goodbye. That hurt my feelings. I thanked Jackie for the assist, and Skip and I headed for Aspen.

  When I reached home, it was after nine. I asked Willow if she could break into the laptop for me. On the way back, I’d tried without any luck.

  “I love helping with your cases,” she said. “Unfortunately, I’m tied up until late morning. Will that be soon enough?”

  I didn’t have any good alternative. “Of course, whenever you can. You have to give priority to your clients.”

  She worked until past midnight on some project for the Japanese Finance Ministry. Then came to bed. Started snoring softly within seconds.

  -o-o-o-

  On Tuesday morning, as usual, I met with Tim, the Aspen police chief. We preferred to meet at a bakery in town because it was cheap and near both of our offices.

  The owner, Melody Wilcox, looked like she hadn’t slept much lately. Her frizzy red hair stuck out from underneath her hat, and her mascara was smeared. She used to be very friendly, but for the last few months, she’d been fighting with her landlord. He wanted to double her rent.

  I hated the thought of her closing because there were damned few places in Aspen where we could eat for cheap. “How are things going on the new lease?”

  She grimaced. “Totally fucked up. We have to be out by the end of the year. Can’t find anywhere else in town to move to. I just signed a lease for a new place in Glenwood. Hate the greedy bastard who owns this building.”

  I offered sympathy but couldn’t do anything to help her. I did buy an extra donut for Boomer, but all local businesses paid high rents. It just wasn’t possible anymore to make enough profit from pastries in this glitzy town.

  Tim and I took a table in the corner next to a rattling refrigerator case. Nobody else wanted to be near it, so we could chat in private.

  We reviewed the various cases our offices were handling, and I filled him in on my progress on Natasha’s murder.

  Then I told him about the big black dog/wolf/hellhound. It hadn’t been seen since it killed the goat.

  “Funny you should mention that,” he said. “I was going to tell you about our one weird report. Some stockbroker from Vegas claimed to have seen a large black dog running down the street where he owns a small second home. Says it was stout, like a pit bull, but at least four feet tall at the shoulders. This was shortly after midnight yesterday morning. No proof, not even a paw print.”

  “The stories match up, don’t they?”

  Tim shrugged. “My guy had been drinking. Our officer said he was unsteady on his feet, his voice slurred. Plus, he might’ve heard about your sighting in Old Snowmass. That’d be a helluva story for his friends back in Sin City.”

  Or he actually saw a big fucking wolf that’d moved fifteen miles over a couple of days. They could move a hundred miles a day. “What else did he say?”

  The guy claimed the dog ran past him before he noticed it. It growled as it went by, a deep rumble. Scared the shit out of him. He claimed he called because he was worried that it might attack someone smaller.”

  “Did he mention the eyes?” I asked.

  “Not at first. Maybe because he thought we would’ve considered him crazy, which was right. Says he didn’t see the animal’s eyes as it passed. But after the interview ended, he told our officer he saw something red glowing near the dog’s face, right before it vanished.”

  Cops heard weird stories all the time, including many a lot stranger than this. Just part of the job. Most times, those stories were only good for a laugh at the office. But this one was remarkably consistent with what I’d heard and seen for myself.

  “Not much we can do until we get more information,” I said. “Doubt we have a hellhound running around. Of course, you’re welcome to talk to a priest about an exorcism if you like.”

  “I’ll add it to the long list of things I need to talk to a priest about.”

  -o-o-o-

  Shortly after I made it to my office, I got a call from Manny Martinez. He was the long-time police chief in Glenwood Springs. Had grown up there, back in the sixties. I knew him mainly because he threw an amazing party for law enforcement every Fourth of July. Cops and prosecutors came from all around to catch up with each other. It was one of the few parties I looked forward to each year.

  “Hank, I think I got the same trouble as you.”

  I seriously doubted that the burly, grizzled, old cop knew much about my troubles, and I didn’t know him well enough to joke around about him coming out or transitioning into a woman. “How do you mean, chief?”

  “Dammit, someone just found a foot, sawed off at midcalf, in a dumpster here.”

  My stomach sank. “Really sorry to hear that. I was hoping our case was a one-off.”

  “Me, too, but someone around here j
ust likes killin’,” he said.

  “Don’t you hate that? Tell me all the gory details.”

  He paused for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. “Before I start, no, I haven’t been hitting the sauce early in the morning. One of our homeless guys, Whizzer Stevens, was dumpster diving for breakfast behind Homer’s Pizza. He found something wrapped in black plastic. Thought they’d tossed out-of-date sausage or something. Tore the package open, and the foot fell out. He heaved all over it, naturally, contaminating our goddamned evidence.”

  I could sympathize. “That’ll make the DNA analysis a lot tougher.”

  He snorted. “The leg had been sawed through, just like in your deal. I read your bulletin when it came out, and it clicked. So now, instead of chucking body parts into the river, they’re tossing ‘em into dumpsters.”

  “I see one advantage this time,” I said. “Should be easier to find the rest of the remains.”

  “Yeah, already called the trash companies. They’re delaying pick up one day for their business customers. You interested in teaming up?”

  Glenwood was about the same size as Aspen, and us small-time law enforcement operations had to work together whenever possible. “You bet, but I ain’t doing any dumpster diving for you.”

  He cackled. “Didn’t expect you would. We’ll let our new officer handle that part of it.”

  “I gotta clear it with Randy, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. On my way soon.”

  “Great, and one more thing. Can you bring your mutt? I heard the craziest stories about Boomer tracking things down.”

  Manny was the local center for cop gossip. “I hear some of those stories, too, and I actually lived through them and know what really happened. I’ll bring the hound, but he won’t be much good on this. You’ll need a real cadaver dog. Mine doesn’t distinguish between dead bodies and a hundred other great smells in trash.”

  “Gotcha. We’ll work something out with one of the search and rescue groups. See ya soon.”

  I checked with Randy, which as I expected, was just a formality. We always helped other law enforcement agencies in the area whenever possible. In this case, it sounded like we were working the same investigation.