by Elle Gray
“You guys are too easy to shock. It’s kind of sad, really,” she says.
I run a hand through my hair, still chuckling to myself. It takes Brody a minute to compose himself, but he finally manages it. The three of us sit in awkward silence for a moment until Marcy turns to me, that same smile on her face.
“So, where were we?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “Well, I was telling you guys what happened with Falucci last night.”
“Right, right,” Brody says. “So, do you believe him? Believe that he kept his head down and didn’t notice anything Mrs. MacMillan was or wasn’t doing?”
“I do. It’s like I told you the last time, he’s into some shady stuff, of course, but he has his own code. His own moral compass. And as much as he disliked her, I don’t believe for a second, he wants to see Mrs. MacMillan’s killer walk. I think he finds the notion of that to be offensive.”
“I’m still just having trouble wrapping my mind around the idea of this guy, a known criminal—”
“Technically, not a known criminal. He’s got a reputation, sure. But he’s never been arrested, tried, or convicted of any crime. That reputation is technically all smoke and mirrors,” I correct him.
“Yeah well, where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire,” Brody says. “I can’t believe you’re defending this guy.”
“Not defending. Just pointing out a verifiable fact,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. Semantics. Anyway, the point is that I’m having trouble believing this guy actually has a heart of gold like you seem to believe.”
“I never said he had a heart of gold. I’ve only ever said he seems to have his own moral compass. And that he’s not as bad a guy as he lets people believe he is,” I say.
“But why let people believe he’s this criminal kingpin?” Brody asks.
“Because he’s smart. He knows the myth is usually a lot worse than the reality,” Marcy says. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have spread some of these myths himself. If he keeps people afraid of him, afraid he’s going to cut their head off, they’ll be more pliant. They’ll be more likely to do as he says for fear of upsetting him.”
“Bingo,” I nod.
Brody sits back and absorbs our words. I can see him nodding as if he’s coming around to seeing our point. I have to say, it’s only a theory, but if it’s true, it’s a pretty slick scam he has going. Gin up the fear of a man who’ll cut your head off for upsetting him by spreading it around, and before you know it, fiction becomes fact. And he has an entire city of petty criminals out there, paying taxes to him, and he’s never had to lift a finger, let alone decapitate somebody for real. If it’s true, and I tend to think it is, it shows that Falucci is smart. Very smart. No question about it.
“Anyway,” I say. “Back to the job in front of us. Brody, go ahead and plug in my membership info. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
“Okay, here we go then,” he replies.
His fingers fly over the keyboard, and before we know it, the login screen fades away, and suddenly, we’re looking at the home page for the Velvet Playground. It’s still bordered with that rich, royal purple, but on the main screen are photos of men and women, dressed to the nines in some pictures, and in various states of undress in others. The only constant is the lavish and extravagantly decorated masks they’re all wearing. No matter how undressed they are, their masks are always on.
I have to admit, there’s something elegant about the men and women in formal dress wearing masquerade ball masks. Some of them are wearing colombinas, others are wearing voltos, some are wearing bautas, and still, others are sporting domino masks. These are not cheapo plastic Halloween costume masks either. The sturdy craftsmanship is evident even from these pictures. Some are a stark, plain white or black, but others are wildly colored, some with feathers, others lace. And of course, there seems to be an overabundance of glitter.
“Every night’s a masquerade at the Velvet Playground,” Brody mutters.
“It’s actually kind of hot,” Marcy replies.
Both of us look at her in shock for the second time. She howls with laughter and waves us off.
“You guys are ridiculous prudes,” she says. “Have neither of you engaged in a little fantasy role play?”
“Yeah, but I called it trick or treating. And I stopped doing it when I was nine,” Brody replies.
“You are so lucky I’m dating you.”
“The more I learn about you Marcy, the more disturbed and yet morbidly fascinated I am,” I tell her. “You wouldn’t happen to have a sister, do you?”
She laughs. “Even if I did, it’s not like you’d ever do anything about it.”
Damn. Walked straight into that one.
Brody navigates through the site. It’s mostly pictures from their various events. There seems to usually be a theme for all their parties, which are held twice monthly. I see Mardi Gras, vampires, Roaring 20’s, and Prohibition, among others. The only common denominator I see is the masks. They seem to be required at all Velvet Playground events.
At first blush, you’d think it was their kink. That this was some freaky fetish party or something. And who knows, maybe there’s something of that in it too. But I think, for the most part, it’s to protect the anonymity of the partygoers. Corporate CEOs, celebrities, athletes, and those types tend to be very guarded about their private lives. And rightly so.
Requiring masks to attend these functions not only protects their identities and keeps everybody anonymous. It allows them to act naturally and enjoy themselves without having to worry about repercussions. Without having to worry about somebody taking video and blackmailing them with it. They can do whatever it is they want, and nobody will ever be the wiser.
So far, I don’t see any indication that anything more than silly dress-up parties with consenting adults is happening. But of course, if anything illegal is happening, I kind of doubt it’ll be proudly displayed on their website, even behind strict password protection.
But I can tell these are not just dress-up sex parties, either. These are social events, even more exclusive and high-dollar than The Nine. Whatever goes down in this has ramifications for this entire social stratum of people. Their secrets are kept tighter than Fort Knox. We scroll through the Mardi Gras photos that are tasteful, perhaps even artfully done, but leave little to the imagination about what’s happening. And here I thought you only had to flash your chest to earn your beads. Maybe Marcy’s right, and we are naive.
“So, not to ask the obvious question or anything,” Marcy starts, “but what exactly are we looking for here? Or are we just taking the softcore porn tour?”
“I thought you said you wanted us to be more adventurous,” Brody says.
“You’ll get there,” she cracks. “You’ll need to be more specific with Brody,” I tell her. “You might even need to use pictures to illustrate what you want.”
A wide smile on her face, she gives me a rude gesture. “Don’t be a pig.”
“Didn’t you hear? It’s almost Halloween, and I can be whatever I want.”
She rolls her eyes, but Brody laughs. I look at the pictures on the screen again, casting a critical eye on them. But after a couple of moments, I frown and shake my head, so Brody brings up the next set of photos. We make it through the sets of party shots from 10,000 BC, Greek Gods and Goddesses, and the French Revolution before I find what I’m looking for in the War of the Roses set.
“There. Third picture down,” I point. “Can you enlarge that photo?”
Brody does, so it’s filling the entire screen. I get to my feet and step closer to it, scrutinizing the picture, and nod.
“There she is,” I say.
Brody and Marcy join me near the screen and nod along with me. Her dress is a rich, deep red brocaded with gold that sits off the shoulders, showing off her cream-colored skin, and with a bust that shows off her ample cleavage. The waist is high, and the skirt flares out around her, and has a small train t
hat she’s pinned up in the back, showing off the fur trimming. And over her eyes sits a red and black checkered colombina mask with feathers that stand out along the top half of it.
“Love her dress,” Marcy comments. “And not to sound like a broken record, but that mask makes it super-hot.”
“Tell you what, when I’m done with this membership, you can have it,” I tell her. “You can go play dress-up anytime you want.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” she says with a laugh as Brody chuffs.
“Okay, so we’ve found her, proving she’s there,” Brody says. “Now what?”
“Now we find this guy,” I say, pointing to a man standing next to her.
He’s dressed in a black doublet trimmed with red, a red sash about his waist, red breeches, and high black leather boots. He’s got long black hair that’s tied back into a tail, bound with a red ribbon. The upper half of his face is covered by a bauta mask that’s black and trimmed with red and brocaded with silver. He’s got a thick, dark beard that’s shot through with gray below that. He’s a large man with wide shoulders and a thick chest that fills out his doublet well.
“Why that guy?” Brody asks.
“Check out the way he’s looking at her. Look at his body language,” I say. “That’s a man who’s possessive of her. A man who feels he has a claim to her.”
Brody and Marcy exchange a look, then turn to me, curious expressions on both of their faces, and I can see they’re having a hard time buying in.
“You get that from this picture?” she asks.
I nod. “Look at his left arm. It’s extended, but you can’t see it. I’d say it’s on the small of her back. Notice the way he’s leaning into her. Almost over her, actually. That shows a sense of ownership,” I explain, then point to his eyes. “And look at where his eyes are focused. On her. His whole posture and the way he looms over her is basically showing everybody else that she’s his property.”
“That’s a really creepy way of looking at that,” Marcy says.
“How many times do I have to tell you people that masks are creepy?”
They laugh, but I can still see them struggling to interpret the photo the way I am. That’s okay though. They don’t have to buy-in. I know I’m right. And hey, worst-case scenario, and I’m wrong, the guy simply tells me he doesn’t know her. No harm, no foul. But I know I’m not wrong.
I have Brody scroll through some more of the picture galleries, and we find Mrs. MacMillan and her mystery man in four additional pictures at different events. What I don’t notice is Marshall. If they were one of those couples who do these things together, he’s been conspicuously absent. I file this away in my memory. Did he know about Charlotte’s membership?
I have Brody print out all of the pictures for me as we go. The man’s position is the same in every picture: slightly behind and to the right of her. He looms over her in every single one of them in a protective way, but also in a way that suggests he’s dominant and is letting everybody else know not to approach her. It leaves no doubt in my mind that this man is involved with Mrs. MacMillan. Which means I need to talk to him.
Brody breaks the silence with the big question.
“Are we thinking he’s good for her murder?”
I shake my head. “We aren’t thinking anything yet, other than we need to have a conversation with him.”
“That won’t be awkward or anything,” Marcy remarks.
I shrug. “I’m not the one in some weird sex cult; I won’t feel awkward at all.”
She laughs. “Yeah well, you might want to take a softer approach with the guy. I mean, if he’s as into her as you seem to think he is, he’s going to be emotional. And emotional people tend to do really stupid things.”
“I feel personally attacked by that,” Brody says.
“As you should.”
“Hey.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry; I’ll be gentle.”
“Oh God,” they both say in unison.
“Oh great, we’re at the sharing a brain phase of this relationship. I was wondering when we’d get there.”
I walk to the printer on a stand in the corner and pick up the stack of photos, then slip them into a file folder. After that, I turn back to Brody.
“When is the next event?” I ask.
Brody goes back to his laptop and scrolls through the site, clicking on the link for upcoming events.
“Two nights from now,” he says… “Cool. Only two nights to infiltrate an elite sex cult. No biggie.” I start gathering my things and making for the door.
“Where are you headed?” he asks.
I wave the folder at him. “I need to update Sarah on what we’ve found,” I say, then look at Marcy. “Now that is going to be awkward.”
“Good luck,” she says.
I tip them both a quick salute and head out of the Fishbowl.
Twenty-Two
MacMillan & Associates Law Firm; Downtown Seattle
As I wait in the lobby, looking down at the folder in my hands, I think about what’s inside of it. Sarah, like a lot of people, definitely has a certain image of Charlotte MacMillan fixed firmly in their minds. Doubly so, given that she’s her mother. The photos I’m holding are going to blow that image right out of the water. And frankly, turning somebody’s world upside down was not on my to-do list for the day.
I give thought to backing out and leaving, then contacting Lee and filling him in on what I’ve found. Let him drop this bombshell on Sarah. I reject the idea shortly after it passes through my mind though. One, I’m not a coward. Two, she’s paying me to do this job, not to hand it off to somebody else because I’m not really comfortable having this conversation with her.
In short, it’s not Lee’s job or responsibility to take the flak that is inevitably going to come raining down once Sarah finds out the image she had of her mother has been irreparably shattered. It’s mine.
As I stand there, my cellphone buzzes in my pocket. Not knowing how much longer I’ll be waiting, I slip my phone out of my pocket and see it’s from the security detail I have sitting on Lance. Knowing nothing good is going to come from this call, I motion to the receptionist.
“I need to take this, so I’ll be in the hall,” I tell her. “I’ll be right back.”
She nods. “Of course.”
I step out into the hall and connect the call, pressing the phone to my ear. “Arrington.”
“Mr. Arrington, this is Sam Shaw; I’m the agent in charge of your security detail,” he starts.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Shaw,” I say, my voice carrying a hard, dangerous edge to it.
There’s a pause on the line as he obviously picks up on my tone. I hear him clear his throat, and when he speaks, it’s in carefully measured tones.
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to be blunt with you, Mr. Arrington.”
“That would be refreshing.”
“Sir, the man you have us sitting on, he… he’s gone, sir.”
I close my eyes, drawing in a breath with a silent ten-count before I release it. I’m still not exactly calm enough to continue, but I’ll make do.
“How did this happen, Mr. Shaw?” I growl. “Your team was given specific instructions. You were told he was a high flight risk and needed to be watched carefully.”
“I know, sir. And we take full responsibility for—”
I’m gripping my phone so tight, I’m half afraid I’m going to shatter it in my hand. I have to force myself to relax my grip and unclench my jaw enough so that I’m not speaking through gritted teeth.
“I don’t want to hear boilerplate platitudes right now, Shaw. I want to know what you’re doing to correct the situation.”
“Sir, we have teams out searching for him right now. We’re circulating his picture among our men, and if you’d like, we can use our contacts within the SPD to spread the net wider.”
“No, I do not want the SPD involved. If I’d wanted them involved, I w
ould have turned him over to them in the first place,” I spit.
The door to the office behind me opens, and the receptionist leans out. She gives me the sign that Sarah’s ready for me. I give her a nod, letting her know I’ll be right there.
“I suggest you and your team do whatever is necessary to find him. Immediately. Believe me when I say, you do not want to make an enemy of me, Mr. Shaw.”
I disconnect the call and take a moment to compose myself before dropping my phone in my pocket and going back inside. When I get to Sarah’s office, I’ve managed to gather myself enough that I’m not going to accidentally bite her head off anyway. But I’m still pissed off. The level of incompetence of the security company is staggering. How in the hell could they have lost track of one man sitting in a motel room?
I push it out of my mind for now. I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I need to focus on how to pull my punch enough that I don’t completely knock the wind out of Sarah.
“Mr. Arrington,” she says as I enter her office.
“Ms. MacMillan.”
I take a seat in the chair before her desk and clear my throat, suddenly unsure how to begin. She looks at me expectantly.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” I start, “I found some things that you are probably going to want to know.”
“I don’t mean to hurry you along, but I have an appearance in forty-five minutes…”
She lets her voice trail off, leaving the message more than clear: hurry up and get out. Which suits me just fine. This isn’t a conversation I want to prolong any more than necessary. Before I get into that though, I’ll start with something easier. Well, given my recent call, it’s not going to be much easier, but it might be easier to soft shoe my way around it.
“The first bit of news is that your brother Lance is in town. He’s been here for a little while, apparently,” I tell her.
She doesn’t look surprised. But then, she has a very good poker face, so she may just be hiding it well.
