Death of an Escort (12 page)

"Come and join me," she said.

"Where?"

"That same place we went first," she
said.

"The salad bar place?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm paying for your plate
now. See you soon."

Was eating lettuce after bananas a good idea?
I didn't know, but I was worried about some kind of interaction or
reaction. Kind of like mixing beer and hard liquor.

But I was hungry, and I decided to risk it.
It was a short drive, and I pulled up and went inside.

She was sitting at the same booth. First, I
decided to make my plate of food, and then I'd join her. She waved
at me, and I nodded back.

The real question I had about all this was
how she was so fat if all she did was eat here? Ranch dressing
couldn't be that fattening.

I made a giant mound of a salad and made my
way over to her.

"Hello," she said. "How is it going?"

"I'm learning many interesting things," I
said. "The thing I'm working on right now is the oddest, I
think."

"And that is?" she asked, and then she sucked
down some soda.

"I found another porn site your mother was
on," I said.

She had been a little cheerful and happy, but
as soon as I mentioned that, it all left her. She almost looked
like she was going to cry.

"They must have been stealing pictures or
something," she said.

I shook my head. "No," I said. "It wasn't
pictures. It was video. Video of your mom, uh, she was, uh, being
raped."

"What?" It came out like a strained gasp.

"I don't think it was actual rape," I said.
"I think it was staged, but that would mean your mom was in on
it."

"Why?" she whispered. Tears were starting to
come now.

"I don't know, yet," I said. "I don't know
much about it. I've got someone working to give me details right
now. Soon I should know more about that."

She pushed her plate away. "I'm not hungry
anymore," she said. It almost sounded like a whimper.

I hadn't even started my salad. Seeing what
was coming, I began to eat quickly.

"I'm ready to go," she said.

I knew it. I'd only eaten the top of my
salad, but I pushed it toward the center of the table. "I'll walk
you back to your place," I said.

It wasn't the kind-hearted gesture it seemed.
I wanted to look at her papers some more. It was the life insurance
papers I was interested in seeing.

And there was the button issue.

"Is there anything else you've learned?" she
asked, regaining some composer once we were outside.

There was a lot more. The last to see her
alive wasn't very cooperative. The fiancé was a lying cheat, and
she herself wasn't being honest. The button was my proof, but given
the way she'd reacted to the rape porn news, I wasn't sure how much
more I wanted to share.

"I'm working on several angles," I said.

We'd gotten to her front door, and she
unlocked it.

"I need to go freshen up," she said. "I'll
meet you in the office in a moment, okay?"

I nodded. "Sounds good," I said and made my
way to the office. As soon as I got there, I began shuffling
through papers on her desk. The life insurance papers had been
there.

I didn't know if they were still there or
not. The top of the desk was so crowded and messy with layers and
layers of papers all strewn about. Lots of them were bills of
various sorts.

Now I was pawing through the papers.

I felt like I was running out of time. She'd
be back soon, and I'd lose my chance. The thing I wanted to find
out was if the policy paid out if there was suicide.

"Excuse me?"

The voice made me jump.

Chapter 11

It was Macy. I was halfway up on the desk.
One of my knees was up on the table top. I'd knocked papers off,
and they were lying on the floor.

"What is this?" she asked.

I felt so embarrassed, and I hoped I wasn't
blushing as badly as it felt I was.

"Well?" she asked indignantly.

"Let's talk frankly," I finally got out.

"Yes, let's do that." She marched around the
desk and sat in the chair facing me. "Who do you think you are to
go rifling through my papers?"

My courage had returned. "Did your mother's
life insurance pay out even in a suicide?"

She looked shocked. "How do you know about
that?"

I shook my head to wave off the question.
"Does it pay out now?"

"It's none of your business," she said.

"Is it perhaps that it doesn't pay out on
suicide? Is that what this is about?" I asked.

She pressed her lips tightly together before
she spoke. "Are you trying to get fired?"

"No," I said. "But I'm trying to make sense
of all this, and it keeps getting more complicated the deeper I get
into it."

"Find the truth like you were hired to do,"
she said.

"Okay," I said. "The truth. Okay." I pulled
the button out of my pocket. "Explain this to me."

She looked down at it, and she shrugged.

"This belongs to you. This is your button.
I've checked."

"You can't know if a button belongs to
someone," she said.

"Normally, I'd agree," I said. "But this was
handmade here in town, and the buyer is on record as you."

Her eyes met mine, and there was a guilty
look in them.

"Not only that, but I looked at the photos of
your mom after she died. She wasn't wearing anything that would
have had this button on it. However, this button was at the scene
of the crime or suicide or whatever happened."

"I don't what to discuss this, Ray," she
said. She turned away slightly.

I sat down, and pulled the chair close up to
the edge of the desk. Then I leaned forward and put my elbows on
the sea of papers covering the desk.

With a quieter voice, I continued. "Macy. I
want this job. I want to find out the truth of what happened to
your mother. I do, but I can only do that if you, my client, are
totally honest with me."

She looked back at me, but didn't say
anything.

"Now, I know this button belongs to you, and
I know it was in the room where your mother died. Were you
there?"

"No," she said.

"Be honest with me," I said.

"I wasn't there. I swear," she said.

"Is this your button?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Finally she admitted to it. "Okay," I said.
"How did it get in the room with your mother?"

"I don't know," she said so quietly I had a
hard time hearing it.

"Were you there?"

"No," she said with some force and
conviction. "I wasn't there. I don't know how this button . . ."
Her voice trailed off.

"What? What is it?" I asked.

Her eyes were full of suspicion, but it
wasn't directed at me. "The maid," she said in a low voice.

"The maid?"

"Yes," she said. "We had a maid come in and
do the housework. I recognize that button. It belonged to a top
that I used to have, but it didn't fit me anymore."

"And?"

"I gave it to the maid," she said.

"I'm not getting the connection," I said.

"Our maid told us she also worked at several
motels doing housekeeping work there too," she said.

"Did she work at the Sleep EZ Inn?"

She looked hard into my eyes. She was
thinking, trying to remember. "I think so," she said.

"Well, that clears the button issue up," I
said. "But why lie to me before about it? You knew it was
yours."

She looked tired now. "I wasn't lying," she
said. "It didn't belong to me anymore."

I put the button back in my pocket. I had
another person I had to talk to now. This maid might know
something. Maybe she found something when cleaning the room when
she lost her button.

"What was your maid's name?"

"Maria Vasquez," she said.

I mentally filed the name away. "Do you have
an address or something for her?"

She shook her head no.

"All right," I said. "But let's return to the
life insurance."

Her face got hard.

"Is that what this is all about?"

She stared at me.

"Remember," I said. "I need you to be honest
with me."

She looked down. "Life insurance policies
don't pay out in the first two years for a suicide."

"And?"

"My mom bought a life insurance policy twenty
months ago," she said. "Just four months to go before it would
fully pay out."

"Was your mom suicidal?" I asked.

"No," she said. "My mom did not commit
suicide."

"Why did she buy the policy?"

"Her work is dangerous. Was dangerous," she
said.

"How much was the policy for?"

"Three million," she said.

I cleared my throat. That was a lot. "And it
pays out for murder?"

She nodded.

"So you need me to make some kind of a murder
connection so that you can collect?"

"You make it sound so awful," she said. "I'm
a teenager still, remember?"

I nodded.

"I've got college, and then I've got to make
my way in the world with no parents or other family of any kind. I
don't have any safety net. I can't call up my dad and tell him that
I've lost a job or something and that I need some help. It's just
me."

I nodded.

"Oh," she said. "Don't act like you
understand. You don't. You probably call your parents once per
week. You don't have a clue. You don't know how alone I am."

I did. I really did. Both of my parents
thought I was dead long ago. It was the only way they could be
safe.

And the boy they knew was dead. I was nothing
like the person they raised. I didn't look like their boy, I didn't
act like their boy, and that was how it had to stay.

"I need that money," she said. "Trust me,
Ray. I'd give anything to have my mom back. Mere money won't do it.
It isn't what I wanted. My mom was my only family." Her voice got
husky and a tear threatened to roll down her cheek. With a finger
she wiped it away.

"I understand more than you know," I said.
"So, this is about me finding a murderer so that you can have some
security . . . in money. But it's better than nothing," I said.

"Thank you Ray," she said.

"Don't thank me yet," I said. "I'm still a
long way from an answer."

I left, and I decided to go for a walk. She'd
made me think, and she'd made me miss my family.

Correction, I don't have a family. Ray
Crusafi doesn't have family.

Ray doesn't, but the one I used to be does. I
couldn't deny it. I missed them. And what made it so much worse was
the knowledge that I'd never see them again. They may as well be
dead.

Unbidden images of my brother and I came into
my mind. I remembered being on the front lawn. We would throw a
football back and forth. We'd run trick plays.

And I missed him. He'd been the good one.
He'd gone to college to get a good job.

Not I. I got involved in . . . in the stuff
that now had me permanently hiding and assuming false
identities.

That made me think of my wife. It had been a
mistake to get married. What was I thinking? For all I knew, they
were still working on tracking me down.

If they were, eventually they'd find me here.
They were relentless, and even though it had been fifteen years, if
I knew them (and I did), their burning hatred to kill me would
still be there.

And when one of them showed up here, I'd have
to go on the run again. Time for a new name, new identity, and a
new life.

I'd have to leave my wife behind, and that
was plain wrong. But anything else could get her killed.

She didn't want to marry a fugitive. She had
no idea, and I hadn't been clean in telling her all my dirty
secrets. I kept secrets from her telling myself that I was doing it
to protect her.

Bastard. I was a bastard. There was no good
way for this to end for her, and she didn't have a clue what was
coming.

I tried to cheer myself up, and tell myself
that my cover was good here. They wouldn't look for me and find me
here.

It was a lie, and I knew it. Sure, it had
been a while, but that didn't mean they'd stopped looking.

Maybe the best thing would be to divorce my
wife now. Get it over with. I could make her hate me, and get far
away from me. Then whatever went down, she'd be away and safe.

The hurt and loneliness came on stronger than
when remembering my family. I'd miss her so much.

And I'd never be able to see her again. Never
touch her again.

I hated myself. I hated myself for my stupid
choices. There was no one to blame for what was happening to me,
except me.

Repeatedly, I'd been ungodly stupid, and
forever now, I'd pay for it. And it was wrong of me to drag others
into this.

My disposable cell phone rang, and I checked
the number. It was blocked.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Hey Sweetie," my wife said.

I felt a sharp pain shoot through my heart.
"Hi," I managed.

"Are you free?"

"What's up?" I said trying to sound
normal.

"I've packed a picnic dinner," she said. "For
you and me."

"That sounds nice," I said. Bastard, I'm such
a bastard.

"I want to talk too," she said. "A serious
talk."

"Really? About what?" I asked.

"Let's save it for dinner," she said. "I love
you."

I wanted to say it back. I did. I loved her,
but the words choked in my throat. "Me too. Bye, bye."

I snapped the phone shut.

The whole drive home I blasted rock music
through the car speakers. I cranked the volume up. It was the only
thing I could do to turn the internal voices off.

Actually, it didn't turn them off. It made
them impossible to hear. I couldn't hear myself think, and that's
how I wanted it.

I followed my normal routine of not parking
near my house, and I had to walk the rest of the way there. While I
was walking, I hummed and sang. Again it was to shut up the
internal voices.