Death of an Escort (2 page)

Not the normal mix of things. At least not in
the people I'm familiar with.

"What is his name?" I asked.

"Mickey," she said. "Mickey Richardson."

I wrote that on my legal pad. The pad was
sitting way to the side so that she couldn't read what I wrote.

"Do you know how I can contact him?"

"He's the owner of a business. Brass Works
Wholesale," she said.

I noted that on my pad.

"What about your mom's family?"

"Well," she said. "She was an only child. I
think her parents are dead."

And that's a dead end. "So, no other family
that you are aware of?"

Nothing else came up. No other leads. All I
had written on the pad was an unknown suspect, and yes, that is
vague. I had the fiancé, and I had her, just to make the list
complete.

She gave me the name of the motel where her
mother's body was found, and after lunch I headed there.

The motel was a dilapidated building. I
didn't know what Kelly Brandt charged for her services, but it was
my impression that escorts weren't cheap.

Besides that, apparently, she had been
fulfilling an under served segment of the market. It would seem
then, that she'd be rather expensive. It would seem so, but here
she had met her last client at this dump.

Even though the paint was peeling and the
filthy white siding was loose and falling off in places, I could
still recognize what it had been.

Once upon a time, this place had been a Motel
6. Then sometime back, it had gone private. Now it was called Sleep
EZ Inn. I wouldn't spend a night here, and I wondered if they
rented rooms out hourly.

If they did, that would tell you exactly what
kind of clientele used the place.

I got out of my car and walked up to the
front door. It swung open easily as I pulled on it.

Inside, the carpet looked like it may have
been forest green at one time. There were dark, irregular splotches
all over it. It was even threadbare at the counter where everyone
stood when checking in.

I wondered why they didn't put a mat over
that spot.

Behind the counter was a balding man. He
didn't make eye contact, and I knew right then that this wasn't
going to be easy.

"Hello," I said.

"Thirty dollar a night," he said.

I walked up to the counter and almost leaned
over it, but I stopped myself. There was no way I was going to put
my elbows on that countertop. It looked nasty, and I wasn't even
sure that I wouldn't stick to it.

"Thirty a night," he repeated himself.

"I'm not here to check in," I said. "I need
to investigate something." Bad choice of words. He made eye contact
for the first time, but it was in no way friendly.

"What?" He drew the word out.

I set a plain, white business card in front
of him. Actually I held it out and let it drop down to the desk in
front of him. The business card was simple. Listed on it was my
name, Ray Crusafi, and my cell phone, which was a disposable,
reloadable, cell phone. It also said I was a private
investigator.

"Can't help you," the man said.

I took a deep breath. "I need to see the room
that the woman killed herself in Saturday night."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the
man said.

This felt like I was going to be wasting
time. I wanted to wrap my arm around his spongy neck and put a
choke hold on him. I wanted to "help" him remember, but the last
time I made confession, I told the priest I was working to give up
violence. So far, I'd done well, and I didn't want to let this
little pudgy ball mess that up for me.

"I think you misunderstand. I'm a private
investigator."

"I know what you are. Get lost," he said. He
opened a minimized window on the computer screen that was in front
of him. I could see it at an angle from where I was. Whatever he
was looking at was pornographic.

"Excuse me?"

He ignored me.

"I'm not leaving," I said.

"Then I'll call the cops," he said.

"Really? Here?"

"They know where it's at. Usually they're
here once a week anyways," he said.

This wasn't getting me anywhere. I fished in
my pocket and set a heavy, metallic object down in on the
countertop.

"See this?" I asked.

Lazily, he turned to look at it. "So?"

"It's a tool called brass knuckles."

"It's also illegal," he said.

"So is splitting your head open, but I'm
getting pretty close to doing that."

"Are you trying to scare me punk?" He turned
towards me. "'Cause I got a nine in the drawer here I'll pull out
and use if you get rough."

That did it. I came around the desk. He
started to pull open a drawer, but I blocked it from opening all
the way with an outstretched hand.

Then I slammed it shut. The computer monitor
he'd been using was one of the older style CRT ones, not the newer
flat-screened ones.

I picked it up. It was heavy. Then I gave it
a yank and one of the cords popped loose. The monitor shut down and
went black. I had planned to drop and smash it, but I didn't.
Instead, I set it down.

"Where'd the woman commit suicide?" I
asked.

He stared at me. This was pissing me off. My
other pocket held a folding knife. I brought it out and flicked my
wrist. The blade snapped open.

"This is all on camera," he said.

I pressed the sharp edge up against his
throat. "I'm really not in the mood for this," I said. "Tell me
where it happened so I can do my thing."

"You're not going to actually cut me," he
said.

I heard someone coming and let him go. A
Hispanic maid stepped into the lobby, if you could call it that,
from the hall that led to the back office.

"Hey," I said. "Come here."

She looked at the man and then at me.

"Come here," I said authoritatively.

She came over to where I was standing.

"Do you speak English?" I asked.

"Yes," she said softly, but she said the "y"
like a "j", so that it sounded like "Jess".

"Do you what room the woman committed suicide
in Saturday?"

"Yes," she said.

"Will you show me the room?"

She looked at the man. He shook his head
no.

"No," she said.

"Please?" I said.

"How much?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Money?"

What a low-life joint! "Five bucks," I
said.

"No," she said.

"Okay, okay. Twenty-five bucks," I said. I
had no intention of giving her any money, but I'd promise her the
moon to get what I needed.

She nodded.

"Wait for me outside," I said. She left. To
the man, "Look, Jack, I—"

"My name's not Jack," he interrupted.

"Jack," I said again and turned away like I
was going to leave. I picked up my brass knuckles. Then I swung
around suddenly and in the middle of the swing, I put my brass
knuckles on.

My fist connected with the side of his jaw
bone. I didn't even feel it because of the metal I was wearing, but
he toppled right off of the stool he was sitting on.

He toppled right off and made an awkward heap
on the ground wedged in to the corner of the desk. Yes, he was out
like a light, so to speak. Hell yeah, that felt good.

Of course, I was going to have to confess
that now. I'd given into violent urges. The thing is I knew I was
going to. I'd always known it. Even when I tried to make that vow
to give the violence up, I knew better.

I know God knew better too, and I'm pretty
sure the priest did as well.

I started after the Latina maid, but stopped
before I got to the doorway. An idea has suddenly come to me. Now
was the perfect time to get the name of the person who'd checked in
with Kelly, the deceased.

"Hello? Ma'am?
Señorita
?" I called
out.

A moment later, she reappeared in the
doorway. "Yes?"

"What room number was it?"

"Two, one, four," she said.

I needed to put the computer monitor back on
the desk, and then I had to crawl around down where he was to
connect the cable I'd ripped out. After that was done, the monitor
worked fine.

I didn't have open the program. There was
already one minimized that was called some hospitality suite or
something.

When I enlarged the window, it showed a
calendar. I selected Saturday and a list of names and room numbers
showed up. Scrolling down, I found the listing for room 214.

Room 214 was booked for the night by Carlie
Smith. And my heart sunk. If that wasn't a fake name, I'd never
heard one.

Apparently, I'd never heard one. Carlie Smith
paid with a credit card. That didn't mean it was a real name for
sure, but it sure increased the odds of it being a real name.

Now it was time to see the room. The maid
took me down a hall that needed repainting and by an ice machine
that made a roaring noise. The refrigerant system needed to be
looked at.

Up some stairs we went. Then we went to room
214. It wasn't locked. She opened it up for me.

"There were cops here?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And paramedics?"

She looked confused.

"Doctors?" I said.

"Yes."

"And who cleaned the room afterward?"

She shook her head.

"Did you understand my question?" I
asked.

"Yes," she said.

"But you don't know who cleaned the
room."

Again, she shook her head.

"Can you find out who it was?"

"Yes." But then she reconsidered and shook
her head no.

I'd had about enough of that. "Fine. I'm
going to look around."

"Yes," she said.

Inside was a stubby hall. Immediately to the
left was the door to the bathroom. I passed by it for the
moment.

Opposite the restroom door was a small closet
space. It was a cubby with a coat rod.

Then the actual sleeping area opened up. It
was small. There was a double bed in the center to the left. To the
right was a low dresser.

An old TV sat on it, and a grimy remote
control sat on top of that. The bed had a covering on it with
flower printed on it. It wasn't good looking, and the once bright
and pastel colors didn't jive with the worn maroon carpeting on the
floor.

The bed visibly sagged in the middle. You
could actually see it dipping down.

Hung above the bed was a picture of a vase of
flowers. It would have been nice if the glass covering the picture
hadn't been filmy and even a little fuzzy in some areas. I couldn't
tell if stuff was stuck to it, or if there was something actually
growing out of it.

Either way it wasn't cool.

However, so far I hadn't seen anything that
would tell me that someone died in this room over the weekend. I
decided to look in the bathroom.

The toilet had been cleaned and flushed. The
sink was dry. What passed for fresh towels were hung up in there.
The shower was cleaned, although black mold was growing on the
caulk joints.

The trash was empty.

I had to admit, this was a little depressing.
I had hoped to find a clue, and even more so after I'd arrived. I
figured the cleaning would be horrendous. It wasn't. It was
actually decent.

But I wasn't giving up yet. The maid still
stood in the doorway watching me. Why she was watching me, I didn't
know. If she thought I was going to steal the TV that had been
brand new in 1982, she was mistaken. It would have taken up the
whole backseat of my car.

I knelt down and picked the edge of the bed
spread up. Too dark to see under the bed.

So, I flipped up the bed spread on all three
sides. Then I knelt down, and I was rewarded.

There was a lump of something. I didn't care
what it was. It could have been a crumpled candy wrapper, and I
would have been elated.

I'd found a clue—although, what it was I
didn't know yet.

Chapter 3

Here I was, a licensed private investigator,
letting this stuff get to my head. Geez.

I crawled around to where the little lump
lay. It was a button, a huge button.

I stood and studied it. It almost looked like
it was hand carved out of wood. On the back, a small steel loop was
secured with a dot of glue. I assumed that was there so the button
could be sewn to something. Indeed a little wisp of thread was
still on it. I couldn't tell if it was navy blue or black.

But that was it. There was nothing else to
learn in the room.

I went back to the maid in the doorway. "So,
you don't know who cleaned this room?"

She shook her head.

"Who was working that night?"

She shook her head again.

"Were you working?"

"Yes."

"Who was working with you?"

She shook her head.

I had to stop that. I was going to hit her if
we kept it up. "Thanks," I said.

"De nada," she said softly.

Downstairs, the moron had woken up, and the
whole side of his face where I clocked him was puffy and red.

"You. You're still here?" he said.

I had this urge to go over there and do it
again. He brought it out in me. My hand closed on the heavy steel
brass knuckles in my pocket.

"Yeah, I'm still here."

"You're going to jail," he said. "I'm
reporting this."

"You got nothing on me," I said.

"It's all on camera," he said.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that," I said.
"Where is your camera?"

He looked away and down. I started scanning
around the ceiling. I saw it in the corner close to the door that
I'd taken to get up to the room.

I walked over there and jumped up and grabbed
at it. The first time my hand slipped off it, but the second time I
ripped it off the ceiling. It came free and there were no wires. I
cracked the case open. Inside was a battery to make the light on it
blink.