Death of an Escort (22 page)

She picked up.

"It's me, your private investigator," I
said.

"Hello Ray," she said. She sounded expectant.
"Do you have news?"

"I do, but probably not what you want to
hear."

She didn't answer.

"You mentioned that your mom was
anti-pornography, right?" I asked.

"Yes," she said in a quiet voice.

"Well, I've found her featured in at least
two porn sites."

"I don't believe it," she said.

"This isn't speculation or guessing," I said.
"I've actually confirmed it."

"But why?"

"First, did your mom have a gambling
problem?" I asked.

"Who told you that?" she asked curtly.

"Someone who will remain nameless," I said.
"Did she?"

"Yes," she said.

"Then that's why she was in one of the porn
sites," I said. "She was paying off debts. Gambling debts."

"She never mentioned anything to me about
it," she said.

"Given who she owed them to, that's not
surprising," I said.

"Who is it?"

"For your own protection, it's better that
you know less, not more." I sighed. "And I found another porn site
she was in. This one is run, I believe, by her former fiancé."

"Mickey?"

"Not only that," I said. "But I don't think
she knew anything about it."

"But she found out, and Mickey killed her?"
She sounded almost like she was making an accusation.

"It's possible, but given things I uncovered,
I don't think that is what happened. I think he's purely a slime
ball. I don't think you can tag him with murder."

"So, what do you think happened?" she
asked.

Chapter 21

On the freeway, I passed a semi-truck going
far too slow. "I think it's very possible she did commit suicide to
escape what she had to do to pay off debts. I think that's possible
because of who she was paying off and what she had to do to pay
them off."

"I don't think so, Ray," she said. "My mom
wouldn't have done that."

"You also didn't think she'd be in porn, but
you were wrong about that," I pointed out.

"No, Ray. She didn't kill herself. She didn't
do it. I know how it all looks, but that's not true."

"So . . ."

"So, keep looking into it," she said. "I'll
send another check to you, okay?"

"Okay," I said. We disconnected.

The problem here was I was running out of
suspects. I was thinking that it wasn't her creep of a fake fiancé.
I was also thinking it wasn't the mob.

Macy wouldn't have done it, because she hired
me. So, who did it? Of course, that was assuming that someone did
it. I wasn't convinced that this was really a murder.

However, Carlie Smith, the last to see her
alive may be withholding information still. She did act funny about
all of this.

I was guessing that she wasn't the murderer,
but that didn't mean that she didn't know something. She might, but
getting her to talk had been impossible.

I knew about that because I'd taken pepper
spray in the face last time I tried to talk to her. You don't tend
to forget stuff like that.

I was going to have to get inside her head.
She was the bottleneck on all this. She was the one that was
holding my investigation back.

And then I had a brainstorm.

I'd talk to her neighbors. With any luck, one
of them was really noisy and a gossip. Anything I could gather
might be used as leverage to get Carlie to open up.

It was as good of a plan as I could come up
with, so I decided to put it into action tomorrow morning.

I drove home, parking over a mile from the
house, and walking slowly home.

Inside I had a cold supper and went to bed. I
was exhausted, mentally.

The next morning I didn't wake up until
eight. I got out of bed and felt alone. Everything felt incomplete
with my wife gone.

I made coffee and headed out.

Carlie's car was gone when I got to her
neighborhood. She'd be at work, and her little sister would be at
school. The buildings on either side were built very close
together. They were all apartments.

I knocked on the doors of all the units on
either side, and found no one home. On the other side of the
street, there were houses. These were older houses, older than the
apartment buildings, but better maintained.

I saw someone through the window briefly of
the house directly across from Carlie's building.

It was a little one-story, brick house. I
walked over to it and knocked on the door.

A little, white-haired woman opened the door
a crack. "Yes?"

"Hello, ma'am," I said. "I'm Ray Crusafi, a
private investigator. Do you know Carlie Smith across the
street?"

"A private investigator? Like Perry
Mason?"

I had no idea who Perry Mason was. "Yes, like
Perry Mason," I said.

"Won't you come in?"

"Sure," I said.

She opened the door and I stepped in. I had a
good feeling about this. Old ladies had this way of talking too
much. And she was already impressed that I was like Perry Mason,
whoever that was. I figured it was someone from the black-and-white
era. Probably he was dead by now.

"You asked if I knew Carlie Smith?" She led
me to her kitchen, which smelled of cinnamon.

"Yes," I said. "She lives across from
you."

"I know where she lives, Mr. Crusafi," she
said. She gave me a sly look. "But I haven't actually met her."

"Oh," I said disappointed. "So you don't
really know anything about her."

She smiled. "I know a lot about her. What are
you investigating, Mr. Crusafi?"

"That's confidential. I'm sorry," I said. If
I told her anything, everyone sixty-five and older in town would
know about it within days. She was that type. I could tell.

She opened her oven. The smell of cinnamon
became stronger and sweeter. With a pot holder, she removed a pan.
Now I could see she'd been making cinnamon rolls.

She set the pan on the top of the oven.
"Won't you have a seat? I'll get you some milk and a fresh cinnamon
roll. Do you like cinnamon rolls?"

"I do," I said and I took a seat at the
kitchen table. If she was sitting me down, she had a lot to say.
That was good and bad, I figured. Probably she was going to bore me
for the next hour with tons of useless info, but there was always
that chance that she might know something helpful.

She set a little paper plate in front of me
with a steaming cinnamon roll on it. Then she set a tall glass of
milk in front of me too. She took a seat opposite of me.

"Be careful not to burn yourself. They're hot
when they've just come out of the oven," she said.

Like I couldn't see the steam rising myself.
"Yes ma'am," I said and smiled.

"So, what do you want to know about Carlie?"
she asked sweetly.

"I can't get her to talk to me," I said.

"Why? Did she do something bad?" She cocked
her head to one side.

"I don't know," I said. "Does she do bad
things?"

She gave me that sly smile again. "I've seen
some things," she said. "I've seen some odd things."

"Like what?" I asked.

"She leaves her girl at home at all
hours."

"Her girl?" I was unaware that she had a
daughter.

"Yes, the younger one that lives with
her."

I nodded. She was talking about her younger
sister. "Please, continue." I picked up the cinnamon roll and took
a small bite.

"Is there a reward if we solve the crime?"
she asked.

"Well, no," I said. "But there is the
satisfaction of getting to the truth."

"All right," she said. "Does this have to do
with her night habits?"

"Probably," I said with my mouth full. I was
merely trying to lead her on to talking more. More than anything, I
needed leverage. I needed something to get Carlie talking.

"She leaves the little girl home alone.
Sometimes she's gone all night."

I had no idea how this lady would know that,
but I thought I'd play along for the moment. "She's gone all
night?"

"All night, but not always."

"Do you know what she's doing all night?" I
asked.

"I'd guess it's the same thing she does when
she stays home and is up all night."

"And what is that?" I asked.

She leaned forward and whispered. "She's a
sex maniac."

"A sex maniac?" I said in a normal tone.

She looked shocked and covered her mouth.
"Shh. I saw a program about it on TV. And she's definitely one of
them."

"So, she had people over, and they spend the
night?" I asked.

"And it's not only men," she said. She looked
so pleased with herself. "She has women too. Imagine that."

Actually, what I found interesting was that
she had men over. I had her pegged as a lesbian, but I was wrong.
"So, she has men and women over," I said.

"They don't close the curtain," she said.
"The bedroom curtain. They leave it open. I've seen some
things."

I didn't really know if I wanted to know the
answer to this question. "What have you seen?"

"They get rough with each other," she said.
"I've seen them tied up, and I've seen them with masks on."

"You've seen all this through the window?" I
asked.

She nodded. "Drink your milk." She pointed to
the untouched glass she'd set out for me.

I drank some.

"And I've seen them choking each other and
putting bags over their heads."

I choked on the milk. It took me a minute to
clear my throat. "Wait," I said. "You've seen choking and bags on
heads? Are you talking about suffocation with bags?"

"That's what it looked like," she said. "Does
that help you?"

"It might," I said. Kelly Brandt had died
after seeing Carlie. She died with a bag over her head. That seemed
awfully coincidental now.

"I went to the library to use a computer.
I've taken computer classes," she said. "So I went to the library,
and I checked this out. It's a practice called erotic asphyxiation.
Very rough." She nodded confidentially at me and seemed quite
pleased with herself.

She rattled on about other things for the
next thirty minutes. I only heard little bits of it. Nothing she
said was worth anything, and besides I was thinking about Carlie
and Kelly.

Could it be as simple as rough sex gone too
far? She wouldn't talk to me because she was afraid of the truth
getting out? If that was true, it wasn't murder, but it would still
be manslaughter.

Yet, Macy had talked about an exit bag. How
did she know that? Did an exit bag have a specific look to it? Or
had a bag just been found over Kelly's head?

I needed to do some research, and I
interrupted my hostess in mid-sentence.

"Thank you," I said. "It's been lovely, but I
have another appointment I must be on time for." With that I
excused myself and headed for the building my office was in.

My actual office had been blown to bits, but
I'd gotten a message that the landlord was being kind enough to
give me a loaner space until my private office was back up to
workable standards.

The landlord had also left me a message that
my small safe was secure. I kept a small safe in my office, and
apparently it had survived the bomb blast fine.

I wouldn't have gone up to my old, bomb
blasted office, except that it was time to dye my hair again. I
only look like a dark-haired Italian because I used black hair dye
and bronzed my skin to look more olive color by using sunless
tanning lotion.

My wife had no idea. She really thought I was
Italian. The funny thing was my skin was very fair and my hair was
a chestnut brown. Well, it was if I let it be that color.

I didn't. I was due for a hair coloring, and
I kept that stuff in my safe. Only at the office did I use that
stuff. It was my secret.

My ability to be someone else had kept me
alive for years after my major indiscretion, and I wanted to keep
myself alive.

My temp office was on the main level, but I
went up to my second floor office.

To my surprise the door was open. I figured
there must be some workmen inside fixing something, but there were
no workmen.

Inside I came face to face with Mickey
Richardson and some other guy who was holding a torch and had some
portable gas tanks with him.

Mickey looked embarrassed.

I started reaching for my concealed gun.
Mickey saw my movement and held his hands out, palms facing me.

"Hey, sorry. We aren't here for trouble," he
said. The guy who was with him let the torch go out.

It was then that I saw they'd cut my safe
open. Not only that, but they had emptied it.

Sitting on the floor next to it was several
bottles of my tanning lotion and some boxes of jet black hair
dye.

"Why?" I asked.

"Honestly, I'm trying to figure out who you
really are."

"Again, why?" I said. I felt myself getting
agitated.

"You're not normal. No offense," he said
apologetically. "I want to know who I'm dealing with."

"You realize I could shoot you both right
now," I said. "And I'm tempted."

"Let's stay level headed here," Mickey
said.

"You know, I really don't like you," I said.
"Really don't like you."

"Look, it was a mistake coming here. We
shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry."

"Dude," I said. "Your mistake was having this
place blown up the first time. Your mistake was coming after me.
You have no idea who you are playing against here. No idea at
all."

"I know," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. And I
still don't know who you are." He pointed at the stuff from the
safe. "But you're somebody who is hiding. That much I can figure
out."

My agitation was growing. If this moron blew
my cover here, I could get killed. This idiot, Mickey, had no
idea.