Death of an Escort (7 page)

Again, I was operating way out in
"hunch-land" here, and I knew it, but even a blind squirrel finds a
nut sometimes, right?

A black man was leaning against the middle
overhead door. All three were open, and there was no semi trailer
here right now.

"Visitors need to check in up at the office,"
he said.

"Thanks," I said. "But I really wanted to
talk to you."

He looked keenly at me. "Me? Do you know
me?"

"Not yet," I said. "But I'd like to ask a
question, if I could?"

"What?"

I took the folded papers out of my pocket. In
total there were three sheets, and each paper had six headshots
printed on it.

I handed the papers up to him. He unfolded
them and began looking through them.

"Do you recognize any of them?" I asked.

"Should I?"

"I don't know," I said. "That's why I'm
checking with you. Do you see the big boss much?"

He looked up. "Who? Johnson?"

I had no idea who Johnson was. "No. Mickey,
the owner."

"Nah," he said. He handed the papers back. "I
don't know any of them."

"Who else works back here?" I asked.

"Jimmy and Steve. Oh, and Johnson is the
super."

"Can I talk to them?" I asked.

Now he seemed a little suspicious. "What's
this about?"

"These women," I said. I held out the folded
papers. "I'm curious if any were seen around here."

"Who are you?"

"An investigator."

"What are you investigating?" he asked.

"Who these women are," I said.

"You can play games with me, and I ain't
going to help you," he said.

"I can't say much more than that," I said.
"But if I could talk to Johnson, that would be great."

He sort of nodded. "Wait here." And he walked
into the warehouse.

Because of the height of the warehouse, I was
about eye level with the floor. That was so they could bring a semi
trailer right up to the docking area and load it without having to
lift anything up, I knew.

I lost site of his shoes, and I stood there
waiting.

Shortly he came back with a spry, and
energetic man. He wasn't black, and his hair was gray, but the rest
of his body didn't show his age.

"Who are you?" he demanded in a high tenor
voice.

"Ray," I said. "I'm checking into these women
and I believe they have a connection to Mickey, the owner."

"You think one of them is like his girlfriend
or something?"

"I do," I said.

"And why are you checking into this?"

"That's confidential," I said.

"Sorry," the man said. "I can't help you.
Excuse us." They started walking away.

I hoisted myself up onto the edge of the
loading dock. "Hey!"

They turned around.

"I need something here," I said.

"You can't come in," the older man said.
"Insurance liability reasons."

"Fine," I said. "Do you know where Mickey
lives?"

"Yeah," the older man said.

"Can you tell me where it is?"

"Yeah, but why should I? You might be some
kind of a creep or something worse."

I walked towards them. In my pocket, I always
kept business cards, and I took one out.

I held it out as I walked towards them, and
they didn't move.

Then when I was close enough for them to read
it, I held it at eye level.

They squinted as they studied it, and the old
man reached for it. But I moved it out of the way of his grasp.

"I'm sorry," I said. "But I can't leave it
here. I don't really want word getting around that I was here."

"Is the owner in trouble?" the black man
asked.

I shrugged. "No way to know yet. That's why
I'm checking."

"So, you're a private investigator?" the old
man asked.

I nodded. "Where does Mickey live?"

"He's got two places here in town," the man
said.

"If you know the addresses, could you jot
them down?"

"I don't know the addresses," the man said.
"But I can write down where they are if that's better for you."

"Please," I said.

He went to his shop office, which was nearby,
and returned shortly with a sheet of paper that had directions
scrawled on it. He gave it to me.

"If you would, don't mention that I was
here," I said.

The old man nodded.

I left and walked back to my car. I drove to
the first address. It was a condo. No one was home, and neither was
anyone at either of the units connected to the right or left.

I drove to the second address. It was not
what I expected.

Chapter 6

It was the Casino Royale Hotel at the border
between the old and new downtown areas. Without question, this was
the most expensive place to spend a night anywhere in town. Without
question.

It was the only place that I knew of that had
a doorman standing outside all the time.

I parked a block away on a side street to
avoid having to pay parking fees, and I walked quickly back to the
front entrance.

The doorman ignored me as I approached. I
stopped right in front of him. He stared right past me as if I
wasn't there.

"Excuse me?"

No answer.

"Hey. Excuse me?" I felt embarrassed, like
there was something wrong with me, and that's why he wouldn't
respond.

Still no answer.

I tapped him on the side.

"Yes, sir?" he said in a thin voice.

"Are any units rented out of the hotel here
on a long term basis?"

No answer.

"I guess I'll go inside and ask," I said.

He put a hand out and kept the black glass
door closed. Cars rushed by on the street ten feet away. There were
far too many people around for me to "encourage" him in any way. I
had to stick with standard, civilized methods.

"The top," I said taking a shot in the dark.
"There are condos or apartments that are leased on top. They aren't
actual hotel rooms, right?"

No answer.

I took out a business card and held it in
front of his eyes. "Obstructing justice is a crime. Should I report
you? What is your name?"

For the first time he looked at me. "I'm
sorry, sir. I didn't know you were official."

"Well, I am," I said. I don't know what he
meant by that, but if it made him cooperative, then it was all
good.

"The top units are leased apartments."

"And Mickey Richardson is one of the
tenants?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss tenants," he
said.

It had worked last time, so I tried it again.
I held out the business card that said I was a private
investigator. "I'm a registered PI working on an official case," I
said speaking a wad of bullcrap. "It's okay to tell me."

He nodded after looking at the card again.
"Yes. Mr. Richardson is a tenant. He is only here
occasionally."

I took out the pictures of the women. "Do you
recognize any of these women? With Mr. Richardson perhaps?"

He studied them intently. It looked like he
was really giving thought to this.

"I recognize some of them," he said.

My heart leaped. "Yes?"

"At least half of them have been with Mr.
Richardson at various times."

Jackpot. "By any chance would you happen to
know the names of these women?"

"Actually, I know the names of three of them.
They introduced themselves." He looked displeased. "I think they
are not used to doormen."

I nodded like I sympathized. I didn't. In my
pocket I had a pen. I took it out and gave it to him.

"Could you write the names under their
pictures?"

He did that. And he wrote last names under
them too. "Last names too? You remember that?" I was impressed.

"Photographic memory," he said. "I remember
your name from when you flashed your business card. Ray
Crusafi."

"Spooky," I said, and I meant it.

I took the papers back. "Do doormen get
tipped?"

He looked uncomfortable.

I took that as a yes and fished a one dollar
bill out of my pocket. He looked even more uncomfortable as I gave
it to him. If he thought I was giving him a ten or something like
that, he was crazy.

Judging by the look on his face as he looked
at the one dollar bill, he was crazy.

I went to my office and looked up all three
women.

Something here was off. Put simply, there was
this businessman, Mickey. He looked normal on the surface, but
underneath it's a different story.

But he has a fiancée who was a prostitute.
She was anti porn, but was in porn. This porn was on a website that
was on a flier in the office of her fiancé.

Furthermore, besides having a regular
residence, he had a very expensive apartment that he leased above
the most expensive place in town. Without a doubt, he was not the
normal clientele for that place.

Average businessmen cannot afford a place
there.

As I said, something was off-kilter here.

And add to that, he's been seen with a
handful of the other women that were featured on the porn site.

Yep, something was odd, and I was going to
figure it out. I found addresses for the three women the doorman
identified. With that list, I headed out.

The first was a dance instructor. She had a
little dance studio that sat in front of her house. I pulled up and
parked out front.

I let myself in, and saw she had two early
teen girls in the studio, and she was giving lessons to them.

All three of them were in body leotards. The
woman, Shellie McCormick, was in a black one. It fit her body
perfectly; or rather her body was perfect. I had to keep myself
from drooling watching her dance around, and I had to remind myself
that I already had a wife. It wasn't legal to have two.

I was Catholic not Mormon.

The music playing died down, and they all
came to a resting position. The girls picked up colored water
bottles. Shellie turned around and noticed me.

She came over. "Can I help you?"

"I'm a private investigator," I said. I held
out a business card for her.

She studied it. Then she looked up. "How can
I help you, Mr. Crusafi?"

"Real simple," I said. "Do you know Mickey
Richardson?"

Her eyes widened. "Is this about him?"

I shrugged. "I don't know yet. But you know
him?"

She held up her hand and showed me a giant
sparkling diamond ring. "He's my fiancé."

I think my jaw dropped open.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Crusafi?"

"Ah, no ma'am," I said. I was still trying to
fit that information in my mind. Is it legal to have two
fiancées?

"Is there anything else?" she asked.

"He's your fiancé?"

"Yes," she said.

I sighed.

"I must return to my students," she said.

"Oh, one more thing," I said.

She looked at me questioningly.

This wasn't a comfortable thing to ask a sexy
and attractive woman, especially a proper and composed one like
this. "What are your views on pornography?"

She didn't look shocked. She didn't look like
anything. "I beg your pardon?"

"Have you, um, acted in porn?" I asked. I had
trouble keeping eye contact.

"Goodbye," she said.

"No," I said.

"No?"

"No," I said. "I need an answer."

"Of course not," she said.

"So, if you were to find yourself in a porn
movie on the internet, that would be a shock?"

"That is a stupid question," she said. "Of
course it would. Wouldn't it shock you?"

I nodded. "Indeed it would," I said.

The second woman was named Jaycee Kirkwood.
She was a fitness instructor, and she also worked out of her home.
There was the start of a pattern here.

I knocked on her front door. However, unlike
Shellie, Jaycee wasn't living in an area that could be called
residential/commercial. It was purely residential and firmly in the
original part of town where the houses were older and boxy, and not
very big.

A young woman answered the door. She couldn't
have been barely old enough to drink alcohol yet.

"Is Jaycee available?" I asked.

"I'm Jaycee," she said.

Oh. Wow. And I thought Shellie was good
looking. Jaycee looked hot like Shellie, but ten years younger.
Like I said. Wow.

But I was still married, so I quit looking at
her chest and focused on her face again.

"I'm a private investigator," I said.

"You're a PI?" she said and smiled. It was a
fantastic smile.

Focus, I told myself. Focus.

"Yes," I said. "And I have a question for
you."

"Like what?" She took a stick of gum out of
her jean's pocket. She unwrapped it and put it in her mouth.

"Do you know Mickey Richardson?"

She blushed and broke eye contact. "Yeah,"
she said softly.

"How do you know him?" I asked.

"He's my fiancé," she said.

Seriously? "I see," I said. "He's your
fiancé?"

"Uh-huh," she said.

"One more question," I said.

"Okay," she said and she looked at me
again.

Now I looked away. "What are your views on
porn?"

She giggled, but said nothing.

"I'm serious," I said.

"It's hard to talk about," she said. "But I
don't pretend like most other woman. I like it. They do too, but
they won't say they do."

"Have you been in porn?"

She inhaled sharply and put her hand to her
mouth. "Not that I know of," she said talking between her
fingers.

Now that was an odd response. "What do you
mean by that?"

"Can you prove that you're a PI?" she
asked.

I gave her a business card.

"Okay," she said. "But I want to be sure that
this stays private. I think I may have been in some Girls Gone Wild
DVD when I was on spring break several years ago, but I'm not sure.
I don't remember much from that time."