Death of an Escort (8 page)

"Nothing recent?" I asked.

"What does this have to do with Mickey?" she
asked.

And she wasn't as stupid as she looked and
acted. "Nothing," I lied. "But if you'd answer the question,
please."

"No," she said. "Nothing recent."

I thanked her and left. The last woman on my
list lived way on the other side of town. She was in the newer area
where the houses are five to ten years old. Everything was much
bigger, and it's all vinyl sided and earth tones. More or less, all
the houses looked identical in the newer section.

This woman was named Morgan Kisenski. So far
I'd been lucky and found everyone at home. I hoped my luck would
hold with her.

I walked up to her door. I knocked on the
white, vinyl-clad screen door.

No one came, but there was a small SUV in the
driveway, so I figured someone had to be home.

I rang the doorbell. After a bit, she came to
the door in a robe. She was rubbing her eyes and looked like she'd
gotten out of bed moments ago. She pulled the door open.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Did I wake you?"

"You did," she said. The robe slipped open a
little, and I saw why she was on Mickey Richardson's list. She had
plump, firm ones like the other two did. But there was an almost
trashy look about Morgan. Maybe it was her bleached, blond
hair.

"I'm sorry," I said again.

"It's okay," she said. "I need to start
getting ready for work."

"You work second shift?" I asked.

"Sort of," she said. "I work at a gentlemen's
club."

And that was it. She was a stripper.

"I'm a private investigator," I said. I gave
her a business card. She looked like she was having trouble reading
it.

"So?"

"I have two questions, if you don't
mind?"

"I'm awake now. Go ahead," she said.

She hadn't noticed her robe had opened up
yet. She wasn't exposed or anything, but it was a very good bit of
skin she was showing. Maybe she knew it and didn't care.

"Are you engaged?"

She frowned. "No." She said it like I was
crazy and stupid at the same time.

"So, you don't know Mickey Richardson?"

She smirked. "Yeah, I know him. What about
him?"

Chapter 7

"How do you know him?" I asked.

"We date," she said. Again she smirked. "Kind
of a dumbass."

"It's none of my business," I said. "But if
that's the case, why do you date him?"

"'Cause he's a dumbass with money," she
said.

"What are your views on porn?"

"I don't have any," she said.

"Have you been in porn?"

"Yeah," she said again like I was stupid for
not realizing the obvious.

"With Mickey?"

She frowned. "No. What's Mickey got to do
with it?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm trying to put
the pieces of the puzzle together."

"I hate puzzles," she said.

Perhaps blond really was the color of her
hair. "So, what porn were you in?" Oddly enough, I didn't have a
problem looking her in the eye when I asked that question.
Something was different about her.

"Webcam," she said. "I do shows on
SteamyCamLive.com. You should check it out. I use the name
Trixie21."

"Ah, okay," I said. No, I wasn't going to. I
like my women without fifteen STDs, thank you. "So, you haven't
been in any voyeur porn?"

"What?"

Yep, blond was her real hair color. "Have you
heard of TrueVoyeurLive.com?"

"No," she said.

I thanked her and left.

Back at my office, I sat in my chair to think
a moment. Here Mickey had multiple fiancées. I had no idea how many
of the other models on the porn site were his supposed fiancées,
but it was a fair guess to say that many of them where.

It was also pretty obvious what he was doing.
He ran or had a part in this site. It was also pretty obvious that
the women on this porn site didn't know it. He'd picked out very
attractive women, and he somehow got them on camera.

Risky. It was also illegal, and I was willing
to guess it was also very lucrative.

But, did any of it have anything to do with
Kelly Brandt's death/suicide?

And that was what I had to figure out.

I picked up my phone and called Brass Works
Wholesale.

"Mickey Richardson, please?" I said.

"Mr. Richardson is out of the office," the
receptionist said.

"And when will he return?"

"Not for several days. He's out of town.
Shall I take a message for him?"

I hung up. I didn't really like that
receptionist. So, Mickey was unavailable.

I decided that the most logical thing would
to be to go back to the motel where Kelly died. I hadn't been
looking in that room for some kind of evidence of videotaping last
time I was there.

However, the fact that Kelly was videoed
while having sex and the fact that there was a video taken of her
the night she died, it was reasonable to think video was shot in
that motel room.

I was going to look and see if I could
confirm that. With any luck, the moron who'd let me try out my
brass knuckles on the side of his head wouldn't be there. Or that
maid that I'd stiffed.

Didn't matter really. I wasn't afraid of
them. I headed down to the motel.

I parked where I did last time, but instead
of going in, I decided to walk around the building this time. There
was no apparent reason to, but I felt like it. So I did.

The front two sides of the building were
ugly, but they didn't even begin to compare to the back two sides.
Decrepit could describe it. Nasty also fit.

Unpainted, and rotten wood was exposed back
there. An alley ran along the back. It was mud. I'm not sure if the
sun ever touched it. It looked like it was permanently mucky. It
was really gross.

A filthy old man was huddled up against the
side of the building. He was sitting in the ooze.

I could hear him. He was talking or humming
to himself. I tried to walk around him.

"Hey! You!" he called out.

I looked at him. He held a hand out and
beckoned me. His hand trembled and shook, and all the veins and
bones were visible through his white, sickly skin.

I took several steps towards him, and in my
pocket I clutched at my brass knuckles. In no way should I be
afraid of a homeless man in an alley, but he gave me a very
unsettled feeling.

"Yes?" I asked.

"This is my space. Don't come back here," he
said. He whistled as he talked. Air leaked out around missing
teeth.

"Right," I said. "I saw the signs, but I
didn't pay attention to them."

"Signs?" he asked.

"The ones that said this is your space," I
said. I pointed up the alley at nothing. "See?"

"The aliens put them there," he said.

"I thought so. It looked like their
handwriting."

"They don't have hands," he said.

"The one I saw did," I said.

He looked shocked, but I'd had enough messing
around with him. I started to move away.

"Wait!" he said. "I need help."

I turned around. "What?"

"Do you have any Republic Credits?"

I put my hand to my chin as if I was
thinking. "I don't think so. I got rid of my last ones
yesterday."

"How do you buy food?" he asked.

"I don't. I don't eat. They have poisoned
everything. You can't be too careful," I said.

His eyes widened. "I know. Do you know what I
saw?"

I sighed. It was sort of fun playing with
him, but I didn't really have time for this. I shrugged.

"A midget. Several days ago. She went up the
side of the building." He pointed up the exterior wall he was
sitting against. "She was wearing a jet pack."

"A female midget with a jet back?" I
asked.

"I think so," he said. "In the night." He
said it as if it had some great significance.

I turned and walked away.

"Hey! You!"

But I kept walking around to the front. Once
I was back on the pavement, I stomped my shoes to get the muck out
of them. It splattered all over as I stomped about, and some little
splatters got on my pants.

Inside, there was a woman behind the counter.
The fat man wasn't there.

"Thirty dollars a night," she said.

Was that what they trained them to say here?
No hello or hi. Just blurt out the rate?

"Thirty a night," she repeated.

"I need to see room two fourteen," I
said.

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Room two fourteen," I said.

She looked at the computer screen and clicked
the mouse some. "It's booked," she said. "But I have others on the
second floor."

"No," I said. "I need to see the inside of
two fourteen."

"You can't," she said.

It was déjà vu. I was feeling an urge to give
her the brass knuckles on the side of her head.

"Are there people in it right now?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Can you find out?"

"No," she said.

"I think you can," I said. I really didn't
like this place. If only someone would hire me to do a simple
stakeout job, I'd jump at it right now. Seriously, this dealing
with people thing, it wasn't what I was cut out for.

"I'm a private investigator," I said. I took
out a business card. It was the same one I'd been taking out all
day.

"So? You're not a cop," she said.

"What's your problem? You're a nobody. Make
like what, eight bucks an hour?" I asked.

"I'm the owner," she said.

"Right," I said. "And my uncle is Santa
Claus."

She hacked a smoker's cough. "I'm tired of
this," she said. "Get a room or get out. And yes, I'm the
owner."

"Okay," I said. "So you're the owner. How
would you feel if there was illegal activity going on in one of
your rooms?"

"Happens all the time," she said.

Come to think of it, I had walked right into
that one. "I mean something that could get you in trouble. Really
in trouble."

"Like what?"

"A hidden camera," I said. "In room two
fourteen."

"How would that get me in trouble?" she
asked.

"Invasion of privacy leading to lawsuits," I
said. I was making this stuff up.

"And how would you know about this?" she
asked.

"I don't for sure. I'm guessing."

She looked disgusted, but she picked up a
phone and muttered something into it. A maid came to the hall door.
She asked her to take me up to room 214 and if no one was there, to
let me in.

"But keep an eye on him, and bring him down
here when you're done," she said.

I was taken up to the room. No one was in it.
The maid let me in, and she followed me around. Everywhere.

I didn't know exactly where to look or what
to look for. That made finding whatever it was I was looking for
much harder. If I'd seen some of the video, I'd know what vantage
point to look from, high or low.

But I was still guessing about the video
being taken in this room. I didn't know for sure.

Nothing seemed to be what I was looking
for.

Nothing looked like it had been mounted on
the walls or anything like that.

But, I didn't know where it would have been
put. Heck, I didn't even know what kind of camera had been
used.

I turned to the maid. "Did you work Saturday
night?"

"Yes," she said.

"And this was the room where the suicide
happened, right?"

She stared at me, but said nothing.

"If you worked Saturday night, you must know
about that," I said.

She nodded. "We were told not to say anything
about it."

"Was there a man—"

"It was only two women," she said.

"What about before or afterward?"

She thought for a moment, and then shook her
head no.

"No man at all?"

"No," she said.

I walked into the hall, and she locked the
door to room 214. We went downstairs together.

"Find it?" the owner asked.

"No," I said, and I pushed my way
outside.

I put my hand into my pockets as I walked to
my car. I felt that button, and I had a brainstorm. I knew someone
who worked at the police station. He wasn't a cop or anything like
that.

I wouldn't know any cop, and I certainly
wouldn't be friends with a cop. But Gracie, yes it's a guy, was a
clerk or something in records.

We'd run into each other several times in the
past, and I'd gotten help from him on other things I'd been working
on.

I'd always buy him a beer or something for
his help. He had helped me finding who a license plate belonged to
or something like that, and he had been quick at it. Faster than I
could have. Why hadn't I thought of him before?

There would be photos of the site where the
body was found, at least I hoped there would be. If there was, I
could find out exactly what Kelly was wearing when she died, and I
could see if it was something that this button went to.

I pulled out my cell, and I found Gracie's
number.

"Police, records room," Gracie said sounding
tired.

"Gracie, it's . . . Ray," I said. That had
been close. I'd almost said my name from before. The one that I
don't use ever anymore. Why had that happened? It was a little too
close for comfort. I'm Ray, I told myself. Ray Crusafi. Come on,
it's been years. Hold it together. My name is Ray Crusafi.

"Ray? Oh, yeah. Ray, how's it going? What'd
you need?"

"Photos from a suicide Saturday night," I
said. "Tell me you have some."

"Yep," he said. "I got them. I filed them
today. I'm not sure why we have them, but we do."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"They took them like it was a crime scene,
but it was suicide. Normally we don't have photos for that," Gracie
said.

"Sounds like someone thought it was more than
suicide."