Freak (14 page)

Coming in from the daylight, Jerry needed a moment to get used to the darkness. He stood for a moment inside the doorway until his eyes adjusted. The pulsing music assaulted his ears, and he wondered how anybody could work in a place so dark and so loud.

A huge bouncer, dressed in all black and possessing arms the size of cannons, informed him politely that the cover
charge was twenty bucks. Jerry pulled out his police ID. The bouncer waved him in.

He spotted Torrance at the bar talking to the bartender, a woman in her fifties with dyed jet-black hair. Though the lights were dimmed and Jerry was about fifteen feet away, he could still tell she was wearing too much makeup. As he made his way toward them, he glanced around at the patrons. On a Sunday afternoon, the place was almost dead, and the few customers that were here were older and alone. They were all fixated on the small, round stage, elevated about four feet from the floor, where the current dancer had breasts resembling cantaloupes. The rest of her body needed a good meal and a few days out of the sun, as her overtanned skin was looking a bit crispy. She was working the pole energetically enough, but her face showed boredom. He wondered what she was thinking about. Her rent, probably.

Jerry said hello to Torrance, who nodded back. The bartender tossed a white towel over her shoulder and left.

“Something I said?” Jerry said, bemused.

“She’s getting the manager.” Torrance picked up the glass in front of him and took a long sip. It looked like water. “She’s only been working here a few weeks. Doesn’t remember Claire Holt.”

A moment later a muscular man wearing a shiny gray button-down shirt and black dress slacks approached them. Short, about five foot six, he had a thick, dark goatee and a clean-shaven, shiny bald head. He stopped in front of the two men, his eyes narrowed into suspicious slits even though nobody had said anything yet.

“Ken Eisler.” He didn’t offer his hand. “I’m the owner.”

“Detective Mike Torrance, and this is Jerry Isaac,” Torrance said smoothly, flashing his badge. “Sorry to take you away from
your busy day, Mr. Eisler, but we need to ask you a few questions about Claire Holt.” Though he didn’t always intend to, Torrance had a way of saying everything with a smirk.

The man bristled. “Who?”

Torrance pulled out his iPhone and scrolled through it. He held up a DMV picture of the deceased. “Claire Holt.”

Eisler’s face registered surprise. “Oh, right. That’s Candy Castle. All the girls change their names when they work here. She was only here for three months, then left a few weeks ago. What did she do?”

“Is there someplace quiet we can talk?”

Eisler led them through the club to a back room marked
PRIVATE
, which turned out to be his office. It was nicer than Jerry expected, with dark chocolate walls featuring colorful prints, a well-preserved antique desk in the corner, and a couple of shelves stuffed with business books. Eisler pointed to a couple of chairs and closed the door. The sounds of thumping bass mercifully went away. Soundproofed. Jerry didn’t know how the man could work otherwise.

“Drink?” Eisler took a seat behind his desk. He opened his top drawer and pulled out bottle of Patrón Silver and a couple of shot glasses.

Torrance shook his head. Jerry did the same.

Eisler poured himself a shot and downed it in one smooth gulp. “So what happened to Candy?”

“She was strangled to death.” Torrance’s voice was purposefully flat. It was the tone he used for shock value, when he wasn’t speaking with the victim’s family or close friends. Jerry knew he wouldn’t be mentioning the zip tie, or the carving of Abby Maddox’s name on Holt’s back.

Eisler leaned back in his chair. He seemed genuinely surprised. “Shit. She was a nice girl. What happened?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Torrance said. “When did she start working for you?”

“Four months ago. I think she was from Portland.”

Torrance nodded. “And she left last month?”

Jerry pulled out his notepad and began making notes. Eisler hadn’t seemed to notice that he hadn’t yet said a word.

“About that time, yeah. She was a good dancer, so it was a no-brainer to hire her when she came in to audition.” Eisler sighed heavily. “I had a feeling she wouldn’t stick around long, though. When dancers come up from Portland, it’s usually because they don’t want to be dancers anymore. They do it till they get settled and then they try to find other work. Portland’s where it’s at, really. I’m thinking of moving my club down there to—”

“Why did she quit working for you?” Torrance said.

Eisler blinked. “You mean you don’t know?”

Torrance and Jerry exchanged a look. “We’re asking you,” Torrance said.

The club owner clasped his hands together and his thick lips pursed slightly. “She said she wasn’t making enough money here at the club. She had big dreams; you know the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The wannabe actress-model type. The wannabe famous type.”

“And that’s why she left?”

“She wanted to be in a different industry,” Eisler said, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Come on, I know you guys know this.”

“Explain it to us anyway.” Torrance’s face was unreadable.

The owner paused, then said, “Maybe it’s better if I show you.” He typed something into his computer, then turned the
monitor around so they could see. There was a pause as Jerry and Torrance processed what they were looking at.

Jerry needed a moment to soak in the photographs. Claire Holt—Cassandra, on her website—was wearing a tiny gold bikini, the fabric just sheer enough to show the outline of her nipples and pubic region, though she wasn’t technically nude. The pictures were actually quite classy, close to
Playboy
quality. At the bottom was a link that said
FOR BOOKINGS, CLICK HERE
.

“So she’s a call girl,” Jerry said. “Is this website legal?”

“It’s not illegal.” Torrance’s normally stoic face was thoughtful. “She’s got the disclaimer saying you have to be over eighteen to enter her site, and she’s not blatantly saying she’s a prostitute.”

“The pictures kind of suggest it, though,” Jerry said dubiously.

Eisler’s smile was grim. “She was a beautiful girl. Such a waste.”

“How did you find her site?” Torrance asked. “She’s using a different name.”

“She told one of the girls here, who showed me.” Eisler clicked on the bookings link, and the screen changed to a different website that said
KANE MODELS
. “Technically, she works for this agency.”

“Kane Models? As in Estelle Kane?”

“The one and only.”

“Estelle Kane runs a modeling agency,” Torrance explained to Jerry. “It’s legit, but rumor has it she has a healthy side business of the illegal variety.” To Eisler he said, “We’re homicide. We don’t deal with vice matters. Do you know for a fact that she was working as an escort?”

“I don’t know anything for a fact. But I do know that Ms. Kane is very successful at what she does. Her girls make a
lot of money working for her and business is steady, legit or not legit.”

“You know a lot about Estelle Kane.”

Eisler smiled. “She used to work for me a few years ago. I was sorry to lose her, too. Gorgeous woman, had the most beautiful, creamy skin.”

There was something distasteful about the way the man said the word
creamy
. Suppressing a shudder, Jerry asked, “Where can we find her?”

“I assume the best way to go would be through her website.”

Jerry’s cell phone rang. Pulling it out of his pocket, he glanced at the screen. It was Danny. “Be right back,” he said to Torrance. Ducking out of the office and back to the thumping bass of the main area, he answered the call.

“Jerry?” His assistant sounded hyped up, excited. “It’s me. I found something on—hey, where are you?”

“I’m, uh . . . I’m with Torrance.” Jerry stepped closer to the wall as a stripper wearing nothing but a thong and pasties strolled by. She smiled at him and he averted his eyes.

“What? I can hardly hear you.”

“What is it, Danny? I have to get back.”

“Okay, here’s the thing. One of the names Abby gave me—KillerFan—sounded familiar. It’s been bugging me all afternoon. But then it hit me. He’s one of the sickos who posts on FreeAbbyMaddox.com. He writes really weird shit.” Danny sounded almost giddy. “Anyway, I tracked down his real name from the site. It’s Jeremiah Blake. And get this: he’s applied for visitation to see Abby Maddox six times. Out of the names I gave you, he’s the only one who’s tried to see her in person. The superintendent turned him down because he’s not family and he doesn’t know her personally.”

“How would you know he tried to visit her in prison?”

Danny sounded annoyed. “Because I called Rosedale a few minutes ago. I still have friends there. Anyway, thought you’d want to know.”

“Good work, kid.” Jerry disconnected the call. A second later, the door to Ken Eisler’s private office opened and Torrance stepped out. “You all done?” Jerry asked.

Torrance nodded. “Let’s go back outside. I can’t stand it in here. Can’t hear myself think.”

The two headed for the entrance. The cannon-armed bouncer opened the door for them and sunlight blazed into Jerry’s face, temporarily blinding him. The club was so dark, Jerry had forgotten it was still daylight outside.

“So what now?”

Torrance was heading toward his unmarked. “Since we now know Claire Holt was a pro, it’s got me thinking that all the other victims are, too. I’m going to have to talk to vice, see what they know about Estelle Kane. From what I’ve heard, they haven’t been able to pin anything on her yet. Doubt they’ll have anything useful for me, but you never know.” He pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. “Was that Danny who called?”

“Yeah.” Jerry filled him in on Jeremiah Blake as his former partner lit a cigarette. “Out of the ones who wrote to her, he seems to be the most obsessed. I think we should start with him.”

“You do, do you?” Torrance raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Thought you didn’t want to be involved.”

“I’m already involved,” Jerry said with a sigh. “But hey, I’m just the lowly consultant. Obviously it’s your call.”

Torrance stomped out his cigarette and reached for his phone. A moment later, he had an address. “All right. There’s
a Jeremiah Blake in Ballard. Might as well run this down, see where it goes. You coming with me, or you got somewhere else to be?”

“I’m coming.”

“If this pans out, you’d better pay Danny a bonus. The kid’s got a good brain on her.”

“She doesn’t get paid. But yeah. I know what you mean.”

IT FELT VERY
different seeing Abby Maddox alone. With Jerry beside her, Sheila had felt safe. Without him, she felt . . . not unsafe, exactly, but exposed.

She sat in Rosedale Penitentiary’s visitors’ lounge and waited for Abby to arrive. The lounge was much more comfortable than the conference room she’d met Abby in the day before. No privacy, of course, but it was spacious and bright. Colorful murals decorated the walls. Natural light filtered in through the windows, which offered a pretty view of the manicured grounds behind the prison. Vending machines lined the back wall, and in one corner was an elevated guard’s booth where a bored-looking corrections officer sat keeping an eye on things. There were lots of husbands and young children here today, and Sheila wondered what their mothers had done to be incarcerated.

The doors at the other side of the room opened, and Abby, escorted by a female corrections officer, was finally led inside. A small smile crossed her lips when she saw Sheila.

Heads turned. Whispers followed. It was obvious everybody knew who Abby Maddox was. Even the bored CO in the corner straightened up a little.

The guard uncuffed her and Abby took a seat at the table. “You look well, Sheila. I meant to tell you that yesterday.”

“Thank you. You look well yourself.”

Abby’s eyes flickered over Sheila’s face, missing nothing. “The longer hair suits you. And I’ve always admired your lipstick. Perfect shade of red.” She cocked her head. “Chanel?”

“Dior,” Sheila said.

“Expensive. Not that I’d expect anything less.” Abby smiled again, her gaze dropping to Sheila’s designer jacket and blouse. “You always look exquisitely tailored. Must be nice to have that kind of money to spend on clothes. And your engagement ring is blinding me from here. How big is that sucker? Three carats?”

“Four.” Sheila kept her voice even. “And I’ve worked hard for everything I have.”

Abby smoothed her prison issue shirt. “What do you think of my outfit?”

Sheila stood. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“Chocolate would be nice.”

Sheila returned a few minutes later with two cups of coffee and two Kit Kat bars.

“Thanks.” Abby ripped open the wrapper and took a bite, closing her eyes and chewing slowly. “It’s amazing what you take for granted on the outside.”

“How’s the food in here?”

“Somewhere between edible and awful, but better than what I used to serve at St. Mary’s.” Abby broke off another piece of chocolate. “I’m amazed the homeless don’t all commit crimes so they can come to prison.”

St. Mary’s Helping Hands was the soup kitchen where Abby and Ethan used to volunteer. It was now thought to have been Ethan’s hunting ground, since several of the victims had passed through St. Mary’s at one time or another. The memory was painful and Sheila shuddered.

Abby caught the movement. “Too soon to bring it up?”

“No, of course not.” Sheila took a bite of her chocolate bar, but her mouth was dry and the sweet wafer tasted like cardboard. She took a long sip of her coffee and pushed the chocolate away.

At the next table, an inmate cradled an infant who couldn’t have been more than six months old. Across from her sat an older woman—probably the inmate’s mother—who looked haggard, as if she’d been up all night with the baby. Which she probably had been.

“That’s Ruby.” Abby’s low voice cut into Sheila’s thoughts. “Her mom brings the baby in every few days. Ruby assaulted a cop while she was being arrested for drugs. Automatic four years, so they tell me.”