Sympathy For The Devil (12 page)

A small vintage shop hung on the corner, sixties peasant shirts and long beaded necklaces hanging in the window. Tash ducked under the ivy-wrapped arbor out front and brief stone path. The shop must’ve been a house at some point but now was fully converted, with a sign to the side inviting visitors to check out the used bookstore on the second level.

Bells jangled above the door when she stepped inside. A tiny narrow hall with trippy art and fractal paintings on the walls awaited her.

“Hello?” she called.

The stairs ahead of her creaked and moments later a young woman appeared. She smiled brightly, looked just like the hippy one would expect in a vintage store, long dark hair without a fringe framing a Caucasian face, bright blue top that flowed over an ankle-length skirt. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

“Yes, a friend of mine got this really cute top and she won’t tell me where she got it. I thought maybe it was from here.” Tash followed the hippy proprietor past the stairs, into the main room of the shop.

It was like someone collected a bunch of people from decades’ past and they all exploded in the room—the sixties and seventies decor was present, yes, but a flapper dress also hung on the wall and three mannequins were dressed in classic pinup dresses, posed off to the side. Tash took it all in and only when she realized the store owner was looking at her did she remember to continue.

“It was this little purple top, flowy and a bit like a babydoll dress.” She pulled out her phone, brought up the picture of the victim she had, but cropped it so the focus was on the shirt and her face was hidden. She turned the screen to the shop owner. “Look familiar?”

The hippy stared at the picture. Something flashed over her face for a moment, an expression Tash couldn’t decipher, before she looked up and took a step back, shaking her head. “No, sorry. Not one of ours.”

The woman’s smile looked forced. Tash regarded this, tucked the phone back in her pocket.

“I was about to head to lunch,” the shopkeeper said, stepping toward the door. “If you don’t mind—”

Absolutely every inner alarm Natasha had was blaring loudly. “Oh, I’ll just be a minute. I’d like to check to be sure.” She swiftly rounded the hippy, heading deeper into the shop.

The woman was at her heels. “Maybe you can come back later.”

She definitely didn’t want Tash in the back of the store, so of course, Natasha kept going. Scarves dangled from the ceiling, which she pretended to browse. She wasn’t sure
what
she expected to find here, just that her gut told her to keep looking.

“I’d really prefer if you leave now,” the woman spoke up, still following like a shadow.

“You’re extremely rude for an indie shop owner,” Tash mumbled. Her eyes settled on a door tucked against the wall. A red curtain hung from the frame, caught and pinned to the side to reveal the handle. A chain hung on the doorknob, pale, polished steel. On either end dangled an inch-thick strip of black leather with buckles.

“There were definitely rope burns but something else as well, possibly a cuff of some sort that was less damaging. Some traces of leather under her fingernails, so that’s what the police are leaning toward.”

“So you wanna tell me what’s down there?” Tash turned, braced her hands on her hips, and gave the woman a look.

“I’m phoning the police if you don’t get out of here!”

“Okay. Do it. Because I’m here canvassing the area and I’m sure they’d also loooove to know what’s behind door number one and if it has anything to do with the murder they’re investigating.”

“Oh God, so it’s true.” The hippy stumbled back, her face ashen as if she was going into shock. She slumped against the counter, the register rattling behind her. “Oh God, Debbie.”

Well, that confirms that.
“Her name hasn’t been publicized—how did you know it was her?”

“I heard they found a body and no one’s seen her. I just knew, oh God, I
knew
.”

“When did you last see her?”

Tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks. “Friday.”

“What time?”

“She was here...” She cleared her throat. “From around six-thirty, for drinks, until... Early, she left early. It was only eight or so.”

Although she already knew what she’d find, Tash decided she had to look anyway. “I’m going through that door now.”

The shopkeeper said nothing, her shoulders hunched and hair tangled over her tear-streaked face.

You need to call Leo and Keish, do this by the book...
Who was she kidding, though? If she was by the book, she’d be a cop. Her first loyalty was to Adam, and she had to get down there and see things before the police came and shut her out of the investigation.

At least she had the presence of mind not to disturb any possible prints with her own. Tash yanked a scarf from the wall, wrapped her hand, and carefully opened the door.

Steps led downward and flipping a switch by the door cast light over the stairs. She headed down slowly, bracing as the hippy might have a case of the crazies and decide to bash her head in. But she made it to the bottom without any such incident and looked around.

Despite what she was expecting, it wasn’t a terribly imposing place. The walls were white, carpet beige. A simple sitting area was off to the side, where she could picture even little old grandmothers seated for afternoon tea on wicker loveseats with floral cushions. Of course, on the other side of the stairs was some kind of bondage swing, an array of crops and whips hanging on the wall, and a shelf of dildos in a row that went from small to large enough Tash couldn’t quite picture how they’d fit.

Though the scent of disinfectant hung in the air, it smelled like a regular cleaner instead of bleach and there was no obvious sign of blood.

Plenty of leather cuffs hung on the far wall, however, along with handcuffs and rope.

The police would definitely have to sweep the basement.

She headed back up the stairs and cast the scarf on the counter. The BDSM hippy sat on a barstool behind the register now, her head in her hands.

“Tell me what happened before the others get here,” Tash said.

The shop owner lifted her head, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Standard Friday night party. She’s been coming to the dungeon off and on for months now.”

“Was she alive when she left here?”

“Yes. Absolutely. No one in our group is a killer.”

“Did she leave alone?”

“Yes.”

“Was she tied up here?”

She shook her head. “Not this time. She didn’t stay long enough. It’s not sex and games right away—people talk, catch up. That kind of thing.”

So Walker left before the fun started. Assuming the woman was to be believed—that the lying hippy was telling the truth this time—Walker left and got tied up somewhere else.

And Tash had a sneaking suspicion she could guess where.

She was very aware of the weight of her phone in her pocket, and the need to call the
actual
cops to deal with this. She couldn’t explain to them her need to take an hour to interview the witness—this had to be fast. “Did she have problems with anyone here that you know of?”

The woman shook her head. “No. We have a very strict policy. No unwanted attention, no creepers—you get rejected and you push, you’re out for good.”

“Except you cater to people who whip others for fun.”

Her tears had faded and now the hippy scowled at her. “You’re a hell of a lot safer in a place like this than a vanilla nightclub where women get groped, drugged, and date raped all the time. Safe, sane, and consensual.
That
is what we practice.”

And Tash felt a flare of shame at being such a judgmental bitch—especially after she’d spent a couple of hours at a sex club the night before, attention more than a little rapt at what was going on. “Sorry. Do you know if Debbie ever went to a place called The Box?”

The shop owner frowned as she thought. “I don’t know. A few of my members have been there.”

“But not you?”

She indicated the still-open basement door. “The dungeon here makes up a lot of my income—I can’t really afford their membership fees.”

Odder and odder—Archer walked right in, though supposedly he’d been out of the area some time. How long had he been a member? Tash pulled out her phone again and cycled to one of the many surveillance photos she’d snapped of Archer. “Have you ever had this guy in your dungeon?”

She looked over the photo but this time no obvious sign of recognition passed over her expression. “No.”

The police would probably ask her anyway, if they were still following up on Archer. Tash strolled toward the other end of the shop and dialed up Leo.

“Are you in trouble yet?” he asked as his answer.

“No, and you’re about to be
very
grateful you guys brought me along...”

Chapter Twelve

If Devin had to eat another peanut butter sandwich, he was going to go insane.

He pulled the truck up in front of Smith’s Quick Mart grocery store fifteen minutes outside the edge of Stirling Falls. Convenience store food wasn’t sustaining him anymore and this was the farthest he felt like going out of town just for produce.

The heat outside was thick and soupy, and he swiftly made it through the hot parking lot into the mostly-empty store. Cool air met him but he kept his hat shadowing his face, just in the off chance someone from town was in there to recognize him. He snatched a basket, and went about his shopping.

When it was apparent no one was staring, he relaxed bit by bit. Tension eased from his body and he hadn’t realized just how bunched up his muscles had been until they started to uncoil at last. It had been rough since getting kicked out of the place he’d been renting, like he no longer had anywhere to hide around here. He wished he didn’t stay so close to town, could’ve perhaps found somewhere other than the old house. A bed and breakfast, or motel room. Somewhere anonymous. Of course, all it would take was a few police visits for everyone to know. The last thing he needed was to explain to some nice old lady running a B&B why “MURDERER” was spray painted on her house.

He picked up some meal staples in the produce section, trying to keep in mind that food from there would go bad in a few days and he shouldn’t overdo it, but the thought of another night of TV dinners had him wanting to overindulge. Next he swung around toward bakery section, where scents of freshly baked bread filled the air. A loaf of Italian with dinner would be a nice change from the processed crap he’d been eating.

The paper package covering the loaf crackled under his grip. He put one in the basket, paused and thought for a moment, then grabbed some ciabatta buns as well, and rounded the tall skid of breads.

He stopped abruptly as he nearly ran into someone, lips parted to apologize.

Then his eyes narrowed on Natasha.

He still didn’t have a last name. Glanced through the paper but didn’t see her included in any of the by-lines, and it wasn’t like anyone in town would tell him. Maybe Mark but then Mark had been friends with Chelsea and there was just too much baggage hanging in the air there.

He’d be a liar if he pretended she hadn’t been on his mind since that last encounter, though he sure as hell wouldn’t admit it to her.

Her dark brown eyes had widened as she recognized him and her mouth hung open. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t following you, I swear.”

His lips twisted grimly. “People who aren’t following other people don’t normally need to announce that.”

“I was about to leave and I realized I forgot bread.” She held up her basket, which was full with things that had to have come from the other end of the store, milk and cheese on top.

He stared down at her, wondered why she hadn’t made a hasty exit yet, but still she gazed up at him with wide eyes. Her black curls were swept up, tendrils randomly springing down to frame her face and graze her neck. His hands itched to brush them back from her eyes, trail his fingers down her throat.

Get the hell a hold of yourself, you fucking idiot
. She was a reporter, had been spying on him. She was just like everyone else in town. Still, he’d be lying if he said she hadn’t been on his mind, entering unbidden, thoughts filled with ideas of what could’ve been. It wasn’t helping at all that her light brown skin darkened with a deep blush on her cheeks, rushing down her neck.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” she said softly. Sincerely. Or maybe he just got stupid for a pretty face.

He resisted the urge to reassure her or accept the apology. “Did you know who I was in the hardware store? Outside the Bar & Grill?”

Natasha shook her head, curls dancing. “No.”

So that was real, how she’d looked at him then. Maybe.

“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t get the story you were clearly after.” He stepped past her, his steps heavy and angry.

“It wasn’t like that.” She shuffled across the floor after him, even as his long strides took him well away from the bakery section and toward the deli. “I wasn’t going to do a horrible story on you like Harry.”

He snorted, shook his head. “One with rainbows and puppies, then?”

“And unicorns skipping through fields of daisies.” She darted in front of him, blocking his path with her arms raised and palms up, fingers splayed. “Look. I swear, I was just trying to get to know you. And eventually hear your side of things. No sneaky stories.”

He tipped his head down, his eyes locked on hers. Remembered how scared she’d looked when he had her trapped against the car. Hated himself a little for it, still, but that didn’t mean he’d cut her any slack now out of guilt. “You wouldn’t have lied if that was the case.”

“I didn’t meant to—”

“I
asked you
if you knew who I was. A ‘yes, but I don’t care’ would have sufficed.”

“Would you have left?”

He glared at her. Said nothing.

“See?”

Devin shook his head and stomped around her again. The grocery list he’d been going over on the drive over was gone from his mind, so he randomly grabbed some lunch meat, deli cheese, and made a left down the pasta aisle.