Raven Rain Page 9

  “But he’s still only a client, right?”

  “I quit high school in the eleventh grade, was turning tricks by nineteen. Danced in every club on the East Coast. Spent all the money on drugs and alcohol. My thing was doing a line with a vodka chaser. Couldn’t do enough. The bottom finally fell out after I did six months in some shit-hole jail in Florida. Came back to Port City and worked every crappy job you can think of. The turning point was when I got fired from a Dollar Store for getting high on my break. That same night, I ran into an old dancer friend and she told me she worked for an escort service and bragged about the money she was making. I cleaned up, kicked some habits, went to work for Fantasy. Three years later, I paid cash for my condo. So yeah, Stan is only a client. Besides, you think his wife would give him a divorce and leave all that cash? Hell no.”

  “So you keep playacting until his money stops?”

  She leaned close and put her hand on mine again. Her eyes fixed on me. “What do you think?”

  I glanced at her hand and was definitely picking up what she was laying down. “I can’t afford you.”

  “I’m not on the clock.”

  “Personal relationships might be frowned upon.”

  “The owner has no problem with me and my personal life. Between my client roster and the money I bring in, if I was in sales I’d be salesperson of the year, with my own parking spot.”

  We laughed.

  “I thought you were in sales,” I said.

  “Ha! Touché, Mr. Delarosa.”

  I refilled her glass. “Who is the owner?”

  “Of the agency? Couldn’t tell you.”

  “You don’t know who you work for?”

  “I guess some guy working in his basement who had enough brains to build a website. Everything is done online.”

  “You never interviewed with anyone when you were hired?”

  “I met with a woman for about thirty minutes and she explained the process and said I could start. Gave me the name of a photographer to have pictures taken. Never said her name and I didn’t ask. Every so often, an email pops up from someone named Miss T with information on my pay or something. Could be her.”

  “Is she local?”

  “Not sure, but we’ve met a couple of times after that. Once she introduced me to a client in person. Another time we met for dinner. She told me I was the top earner in the company.” She squeezed my forearm. “They tell me I’m talented.”

  “Definitely not shy.”

  “Life is too short. Go for it, I say. I find you very attractive and intriguing. Where do we go from here?”

  “I’m not finished asking questions. And I don’t sleep with clients.” Her lower lip went out in a pout. I shook my head. “Bad idea. For now.”

  “For now?”

  “Let’s stick to the subject. Last night you were scared. Now you are…friendly and not worried at all.”

  “I freaked out last night and I’m embarrassed. I’m sorry. I woke up this morning realizing it has nothing to do with me. The cops question me, all I can tell them is what I told you.”

  “Absolutely. Stay away from Stan as much as you can until this blows over. If Kenzie was involved in some blackmail scam, it’s probably over anyhow. And her murder, it is for the police to solve.”

  “Does this mean I am not a client anymore?” She flashed that sparkling smile and added a come-hither look.

  “You are still a client. For now.”

  “Johnny, you are an interesting one.” She finished her wine, picked up her phone and tapped an app. “Car service. Be here in a minute.” She stood; we embraced, and she kissed me on the cheek. “Our paths will cross again.”

  Was that a threat or a warning?

  “No doubt,” I said.

  She turned and walked out.

  Joey came to the table. “Hubba hubba, Johnny. Touchy-feely type, huh?”

  “With an agenda. She’s the kind who will take all your money and you’ll smile while she does it.”

  “I just want ten minutes.”

  “It will be your last ten minutes.”

  A moment later, Carmine came in. “Nothing, boss. She used a car service each way. Wish I had more for you.”

  I pulled some cash from my pocket and handed it to him. “No problem. Thank the guys for me.”

  “Hey, anytime. Keep me in mind.”

  I thanked Joey and headed out the back to my car. Sirens blared in my brain. Dee Dee had been taking money from men since she was nineteen years old, and she could teach a master class in it. All she needed was her smile, a wink, a whisper of flattery, and a soft caress. Too bad she never went to Hollywood; she gave and Oscar-worthy performance every night she’s with a client. She’d work for Stan until his well ran dry.

  She didn’t want to sleep with me; she wanted to compromise me and get as much information on the case as she could. It was now my job to convince Stan he had to end it with her. Nothing good would to come of their arrangement.

  21

  No sooner did I walk into my condo, kick off my shoes, and stare into my empty fridge, than Katie called me.

  “His car is moving and not toward his house. If I am reading the map right. I get mixed up on the maps.”

  “The Harbor Lofts building is downtown. Is he headed north? It would be toward where you live. What street is he on?”

  “Umm…Logan. Heading south? Does that make sense?”

  “Certainly not toward home. Keep watching.”

  “Where are you?”

  “My condo, but now I am going to see what our friend is up to.”

  “Wait for me. Fifteen minutes.”

  I put her on speaker and opened my camera bag to make sure I had enough charge on the battery. “No, I’m leaving now. Where is he?”

  “Turned…oh my God, Johnny…he turned onto Commons. That’s where Entertainment Ventures is.”

  “On my way.”

  ###

  Commons Boulevard was less than ten minutes from my place at this time of night. I stopped a half-block from the entrance to the business park, twisted the 300-mm lens on the camera, and walked until I had a view of the building. Sure enough, Stan’s blue Corvette was parked next to the green Jaguar. Both in front of the office door. An expanse of lawn with a few trees was between the road and the complex, and enough cars in the lot to hopefully give me a concealed vantage point. Not sure what I was going to photograph, unless I got a clear shot of the woman with the long, black hair. I wondered whether she was the one Dee Dee mentioned—Miss T.

  I made my way across the grassy area, going from tree to tree. Office lights were on at both Entertainment Ventures and Amazing Graphics, the T-shirt design business to the left. Gary’s Auto Body, to the right, was dark. I found a spot behind a delivery van the graphics shop had parked on the opposite side of the lot. It gave me a clear line of sight of the cars and the door.

  My phone vibrated; it was a text from Katie asking for an update. On the drive over, I told her text only, no calls. I responded, telling her the car was here and I was going to wait.

  I sat on the curb with my legs extended under the van and my arms leaning on the right corner of the van’s rear bumper. With the long lens, and the light from two streetlights in the parking lot, I had a decent shot when they came out.

  Ten minutes crept by. I thought for sure it was an hour. There was nothing worse than surveillance when there was nothing to do but watch and wait. Another fifteen had elapsed when two young guys came out of the graphics shop. One leaned against the building and lit a cigarette while the other started across the lot toward the van. If he came around the back, I was screwed. If he got in and drove off, I was screwed. I pulled the camera to my lap and moved more to the center of the bumper. It occurred to me I didn’t have a weapon. Not that I needed one, but it could be helpful when explaining my way out of a situation. I doubted the two workers were packing.

  The worker opened the van’s side door, rummaged around a bit then slammed
it closed.

  “I found it,” he shouted.

  I moved back to the right corner. The T-shirt guys were passing a pint bottle of liquor back and forth. Their break ended and I wondered about the quality of the work coming from those two after finishing off the whiskey.

  Every fifteen minutes, Katie checked in with a text. I reported the same: nothing. Thoughts of abandoning my post and making my way to the rear of the building and the loading dock began to form. I wondered whether I was missing something around back. But if I moved now, I ran the risk of not seeing anyone come out the front.

  The choice was made for me. The door opened and out walked two people, the woman with the long, black hair, and Dee Dee. Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe this woman was Miss T after all and Dee Dee met with her more than we thought. It also meant she went to Stan’s love loft and borrowed his car. I did snap a nice close shot of the mystery woman. They chatted for a few seconds before driving off in their respective cars.

  “Police. Do not move. Put the camera down and your hands in the air.”

  A woman’s voice behind me. My heart pounded; she scared the hell out of me.

  “Stand up.”

  I raised my hands. “Easy now. I’m on the job.” My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled my legs back from under the van and stood.

  “Hands against the van. Spread your legs.” I complied and she did a quick frisk. “Turn around, slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I did. A Glock was aimed at my face, held by a female dressed in all black—shoes, leggings, pullover, and ski cap. Relief and shock hit simultaneously. An all-too-familiar face.

  “Monica?”

  She took a step closer. “Delarosa? What the hell?”

  “I guess I could ask you the same thing.” My phone vibrated again.

  “That your phone? And put your hands down.”

  “My office calling.”

  She holstered the pistol. “You have an office?”

  “Sort of.”

  She stuck her hands on her hips. “Well, I’ll be damned. Johnny Delarosa.” Her head bobbed; her eyes went over me. “Been a while. You’re not fat and bald.”

  “You look good too, Mad Dog.”

  “I can’t wait to find out why you are out here.”

  “Maybe we should catch up.”

  “Still a bourbon man?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  22

  “Are you kidding me?” Mike almost dropped the tray of beer mugs in his hands. Monica and I came in the rear door of McNally’s as he entered the kitchen. “Where did you find her?” He set the tray on a counter and wrapped his beefy arms around her.

  “You big red-haired giant. How the hell are you?” She stepped back to size him up. “How long has it been?”

  “Too long. Talk about a surprise. You want to tell me what’s happening?”

  “Over some whiskey—top shelf, too,” I said, and brought Monica in from the kitchen and told her the history of how Mike and I continued our partnership into the bar business. He shooed out one last barfly and locked the door. We settled in my booth with a bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon and three glasses.

  Monica Mattson became a detective about the same time I did but was assigned to Vice from the start. The word on her was that she was an intuitive and thorough detective, but that she did not play well with others. Too independent, had to do things her way. She had a uniqueness to her, both in her physical appearance and in her demeanor. She was a very light-skinned African American, with freckles. She had an undeniable cuteness, and a cool sexiness about her that she tried to downplay but couldn’t. She never dated other officers and after many guys asked and failed, the only reasonable explanation they could concoct was that she must be a lesbian. She dispelled that rumor when she made a rare appearance at a Christmas party with a man whom she introduced as her boyfriend.

  She was different, and that made her a target of the ribbing, trash talk, the insults cops need to stay sane, and the downright vulgar, blatant sexual harassment from weak men who had a masochistic streak they used to convince themselves they were men. They never stopped and she did her best to ignore them, using exercise as an outlet. She was obsessed, in the gym at least five days a week, going through the most intense workouts I ever witnessed. I always thought it was her way of blowing off the rage that welled in her, fueled by the constant barrage of idiocy directed her way.

  The harassment, trash talk, and rage all came to a head one morning in the squad room, when a detective named Dunston—they called him “the Dunce” for short because he was dumb, obnoxious, vulgar, and annoying—proved his nickname when he decided to poke the bear. He had a habit of calling her M&Ms, and on that particular morning, he took a fateful step over the line. “Hey, Mattson, you say you are chocolate on the inside but have that light candy coating on the outside. When we have sex, does that mean you’ll melt in my mouth instead of my hand?” He chuckled, all proud of his joke. A few other guys laughed too, but the rest of us knew what hell was headed his way.

  In one swift motion, she slammed him against the lockers with her right hand in a vise grip around his throat and her left hand squeezing the life out of his balls. She had him pinned, his face blood red and about to explode; his arms swung in feeble attempts to knock her off. He choked, squealed, and begged while she let go with a string of obscenities so vile it would make a drunken sailor cringe. Finally, two officers, who delighted in Dunce’s beat down, reluctantly pulled her off. He fell to the floor with both hands on his crotch and whimpering like a baby.

  Mattson, as if nothing happened, stood with her hands on her hips and scanned the room. “Anyone else want a piece of candy?” From that moment forward, she earned the respect of every officer in the department and was bestowed with the moniker Mad Dog.

  Luckily for me, she and I always had a cool rapport. We both respected our mutual proclivity for bending the rules. I hadn’t seen her since I retired over six years ago.

  We toasted to the good old days.

  “Been a while, boys. I heard you two had a place, but you know me, not much of a social type.”

  “No excuse,” said Mike. “You look fantastic, Mad Dog. Keeping yourself in shape.”

  “Finished my third Iron Man triathlon last month.”

  “Wow, impressive. I’m out of breath carrying kegs in and out of the bar.” He grabbed her left hand. “No ring, huh?”

  “Mike, c’mon. Nothing’s changed with me. No time for relationship bullshit. You guys?”

  “Both divorced. We learned the hard way,” I said.

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  She had removed the ski cap when she came in and her black hair was straight and pulled back in a ponytail. She had to be mid-forties by now and had not aged a bit. She was lean and fit, and still had the freckle-cuteness turned up high. Not a line on her face, and her dark eyes had the sparkle I remembered.

  “Not to ruin our reunion, but we have business at hand,” I said. “You go first.”

  “Nah, I’m the police, don’t forget. You need to show me yours before you see any of my goodies.”

  We all laughed, and Mike poured more Woodford in our glasses. “Monica, you always had that wall up. You and I would have been amazing together.”

  “Very few ever make it over the wall. Don’t even think about it.”

  Mike hung his head.

  “C’mon, Johnny, spill the beans. And don’t hold back. We had that same whatever-it-takes attitude to serve up justice. I hope it has not changed.”

  “Never. This stays here for now.”

  “Deal.”

  “My client hires escorts from Fantasy Escorts—”

  “Owned by Entertainment Ventures.”

  “Yes, and he is a bit of a celebrity. Somebody found out, called him and alluded to a blackmail attempt.”

  “And?”

  “We suspect the young woman who was murdered and thrown out of a
van in front of the Harbor Lofts building the other night was the one attempting the extortion.”

  “Sounds like your client is guilty.”

  I shook my head. “I was there when it happened.”

  “At the Lofts building? Maybe you better start over. From the top.”

  I explained everything, including the odd meeting with Dee Dee earlier in the evening, the non-lunch at Max’s, the mystery woman with the long, black hair, and how the extortion attempt might be over. I said everything except Stan’s name.

  “That was Dee Dee driving the blue Corvette tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  “The car that just happens to be registered to Stan Shelton. The former quarterback, and now owner of six car dealerships in the city. He’s a bit of a celebrity.”

  “You ran the tags.” I raised my glass to her. “Your turn. Show your goodies.”

  “Wait, did you follow Dee Dee tonight after you met with her?”

  “No. Well, sort of.”

  It only took her a few seconds. “You hacked the car’s GPS?”

  “Not exactly. She used a car service from Joey Mac’s, then borrowed Stan’s car.”

  “You thought you were following Stan?”

  “Umm, no.”

  “You best not tell me you have a tracker on his car.”

  I smiled. “Prefer to call it Mad Dog style.”

  “Funny, but I wish. You’re lucky I like you two. Keep talking.”

  “My questions are, who is the woman with the long hair, and just how involved is Dee Dee? She told me she never meets with the owner, then shows up at the office tonight. Who is my mystery woman?”

  She stretched her arms above her head. “Getting late. This unexpected reunion was great, and I do love you guys, but I have an early morning.”

  “No way, Monica. Your turn.”

  “Okay, okay. Three months ago, we got a call from NYPD about a sex trafficking operation. They were working it but told us the girls were coming in through Port City. Captain put me on it, and it has been my only case since. The information New York gave us eventually led to Entertainment Ventures and the woman with the black hair. But it’s as if she doesn’t exist. Everything is wrapped up in layer upon layer of LLCs and corporate holdings. One company is the parent company of the next, and so on. If she is the mastermind, she’s one damn smart woman.”