Beyond The Window: A Fast Paced Crime Thriller (Private Detective Heinrich Muller Crime Thriller Book 2)

by Robert Brown

  Biniam went on. “His father is a Southern Baptist minister, quite a successful one, with radio shows syndicated on more than fifty stations. He’s written some books, too. Needless to say, he’s rich. I doubt he likes his daughter-in-law very much. I’ve found some photo shoots she was involved in. Most have Satanist themes. The preacher must not know about them if he’s still sending his son money. Must have a soft spot for him, because Brixton identifies as atheist.”

  Heinrich arched an eyebrow. “How in the world do you know that?”

  Biniam shrugged. “Anything Facebook knows, I know.”

  “Yet another reason to not be on Facebook.”

  “I do a lot more good with my knowledge than Zuckerberg does.”

  “Fair enough,” Heinrich said, sipping his coffee. “Oh damn, this shit’s good. How about you and me open a café and put Starbucks out of business?”

  Biniam laughed. “That might be a good idea, my friend, but all these rich white people will come in and ruin it, and then where would we be?”

  “Going to Amsterdam to save a kid from her degenerate mother,” Heinrich grumbled into his coffee.

  “I learned some things about that production studio,” Biniam went on, shaking his head as a look of disgust crossed his face. “I’ve seen a lot of things on the Dark Web, but this was really crazy.”

  “Anything with her in it?”

  “No. She just got there, after all.”

  “Anything illegal?”

  “I don’t know. Is shitting and pissing on tied-up guys illegal in Amsterdam?”

  “Probably not. Anything with kids?”

  Biniam grew serious. “No. At least not that. Everything else, but not that.”

  “You find an address for them?”

  “A post office box is all I got. I’ll send it to you with my information packet. And I couldn’t trace the IP addresses. They’re using Tor over VPN.”

  “English, please, Biniam.”

  “It is English,” his friend said with a laugh. “You speak so many languages and you don’t know computer terminology? A VPN is a virtual proxy network. It runs your traffic through a proxy server so all the website sees is the proxy’s address and not the address of your computer. There are ways around that, but using Tor sends your signals through a bunch of different network paths. It also allows you to access Onion sites on the Dark Web. That’s where your 666 Entertainment lives. It’s extremely hard to trace someone using Tor over VPN unless they make a mistake. They haven’t.”

  “Professionals, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Heinrich finished his coffee. “Keep digging, buddy.”

  “I will.”

  Heinrich slapped Biniam on the back and left. He still had a few hours before he would head to the airport. Time enough to review the material Biniam was emailing him, pack his things, and download a Dutch language app. Heinrich was a hyperpolyglot, able to pick up a language in a couple of weeks at a level that most people took a couple of years to attain. Because Dutch was sort of halfway between English and German, both of which he already spoke, the process would go even faster.

  The suddenness of his departure pissed off Heinrich. He liked to prepare more for a case like this. Plus, he was going to miss out on the boxing session he had planned for that night and on the following day’s meeting of the local chapter of Old Farts Who Love Old Tunes, a small group of vintage music obsessives who got together to trade 78s, drink whiskey, and smoke cigars.

  Fun and relaxation would have to wait.

  Actually, they arrived earlier than he thought. KLM had a great first-class cabin—champagne, personal entertainment system, a reclining seat that turned into a bed (complete with walls to block out the sights and sounds of the other passengers), and hot stewardesses.

  Lotte was the hottest. About thirty-five and the oldest of the cabin crew, she still had a gorgeous figure and legs that wouldn’t stop. Fine features as well, although a little too made up. Stewardesses were always too made up for his liking.

  Heinrich immediately drafted her into being his Dutch language teacher. It was easy enough. He was already practicing with his app, and he made it a point to repeat words as she passed. After the third try, she stopped next to him.

  “You have very good pronunciation,” she said.

  “Your English is quite good, too.”

  She gave a professional smile. “Thank you very much. Are you a professor?”

  Heinrich had to laugh. “Far from it. I’m a private investigator.”

  “Really? How interesting,” she said in a tone that made Heinrich wonder if she actually believed it. He got that a lot.

  She was just beginning to turn away when he whipped out his Dutch-English dictionary.

  “How do you say ‘felony’? I couldn’t find it in here.”

  He had wanted to ask how to say “drop dead gorgeous,” but there was this thing called “sexual harassment” that people were getting upset about these days.

  Lotte raised an eyebrow. “Do you plan to come to our country to commit felonies?”

  “More like stop them from happening.”

  “Zware misdaad.”

  “Black misdeed? How poetic.”

  He repeated the phrase and got it pitch perfect. That earned him a real smile this time.

  “You say it very well. If you have any more questions, do not hesitate to ask me.”

  He didn’t hesitate to ask, and by the time they were halfway across the Atlantic, he’d picked up a hundred vocabulary words and her phone number. Languages were a great party trick with him. His talent always impressed people, and with women, that could turn into something more. He got the feeling that Lotte liked the attention, too. The rest of the cabin crew was too young for him to make any sort of realistic play, and he’d learned long ago to pick experience over freshness. It paid off better in the end.

  As the cabin lights dimmed and he reclined his set to go to sleep like the others, Heinrich smiled. This was turning out well. He’d have to sponge off hipsters more often.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The hotel turned out to be good too—close to the main canal and within easy walking distance of the Red Light District. As he checked in, Heinrich gazed around the lobby, which had a crystal chandelier and a ten-foot-long tropical fish tank. The guests looked like a mixture of businessmen and wealthy families on vacation. Not a single bloodshot eye in the place. The stoners must have stayed at cheaper hotels.

  After he checked into his room, which looked out over a side canal and rows of narrow brick houses with ornate plaster decorations on their tops and old family crests, Heinrich checked his email. Biniam hadn’t learned more but promised to keep looking. Brixton had sent an anxious message asking if he’d found Casey and Arizona yet.

  “No, idiot. I haven’t even unpacked,” Heinrich grumbled, sending off a quick reassuring note.

  The message spurred him on, though. After a quick coffee at a nearby café, where he sent Lotte a witty text in Dutch suggesting that they get together for a drink sometime soon, he headed over to the Red Light District and the address Biniam had provided.

  The canals were lovely as the sunlight of late summer sparkled on them and shone through the leaves of the trees planted alongside. Heinrich’s eyes roamed along them and the historic canal houses while his ear picked up stray words from conversations—words he would look up later. Amsterdam was a pretty city, with some world-class art museums from what he’d heard. Heinrich felt it was a shame that most people came here for drugs and kink.

  The sights and sounds of the city distracted him so much, it took him a minute to realize that he was actually in Europe’s most notorious neighborhood. The wakeup call was the sound of knuckles rapping on glass nearby.

  Turning, Heinrich saw not two feet away a buxom black woman in frilly lingerie staring at him from the other side of a glass door. She gave him a wide smile and a little shimmy. Heinrich moved on, feeling nothing.

  He began p
aying more attention to the scene. He was walking on a smaller side canal with a narrow sidewalk that required the crowd to pass right by the girls standing behind the glass doors. The doors were spaced just a few feet apart, and were lined with red lights to illuminate the occupant and the tiny room—not much bigger than a closet—in which she stood. Immediately behind each girl was another door that obviously led to the bedroom. In the bright sunshine, the red light was faded, and the flaws and weariness of the girls were all too apparent.

  That didn’t stop the crowds from coming, though. Heinrich had to shoulder his way through groups of American college kids and middle-aged men, both local and foreign, staring at the merchandise. In the canal, a tour boat moved slowly along, people crowding on the deck to take photos.

  In front of him stood a small circle of guys looking at something. He pushed his way to the front, ignoring a whiny complaint from some American tourist, to see what was happening.

  A Frenchman in his fifties was making a deal with a blonde girl young enough to be his daughter. An international circle of losers stared. The girl held the door half-open, the sunlight turning her still-firm flesh a golden hue. They spoke so quietly, Heinrich couldn’t hear what they said, or even what language they spoke. He wondered why they acted so conspiratorial when they were the center of attention.

  After a minute, she opened the door fully and let the man inside. She closed the door behind him and pulled a white curtain across the glass. Everyone moved on.

  Heinrich came to an alley lined on both sides with red glass doors. After about twenty yards, it opened onto another canal street. This one, too, was filled with red-lit glass doors.

  He was amazed that behind every door stood a woman, except for a few that were busy with the curtains drawn. It was barely three in the afternoon. Heinrich checked the address for Casey’s workplace against the map on his phone and headed for it.

  The place wasn’t what he imagined. For some reason, he had pictured an underground dungeon, although, come to think of it, cellars probably weren’t very popular in this watery town. Her red door wasn’t even in one of the little side alleys, but right on a large canal near a bridge—prime real estate with maximum visibility.

  The only problem was, he didn’t see her. Behind the glass stood a plump, middle-aged Germanic woman in leather, wielding a riding crop. She had a platinum blonde crew cut and a nose ring. Behind several of the other windows stood women wearing similar gear and displaying ropes or whips. One even had a length of chain and manacles.

  Heinrich stood in front of the door and nodded at the woman, motioning for her to open up. She gave him an appraising look and opened the door a crack.

  “Does Intersex Dom666 work here?” Heinrich asked in English, remembering Casey Murphy’s stage name.

  The girl replied in decent English with a German accent. “She works at night. Come back after ten. That’s when her shift starts.”

  Heinrich grinned. “You shouldn’t call her ‘she’. She doesn’t like it.”

  The woman stared at him dully. “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Can I see your place?”

  “Fifty euros for twenty minutes. What are you into?”

  “I just want to talk to you and see the inside of one of these places. I’ve never been to the Red Light District before.”

  The woman moved impatiently, the black leather encasing her body creaking.

  “Look, I need to know exactly what you want before I can make a deal.”

  Heinrich noticed they were drawing a crowd.

  “I don’t want anything physical. Just let me see the place and tell me what goes on here.”

  “You want dirty stories?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “No contact?”

  Heinrich almost shuddered at the thought. She was squeezed so tightly into that black leather, she looked like a blood sausage.

  “None. I promise.”

  The look she gave him told him exactly what she thought of men’s promises.

  “We have security here,” she told him.

  Heinrich looked over his shoulder and indicated a trio of fifty-something tourists studying a map.

  “Look, those are my buddies over there. I just got divorced and they gave me money to have someone today. I don’t really feel like it but I can’t let them down. Come on. We’ll just hang out and I’ll tell them a big story.”

  The woman nodded, suddenly understanding. Heinrich wondered if she got this a lot.

  “Fifty euros,” she said in the same tone of voice as someone working at a supermarket.

  Heinrich paid, wondering how he was going to itemize this on expenses.

  She opened the door and let him inside, then closed the curtain on the leering faces. There was barely enough room for the both of them. Heinrich’s nostrils filled with her scent—a mixture of talcum powder, cheap soap, and leather. She opened the door at the back of the tiny room to reveal another room. A double bed took up about half the space. On a row of pegs on the opposite wall hung a rope, whips, and some other devices Heinrich couldn’t identify. A closed door was in the far wall. Heinrich didn’t see a lock.

  “Where does that go?”

  “To the hallway. All these rooms are connected. Security hangs out there. Don’t worry. No one will come in unless I call for them.”

  “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  As soon as he said it, he realized that in her world, those words sounded more threatening than saying nothing at all.

  He went over to the dimmer switch and turned it up to its maximum. In the bright light, the room didn’t look much different. He was surprised at how clean it was.

  “The sheets are fresh,” he noted.

  “We change them after each customer. City regulation.”

  She stood near the door that led to security, twirling her riding crop.

  “You going to hit me with that?” Heinrich asked with a smile.

  “Where would you like me to hit you?”

  “Nowhere. It hurts. I smacked a guy in the face with one of those. He didn’t like it.”

  She didn’t put the riding crop away. Heinrich figured it was her first line of defense against freaks.

  “There are gay doms on this street if that’s what you’re into,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Sorry if I offended you.”

  “You didn’t. I don’t care what people do as long as it’s between consenting adults. So, you share your equipment with the other girls?”

  “No. We each have our own stuff.”

  “How does this work? You rent this place?”

  “Yes. We rent by the four-hour shift. The girl you want is on from ten at night until two in the morning. The district closes after that.”

  “She’s here every night?”

  “Yes, seven nights a week.”

  Heinrich wondered who took care of Arizona during that time. The kid would be sleeping. At least he sure as hell hoped so.

  Getting her safe was the top priority.

  No, it was the only priority. A real mother wouldn’t steal her eight-year-old daughter and take her across the ocean so she could work in a place like this. Fuck Casey. All Heinrich cared about was saving that little girl.

  “Do you ladies work for a company or something?” Heinrich asked.

  “We’re independent. We rent directly from the landlord. The landlord provides security and sheets. It’s all legal.”

  Heinrich wondered about that. Any time money was to be made through people’s weaknesses, organized crime got involved in one way or another.

  “How’s Intersex Dom666 doing? I’m an old client.”

  “I don’t know her that well.” The woman was still standing by the door. Heinrich noticed a clock on the wall. She kept looking at it.

  Heinrich took another look around the room but there was nothing to see, and this chick wasn’t going to tell him anything. He’d have to come back that night. He spent his remaining minutes i
n small talk with her and learned nothing.

  “Well, time’s up,” he said, glancing at the clock with relief. “Good luck.”

  “I’ll tell Intersex Dom666 you’re coming. What’s your name?”

  “Bill. Bill Hodges.”

  She managed a smile that looked half-convincing. “See you around, Bill.”

  As he opened the door, he paused and turned back to her. “You like working here?” he asked.

  That flat smile again. “Sure. I get to meet nice guys like you.”

  “And how did you start this line of work?”

  The smile vanished. “Time’s up, Bill.”

  Heinrich went back to his hotel, no longer noticing the beautiful historic homes or the bright sparkle of sunlight on the canals. That place had left a sick feeling in his gut.

  He remembered a time when he was a punk kid running wild in Eighties New York. Back then, Times Square was still Times Square, not the Disney-fied shopping center it had become.

  He and his glue-sniffing, shoplifting friends used to wander around down there, staring at the flashing theater marquees advertising adult films and the almost-nude photos on the front of the porn shops, the nipples and vaginas covered with gold stars. Sometimes, some pervert would try to pick them up. They’d lure the guy into an alley and roll him. Other times, they’d try to sneak into the shops.

  That didn’t usually work out so well. The owners would eighty-six them as soon as they spotted them, not wanting any extra heat from the cops.

  Every now and then, they’d get lucky when a customer distracted the owner. Once they got into a peep show, passing through the brightly lit opening while the black guy at the front argued with some John. Heinrich and his snickering friends slipped right on in.

  The ground floor was a strip club with an entry fee. They didn’t dare go up to the ticket window, and they didn’t have enough money anyway, so they headed upstairs to the 25-cent peepshow booths.

  Heinrich had never been in one before. He was sixteen with plenty of experience for a kid his age, but this was something new. His friends were boasting and laughing. The creepy older guys in the place glanced at them uncomfortably and moved out of their way.