‘Fuck,’ he muttered. They’d obviously taken the whole thing, preparing to go over every last minute of footage to find this guy.
He turned to the file cabinets, wondering what kind of paper records Alison kept. Whether her husband would’ve swept the place already for incriminating evidence. Nick opened one and found it empty. Same as the next one, and the next.
Nick pushed it closed and felt his heart racing.
‘We’ve boxed it all up,’ Azrah said from behind him, and Nick jumped.
‘You think he’s in there somewhere?’ he asked.
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But even if he’s not, we’ve got something.’ Azrah smiled and Nick wondered if she knew, if she was fucking with him. He was desperate to know but knew he couldn’t ask. He turned away.
‘Have you spoken to the staff?’ he asked. ‘Anyone see anybody they didn’t like the look of?’
‘I’ve talked to a couple but we’re still trying to get hold of most of them. That was one of them, out there. But she’s wasted. She’s agreed to come in tomorrow.’
‘Right,’ he said, wondering who it was, if she would recognize him. ‘She still here?’
‘Nope. Anyway, I think I’m done.’ Azrah held up the keys. ‘I gotta lock up.’
Nick looked around once more, knowing it was too late to do anything, at the club at least. He could always volunteer to go through the footage, see if he could work a little magic there.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He walked past her, wondering if she could see him sweating.
‘Nick?’
‘Yeah?’ he said, stopping in the doorway.
‘Don’t you want to know what we found?’
‘Ah, yeah. Sure.’
Azrah nodded for him to follow her and led him down the hall to the back. She opened a door and turned on the light and Nick found himself looking at a very familiar space. He’d fucked more than one woman in that bed.
‘Looks like Alison Goodwin’s ladies club wasn’t exactly for ladies,’ Azrah said. ‘I wonder if the assholes who came here realized they were being watched.’
Nick looked up sharply and Azrah pointed to the ceiling. In the stark light, he could see the small camera. He certainly hadn’t noticed it while he was otherwise engaged. He supposed that was what they banked on.
‘There were hundreds of tapes in there,’ Azrah said. ‘God only knows what they were for. Blackmail. Internet porn. Private use.’ She turned off the light and closed the door, shaking her head. ‘But that’s rich folk for you.’
Nick thought he might puke. Thankfully Azrah’s phone went and he managed to slink away without another word.
Outside, he stopped and took a deep breath. He was definitely fucked. And not in the good way. Somehow he had to get to those tapes. But how would he find himself? Azrah said there were hundreds and unless they labeled them… Shit, he thought. If they were labeled there was less chance of denying it. Grainy footage could be argued away. And what if Azrah had already seen his name?
He leaned against the wall, steadying himself. Maybe he wasn’t even on the tapes. Maybe they only filmed the assholes, the guys who deserved to be blackmailed.
‘Detective Kelly?’
Nick straightened up with a jolt. One of Alison’s girls, a blonde he couldn’t recall the name of but was almost certain he’d slept with, was standing there. She looked like she’d been crying. Nick looked back at the door, expecting Azrah to come out any second.
‘I can’t believe it,’ the blonde said and threw her arms around him. Nick shook her off and took her arm, leading her around the corner. Azrah was right. The woman was wasted.
‘What’s going to happen to us? Are we going to get in trouble?’ she asked.
‘Listen to me. You’re going to be all right. But you have to do one thing. Are you listening?’ He took her face in his hand and made her look at him. ‘You can’t tell anyone you know me, all right? Not Detective Khan. Not anyone. Understand?’
The woman nodded but Nick doubted she actually got it. If his freedom depended on her, he was screwed. He wondered if he could wrangle it to interview her himself, although it would still be recorded and there was no way to control what came out of her mouth.
He heard a door slam shut, the sound of it being locked. It had to be Azrah. He put his finger to his lips and waited to hear her car drive away. Would she be going back to the station? Keen to start looking at all this footage? Maybe that was how she got her kicks. Or would they just pass it on to Vice? They had no idea what they were even looking for, were they really going to wade through hundreds of hours of sex tapes hoping something jumped out at them? No, they were more likely to pass it on and maybe Vice wouldn’t even get around to it right away. They had enough to shut the place down and maybe bring in Graham Goodwin, but other than that?
Nick needed to go. He was wound up far too tightly. He looked at the woman. Was her name Nancy or Natalie? Something like that. ‘Remember what I said?’ he asked, and she focused on his face.
‘I don’t know you,’ she said. He let go of her arm and walked away. ‘Detective Kelly?’
He turned back to her, about to tell her not to use his name, but she staggered towards him, reaching up to touch his cheek.
‘You want some company?’ she asked. ‘Free of charge tonight.’
Nick sighed and took her hand.
30
Karen
Karen couldn’t go home. She was certain Nick would be able to smell the humiliation on her. She was still cringing at the thought of it. She’d stood there, in front of Mark’s door, ready to knock, when she saw a UPS guy coming towards her. He smiled in that way strangers do when they realize they’re about to do the very same thing. And so she panicked and left. She ran away from the house and out of sight before Mark opened the door and saw her there, acting like a crazy stalker woman.
Once she was safely standing on the subway platform, she cursed herself. She was such a loser. Why had she run away? Because she didn’t want to be standing on some guy’s doorstep trying to explain herself while a delivery guy stood listening in, noting every last humiliating word to share with his buddies later. So she bottled it, again, and ran away.
She wondered if Nick had realized Mark had been at the apartment, if he’d have connected the dots. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t, but either way she didn’t doubt what he’d said – he didn’t give a fuck what she did. He didn’t care about her. She thought it more likely she’d return home and he’d make some snide comment about her date running away.
Coming up from the subway, she considered hitting some bar rather than going home to him, but she couldn’t face it alone. What was she going to do? Find another Mark to obsess over?
She was halfway home when she stopped, smiling to herself. In front of her was a bus stop with Peter Aronsen’s smug face plastered all over it, advertising his latest book. She knew what she had to do.
Karen stood beneath a grocery store awning and tapped Aronsen’s name into her phone. There were plenty of hits and any number of ways to contact him. She chose Twitter and sent him a private message, inviting him to do a reading in the store. She pressed send and felt a shiver of delight run through her. Seeing another guy was unlikely to piss off her husband, but promoting the work of his nemesis certainly would.
All of a sudden she felt alive, sure of herself. She wasn’t going to go home, she was having a night out. She pulled out her phone again and scrolled through the names until she came to Mark. Her finger hovered over his name and then she moved it to the name above his. Jamie.
‘Hey,’ she said when he picked up. ‘Want to go get a drink?’
Jamie agreed to meet her in fifteen minutes and Karen walked towards the bar, the good feeling slipping away. She was such a wuss.
When Jamie showed up, Karen was on the phone. Not five minutes after she’d sent the message to Peter Aronsen, he was on the phone, talking her ear off. He was very keen to do a rea
ding and a signing, and after a couple of minutes listening to him, she wondered if it had been a very bad idea. He was grating on her already, how would she cope with a couple of hours of him? Maybe she could leave Jamie in charge that day, suddenly have an emergency appointment for something or other.
But then she saw Jamie coming towards her, waving, and she knew she couldn’t do it to him. She waved back and rolled her eyes. He mouthed, ‘Who is it?’ but she held up a finger and he shoved his hands in his pockets while he waited.
‘Okay,’ Karen said. ‘No, we are open tomorrow but that’s not going to leave much time to advertise. Besides, I need to order in more copies–’
She listened as Aronsen assured her it would be fine, that he would set to work on all his social media accounts, letting his legions of fans know where he’d be the next day, and that he would bring plenty of copies of the books himself. Karen tried to argue that it might be best to wait a while, a week at least, to make sure, but Aronsen steamrolled over her, insisting they strike while the iron was hot. She’d assumed it would be slightly trickier to get Aronsen, his books sold well after all, but it turned out his availability was wide open. She couldn’t imagine why.
‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She went to hang up but he kept on talking and Jamie looked at her, tapping his imaginary watch.
‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘See you then. Bye.’ She hung up before he could say any more and Jamie raised a brow.
‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘Peter Aronsen.’
Jamie started to laugh, stopping abruptly when he realized she wasn’t joking. ‘And why the hell were you talking to Peter Aronsen?’ She saw his face change as he worked it out. ‘Oh shit,’ he laughed. ‘Really?’
She shrugged. ‘It seemed a good idea about half an hour ago. He’s coming in tomorrow, so I’m afraid you’re working tomorrow too.’
‘Hey, I don’t mind. I love a circus. So does he know?’
‘Know what?’
‘That you’re married to his arch rival?’
‘No. I thought he might refuse if he knew that,’ she said, and wondered if it was too late to pass on that little nugget of information.
‘Are you kidding? I’m sure that’d make him more likely to do it.’
Karen turned to the door of the bar. As she opened it, a rush of noise spilled out and they could see there was barely room to move inside. She turned back to Jamie. ‘Move on?’ she said and he nodded.
‘Should we go to Paddy’s?’ he said, and she made a face. ‘I know you think it smells of damp. But it means there won’t be many people in there.’
‘True,’ she said and they started walking towards Paddy’s.
‘So,’ Jamie said after a few minutes. ‘You seen any more of that guy?’
‘What guy?’ she asked, feeling a little sick.
‘Come on. The guy. From the store.’
‘Oh. No. Not really.’
‘Not really?’ he said as they slowed down outside Paddy’s. ‘What does that mean?’
But Karen wasn’t listening. Across the street something caught her attention. A woman with a shock of blonde hair grabbed hold of a man, kissing him deeply before pulling him inside the bar.
‘Was that…?’ Jamie asked, and Karen turned to him, forcing a smile.
‘Doesn’t matter. Come on, let’s drink.’
31
Michael
Michael sat in the corner, only half listening to Elena as she prattled on about her early-morning spinning class. She was one of those people who just talked rather than had conversations. He imagined he could get up and leave for a good half an hour and she probably wouldn’t notice, would’ve barely paused for breath. He’d be glad when she was done with, when he could finally shut her up.
He glanced around the bar, feeling a little nervous, even if it wasn’t the big night. It didn’t appear that anyone was paying them much attention, even though Elena was being obnoxiously loud, even after her excessive PDA at the door when they arrived. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t the night, unfortunately, and anyone who happened to see them there would’ve long forgotten by the time it was important.
After he’d met Elena outside the subway station, his face mostly concealed with his hat and scarf (murder was so much easier in the winter), he’d tried to convince her once more to go straight to her place. But Elena wanted to be out, so they went out.
For obvious reasons, he couldn’t take his projects back to his place. Apart from the fact he couldn’t create his masterpieces there, his home also didn’t fit the stories he told. Was Francis the investment banker really going to live in a shitty little house in Queens?
Michael had become quite the expert in lying. Some of them were told he lived out of town, and only visited the city for work. This lie helped with his lack of availability but encouraged people to suggest going back to his hotel, which was no good at all. In the end, he had to tell them that his company wouldn’t stump up for a hotel and instead he stayed in the spare room of a colleague. Others were told he had a relative staying over, and who wanted to have sex with some creepy old uncle listening in? Sometimes his house was being renovated or redecorated, occasionally fumigated.
‘Did you hear me?’
Michael looked down at Elena’s hand on his. She was smiling at him, thrilled with herself about something she’d just said. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘I said I saw you at work yesterday.’
The music and noise of the bar seemed to fade away, the people disappeared. It was just him and Elena.
‘You… what?’ he said, and she smiled again, loving it.
‘I saw you at the 7-11. It doesn’t matter. I don’t mind that you work there. It’s kind of sweet really, that you’d lie to impress me. And you look so cute in that uniform!’
Michael could hear his own heart beating, could feel it almost breaking out of his chest. How was this possible? Why would anyone who lived in Manhattan go all the way out to Queens, to a fucking 7-11? Especially someone like Elena?
‘Really,’ she said, her hand on his thigh. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
But it did matter. It mattered a lot. Because if someone knew where he worked, they could figure out who he was. He wasn’t Francis the investment banker, he wasn’t Mark or Richard or any of the others. He was Michael Fisher who worked in the 7-11.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’
Michael tried to control his breathing, tried to think of something to say, to brush it off. But all he could think was that he couldn’t let this destroy what he’d started. He couldn’t let Elena destroy it.
He smiled at her, sliding his hand up her leg. ‘Why don’t we go back to your place and make the most of it?’ he asked and once his hand had reached the top of her leg, she suddenly agreed.
They both stood and made their way out of the bar and Michael made sure he kept his head down. Because things had changed.
That night was the night Elena Jones died.
32
Nick
Nick made his way up the stairs to the office, his legs heavy. He didn’t take Nancy/Natalie up on her offer, as tempting as it was. He couldn’t take the risk. Besides, he wasn’t in the mood, a sure sign things were very badly wrong.
He could’ve gone home, soothed himself with a bottle of whiskey, but he didn’t want to risk seeing Karen either. He couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing him like this, certain his distress was transparent. That was when she preferred to argue, when she knew his defenses were down.
There was the possibility she was still out with lover boy, that whatever little tiff they’d had had been resolved. But Nick had other reasons to head back to work, assuming Azrah would’ve returned too. He needed to find out more. Who would be looking over all that footage? And when?
But when he walked into the office, there was no sign of her. No sign of anyone. Downst
airs it had been chaos. The usual Saturday night circus with the front desk officer as ringmaster. He’d nodded at Nick as he passed and Nick tried to remember his name. The Homicide Squad had moved into the precinct a couple of months earlier after their own, much nicer, building was sold off in another wave of money saving for the city. They had no idea if the stay would be permanent or if they’d be moved on again, but Nick for one hoped they would. The office space they’d been given was too small, too cramped for the ten detectives in the squad. But at least it was on the top floor, far away from the mayhem below. And this late at night, it gave Nick a quiet place to think.
Nick slumped in his chair and spun it around a few times, making himself dizzy, trying to think things through.
What did he know? There had been CCTV in the bar so it was possible he’d be on there, but only if the footage was kept for more than a month. It had been maybe five weeks since he’d last visited the club so it was possible that there’d be no record of him, at least not on the security footage.
But then there were other records. Credit card receipts weren’t a problem, he’d always paid cash. What other record would there be? Surely there was no need for any more information about the clientele. But what were all those file cabinets for? Financial stuff? He had to assume that there was nothing in there to incriminate him.
So that just left the sex tapes. He felt another rush of anger towards Alison. Why the hell was she taping them? Azrah mentioned blackmail, internet porn or private use. He seriously doubted it was for private use. Surely Alison wasn’t the kind to get off on watching strangers screwing. But then, what did he really know about her? This was a woman who chose to run a whorehouse because she wanted to, not because she needed the money. Who knew what she was into?
The Art of Murder Page 12