by Steven Henry
“If it isn’t the Major Crimes attack dog,” he said. “And her pooch. Say, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“You’re a woman, right?”
“Last time I checked.”
“Then it’s two questions, actually.” He held up the leather contraption. “How would you wear this, and why is it sexy?”
Erin looked at it. “Brown, I’ve got no idea what the hell that is. And if you think I’m trying it on for you, I’d rather Tase myself in the tongue.”
“Now that might be sexy, for some guys. You name it, there’s a fetish for it. What’s up, O’Reilly? Nobody ever comes here just to make small talk.”
“A couple things,” she said. “First off, we caught a Jane Doe. Probable homicide. Young woman, no ID. She was an older guy’s date last night at a charity dinner.”
“Classic,” Brown said. “Guys think donating to charity gets the ladies interested in them.”
“She turned up dead this morning, floating in an aquarium. We tracked down her date.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“Security footage from the dinner. He says her name’s Crystal Winters, but that’s probably not real. He got in touch with her through a modeling company called Ethereal Angels.”
“Prostitution front,” Brown said immediately.
“You know them?”
“Nope. But they’re all prostitution fronts.”
“You can’t possibly mean that.”
“I mean it,” Brown said. “Because everybody’s a whore. You, me, everyone. It’s just a question of what we sell, and to whom.”
“Can the philosophy, Brown. I need to know about Ethereal Angels, because they’re my best bet on finding out who this girl really was. You got anything on them at all?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells. Are they new?”
“I don’t know.”
Brown stared at his computer screen. “Where do they operate?”
“Manhattan.”
“Okay, that’s not an alias for any call-girl ring I know of,” he said. “That doesn’t mean they’re clean. They may be more careful than most, or just luckier. Sorry, Detective. I got bubkis.”
Erin nodded. “Thanks anyway.”
“You said there was something else?” he prompted.
“Yeah. Barry Caldwell says hi.”
Brown looked surprised. “Where the hell did you run into Caldwell? I haven’t seen him since he turned in his shield.”
“He runs security at a hotel now. Sounds like you knew him?”
“Yeah. He was on Vice for a few years, back in the day.” Brown sat back in his chair, remembering. A frown crossed his face.
“What?” Erin asked.
“Nothing.”
“Something I should know about him?”
“It’s old news, O’Reilly. Even if you were Internal Affairs it wouldn’t matter anymore.”
“Was he into something?” she asked.
“Nothing big. You know the difference between clean graft and dirty graft?”
Erin felt her jaw tighten. She’d heard this from her dad once, when she was a kid.
“If you put on a shield, kiddo,” he’d said, “sometime you’re going to get an offer. Someone’s going to offer you money, or favors, or a new watch, or whatever. And they’ll tell you it’s okay, because it’s clean graft. There’s a difference between clean graft and dirty graft. Clean graft is taking a payoff to let a bookie run numbers. It’s letting a guy skate on a parking ticket. The cops who take it think it’s okay because it’s small potatoes. Dirty graft comes from murderers and drug dealers. But here’s the thing, kiddo. If you take clean graft, you’re on the take just as bad as if you take dirty. And you’ll have to live with that, and someday you’ll have to square it.”
“Caldwell was on the take,” she said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“He tell you how he got that limp?”
“Yeah. Pimp with a tire iron.”
Brown chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeah, that part’s true. Did he tell you why that pimp laid into him?”
“He left that part out.”
“Yeah, that’s because he was leaning on the pimp for protection and the guy didn’t like his attitude. Caldwell figured he was safe because no one would take a shot at a guy wearing a shield. He wasn’t creative enough to see there’s a whole lot of things you can do to a guy short of shooting him.”
“What happened to the pimp?”
Brown shrugged. “Five to ten for assaulting an officer. He’s probably back on the street by now, doing the same old business.”
“Thanks for the help, Brown.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You ever take clean graft?” The question just popped out.
“O’Reilly, I’ve been wearing a shield eighteen years. Twelve of those I’ve been working Vice. Nothing you see on Vice is clean. And I’ve gotten plenty dirty without it.”
“Credit to the force, Brown.”
“You too, O’Reilly. But then, you’d know more about this than I do.”
Erin paused on her way out of the office. “Come again?”
“Clean graft.”
She felt simultaneously hot and cold as anger and unease rushed through her. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, Brown…” she began.
He held up a hand. “Yeah, I know, it’s not like that. It never is. It’s kind of comforting, actually. I thought you were different, maybe, but no one’s above it. You grab what you can in this world, because it gets dark outside. I get it.”
He knew about Carlyle. Or maybe he didn’t know that, exactly, but he knew something. Rumors were flying around the Eightball. Erin gritted her teeth. It actually helped her undercover operation if guys like Brown thought she was dirty, but it was infuriating.
“You think what you want,” she said. “Hell, you’ll do that anyway.” And she left, but not in a good mood.
Erin went up to the Major Crimes office and took a seat at her desk. Rolf curled up in his spot next to it and watched her. When she picked up her phone, he settled himself for a snooze.
She called the number on the Ethereal Angels website and prepared for an automated menu, or maybe a long hold time.
To her pleasant surprise, she got a human being immediately. The voice didn’t belong to someone she pictured working for an escort service. It was a guy with a Brooklyn accent.
“Ethereal Angels,” he said, like he was saying the name of a motorcycle gang. “What can I do for ya?”
“My name is Detective O’Reilly,” she said. “I’m with the NYPD. Can I talk to your boss?”
“NYPD, huh? Bullshit. Nice try.”
“You want bullshit?” Erin retorted. “How about when I come to your office and haul your ass downtown for obstructing my investigation?”
“Uh, just a second,” he said.
There was a short pause. Then another voice, smoother, older, and more businesslike, came on the line.
“Detective?”
“This is Detective O’Reilly. Who am I talking to?”
“Nolan Copeland. I’m the owner of Ethereal Angels. What can I do for you?”
“I need to talk to you about one of your models.”
“Oh, dear. Should I engage the services of a lawyer?”
“We don’t need one, unless you’ve been doing something you shouldn’t. This is about Crystal Winters.”
“Ah, yes, I know the young lady. I hope she’s not in some sort of trouble.”
“What’s her real name?”
There was a short pause. “Detective,” Copeland said, “I don’t understand. Surely Ms. Winters can provide you with that information herself.”
“I’m afraid not,” Erin said.
“Ah.” There was another pause. “I take it Ms. Winters is in no condition to respond to your inquiries?”
“That’s correct.”
&n
bsp; Copeland sighed. “Her name is Sarah Devers. I’m afraid I only really know her in her professional capacity.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“She’s a quite lovely young woman with a fine sense for the camera, good poise, excellent posture, and remarkable bone structure. I had hopes she’ll go far with our organization. But now I think you’re about to tell me something has happened to her.”
“Can you think of any reason anyone would do something to her?”
“No, Detective, I can’t. Sarah is a beautiful girl. I can’t imagine anyone would want to harm her.”
“Did she have any problems with drugs or alcohol?”
“Of course not!” Copeland sounded shocked. “She’s only seventeen, Detective, and I require all my models to take regular substance tests. She’s never returned a positive result on any drug test.”
“Did she have any bad experience with anyone? At a photoshoot, maybe?”
“No. Detective, please tell me. Is she all right?”
“Sir, she’s dead.”
“What? When?”
“Last night.”
“That’s terrible! How… that is, what happened?”
“That’s what we’re working on finding out. Do you know where she was last night?”
“No. She wasn’t working. I don’t keep tabs on my employees in their downtime.”
“Do you know if she was seeing anyone? A boyfriend, maybe?”
Copeland paused. “Yes, she was dating a young man.”
Erin caught the word. “A young man, you said? Not an older guy?”
“No. One of our photographers. I don’t encourage that sort of thing. It leads to favoritism and can compromise their work, and if they have friction, they bring it to work with them, but it does happen.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“Randy Schilling. He didn’t have anything to do with this, did he?”
“Do you know where he was last night?”
“We had an afternoon shoot uptown. He was there.”
“How long did it run?”
“We finished shooting right after the sun went down. Then we had dinner on site. I guess he left after dinner. Say, about eight.”
“Do you have a phone number and address for Schilling?”
“Of course.” He gave her the numbers. “But I can’t imagine he would have done anything to Sarah. He seemed very… fond of her.”
Erin heard the hesitation. “Except?” she prompted.
“Well, there were some suspicions that Randy might be making use of some controlled substances. Unfortunately, we don’t currently require substance tests from our photographers, only our models. And he’s been exhibiting some unpredictable behavior recently. I’ve been meaning to talk to him about it. I think it may have been affecting his relationship with Sarah as well.”
Erin felt a surge of excitement. “I need to talk to him,” she said. “As soon as possible. Is he in your office now?”
“No, but he’s due in this afternoon at two o’ clock. We’re doing another afternoon shoot.”
“I’ll be there at two. Don’t let him leave.”
Chapter 5
Erin called Webb from her car, on the way to the modeling agency.
“Give me good news,” he said.
“Drug-addict boyfriend?”
“Good enough for me. What do you know about him?”
“He’s a photographer for the modeling agency.”
“I like him already,” Webb said. “What else have you got?”
“Her real name is Sarah Devers. She was seventeen.”
“So, this boyfriend. Suppose he follows her on her dinner date with Stone, sees the two of them, gets jealous…”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Erin said. “Or it could’ve been an accident. Maybe he saw her after she left Stone’s room and gave her a little pick-me-up. The owner of the agency said she was clean, but that might mean she didn’t know her limits and took too much.”
“Could be. But then how did she end up in the aquarium? What do you want to do next?”
“I’m going to the agency to brace the boyfriend.”
“Sounds good. Neshenko and I are still interviewing people at the InterContinental. It’s hit-or-miss, but you never know. I told Levine to prioritize cause of death and bloodwork. We should know what killed her by the end of the day.”
Erin was expecting the Ethereal Angels office to be something sleazy, maybe a strip-mall storefront. What she got was an office in a Manhattan high-rise. She checked some of the other company names in the building while she and Rolf waited for the elevator. The modeling agency shared their building with a realtor, a chiropractor, and a couple of CPAs, to pick a few. The lobby was clean and well-kept. If this was a front for prostitution, it was definitely one of the higher-end operations.
She got off on the twelfth floor and walked down a hallway to a door labeled ETHEREAL ANGELS. On the door was a photo of a gorgeous young woman’s face, the lower half hidden by white feathers, staring at Erin with a pair of fantastically blue eyes. Erin opened the door and went in, Rolf keeping time beside her.
A big, square-jawed guy was sitting behind the counter. He gave her an appraising look and nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Not bad. You got the bone structure. A little older than we usually go for, but looks like you got a decent bod. I’ll get you an application and a waiver. We got a photographer who just came in, he can do a sample set. If you got a portfolio, I’ll take it. The dog a prop, or an assistance animal, or what?”
“He’s a police K-9,” Erin said, showing her shield. “And I’m not here to pose. O’Reilly, Major Crimes. We spoke on the phone a little while ago.”
He looked startled. “Oh. Right, yeah. Mr. Copeland said you might be dropping in. Sorry about the mix-up. I didn’t mean nothing by it. But you got the looks. If we’d caught you when you were eighteen, we could get you some swimsuit work maybe—”
“Thanks,” she said, letting the sarcasm drip off the word. “Where’s Randy Schilling?”
“He just got here. He’s prepping his equipment. Studio Three.” The receptionist jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Erin led Rolf to the indicated door. She tried the door and it opened.
She found herself in a dimly-lit room. On her right were several racks loaded with all sorts of women’s clothing, from undergarments all the way to winter coats. On her left was an open space, the wall and floor smooth and painted a bright, uniform green. Big lights were pointed toward the space, each sporting a backing of reflective silver to amplify their effect. At the moment they weren’t lit.
Rolf sniffed the air and pulled slightly to the right, toward the clothing. Erin angled that direction. As she walked into the room, she heard two voices; one male, one female.
“You’re gonna see, babe,” the male voice said. “I am gonna make you look so hot.”
“I bet you say that to every girl,” the female voice replied, giving a giggle that grated on Erin’s ear.
“Nah, babe, not every girl is Sports Illustrated material. I’m talking swimsuit edition. Legs like yours… man oh man.”
Erin stepped around a rack of Japanese kimonos and saw the two speakers. The guy had the girl up against the wall and was touching her face with one hand. His other was sliding up one of the legs he’d been talking about. The girl was wearing a white bikini. Their faces were only a couple of inches apart.
Erin cleared her throat. “Randy Schilling?” she prompted.
The guy jumped and the girl gave a little cry of surprise. He spun around and Erin saw a face that was good-looking in a rough sort of way, a face that looked right with the layer of stubble and slightly disheveled hair framing it. He was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt under a leather jacket. A camera was slung over his shoulder.
“What the hell?” he said by way of greeting. Erin reflected that interrupting a horny guy making time with a girl was guaranteed to piss him off.
“NYPD,” she said, flashing her shield.
The girl giggled again. “Oh Randy, we are so busted.”
“What the hell do you want?” Schilling demanded. “I’m kinda busy here.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Erin said. “And I hate to interrupt. But we need to talk about your girlfriend.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Sarah Devers,” she said. “Unless you’ve forgotten about her already.”
“What the hell does she have to do with anything?”
Erin wondered whether he started all his sentences the same way. “When’s the last time you saw Sarah?”
“What the hell business is that of yours?” he retorted, answering her internal question in the affirmative.
“I’m a detective with Major Crimes,” she said. “That makes Miss Devers my business.”
“So busted,” the girl in the bikini repeated.
“Whatever the hell you got on her, it’s got nothing to do with me,” Schilling said. “Shove off.”
“Sir,” Erin said firmly, “I’m going to need you to tell me where you were last night between eleven and two.”
“Bite me, bitch. Get outta here.”
“Good choice of words, Mr. Schilling,” Erin said with a smile. “I’d like you to meet my partner. This is Rolf. He’s a trained K-9. He’ll be happy to bite you. And he won’t let go until I tell him to, no matter what you do to him. Now, we can do this with or without teeth. Your choice.”
Schilling hadn’t noticed the dark-pattern German Shep-herd, who’d been partially hidden by the clothes rack. Now he did.
“You can’t do that,” he said.
“I don’t want to,” Erin corrected. “Rolf, on the other hand? He wants to. Now, where were you? Last night, after you left supper?”
“I went to a bar. A couple bars. Had a few drinks.”
“How many?”
“I dunno. Didn’t keep track.”
“Did you take anything else? Speed? A little coke, maybe?”
Schilling glared at her and said nothing. The swimsuit model giggled and rubbed her nose.
“Did anyone see you at these bars?”