The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  I do my best thinking while running and right now I have a lot of thinking to do. There is so much of Kira’s life that has been kept secret from the world.

  After doing a few stretches I set off at a brisk pace, keeping my breathing steady as I wait for the burn to kick in.

  The S&M dungeon doesn’t correspond with my memories of her. Whenever we’d hooked up she’d been neither dominant nor submissive. Just normal.

  There’d been no suggestion of anything kinky, just two friends bumping uglies to fill a void or sate a need.

  The clothes in her spare room are also way out of character. Kira might make a booty call with no underwear, but she wasn’t the kind of girl who flaunted herself around town in micro skirts and low-cut tops. The majority of the clothes in that particular closet were, at best, slutty. At worst, they were the clothes of a cheap hooker.

  The exceptions were some very classy dresses bearing expensive tags. Even so, they were a lot more revealing than the bohemian clothes Kira usually wore.

  Also present were a selection of sex costumes. The lingerie in the drawers followed the same pattern, either expensive and classy or cheap and slutty.

  The obvious conclusion is that Kira was hooking, but she didn’t need the money. I knew first hand she had an active libido, but she was pretty enough to have her desires filled by almost any man she chose.

  She had no need to sell herself unless it was a self-esteem issue.

  I’d have said she was someone’s mistress, had she not been known to live the carefree independent lifestyle she did.

  While the MacDonald blood in my veins eschews the American habit of seeing a therapist, I know one might be able to give us some insight into her life.

  As the burn from my run announces itself, I concentrate my mind on the places where Kira might ply her trade and leave my body to look after itself.

  Casperton is too small a town for someone as well known as Kira to keep hooking a secret. Therefore, she must be entertaining people from out of town.

  The nearest large cities like Salt Lake City and Denver are over two hours away, so whoever her clients were, they must be wealthy and in a position where they could disappear for hours, or a day at a time, without getting awkward questions from their wives or girlfriends.

  Next I worry about how she attracted clients, if that is the right word for them. The obvious answer is via the internet, hence the InPrivate browsing. That, however, is Alfonse’s problem to deal with.

  My best guess is Kira’s clients must either travel to her place or she left town to see them. I consider checking the local hotels before realising the futility of that course of action. Looking for someone whose name I didn’t know, who possibly stayed on dates I’m not sure of, will get me laughed out of every hotel reception in town.

  As I turn onto Constitution Avenue, I slow to a jog when passing Kira’s house. Farrage and one of his buddies are on the lawn holding a small cardboard box.

  Altering course I trot over to them, only for Farrage to manoeuvre himself so he’s blocking my view of the box.

  ‘What you got there?’ Trying not to manhandle or touch him in any way, I strain to look over his shoulder.

  His buddy isn’t quick-witted enough to react in time, giving me a look in the box before he whips it away.

  An iPhone and a platinum Amex are all it contains.

  ‘Keep your nose out, Boulder. This is police business.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? We’ve been hired by Kira’s father.’

  I can see from his reaction he already knows.

  ‘Maybe so. But we’re the police.’

  His posturing gets to me more than it should, making the MacDonald blood seethe in my veins for a split second. ‘A hundred bucks says we identify her killer before you.’

  Uncertainty flickers beneath the buzz cut before the bravado returns. ‘Deal. You’ve got no chance, Boulder. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby.’

  I leave him to it and navigate my way home so I can take a shower and call Alfonse.

  11

  Twenty minutes after calling Alfonse I am showered, changed, and heading west at ninety-five miles an hour.

  Having got past the InPrivate setting he’s discovered Kira was hooking. A quick look through her search history saw him find login details for a site called Fantasy Courtesans. Alfonse found pictures of her on there, along with rates and services offered. Clients made bookings with her through the site.

  He’s also found a secret bank account which funded the Amex and the extra iPhone Farrage had found. A quick look at the statement for the Amex told Alfonse she used it to buy sex toys, some of the clothes in her spare room and the occasional flight to LA.

  Alfonse had tried digging into her client history on the site but hadn’t been able to identify any of her client’s identities. He has though, managed to trace the owner of the site and get me an address for him.

  As the Mustang eats up the miles, I drive on autopilot while creating a mental list of the questions I need answers for.

  Upon reaching the outskirts of Salt Lake City, I thread my way through the afternoon traffic, then take the fifteen north until I’m at Feltingville. The traffic is light so I make good time.

  I want to do this interview and get back to Casperton as soon as possible. Unless I learn something that takes me further afield.

  After pulling over at the side of the road, I fire up my GPS and feed in the required zip code. Before setting off, I check my iPad and see my membership application for Fantasy Courtesans has been accepted.

  Having paid a membership fee, I am now part of the club. I scroll through a few pages and try to book an appointment with Kira, or Candice as she calls herself on the site. I get an automated response saying she will get back to me within forty-eight hours.

  With the MacDonald blood lava-hot in my veins, I swing the Mustang back into the flow of traffic and carry on.

  Feltingville is smaller than Casperton, but being a satellite town for Salt Lake City, it plays home to some of the city’s seedier elements. My destination is a strip club called Bourbon A Go Go.

  Located halfway along a dead end off State Street, Bourbon A Go Go is open just as Alfonse told me it would be.

  I reverse into a parking bay in case I need to make a rapid exit, and walk towards the club. A doorman gives me a bored look I return with interest. All steroidal muscle, he’ll be too slow in the face of a determined opponent unless he manages to get the first blow in.

  As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I buy a beer I have no intention of drinking and take a seat at the edge of the room where I can survey things.

  The pounding music is too modern and too loud for my tastes, its thumping bass makes my beer vibrate on the table.

  I cast my eyes round the room again and find three visible cameras, several hidden ones and a half dozen perverts. If things get exciting, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t happen in here.

  A short girl carrying thirty extra pounds is gyrating on the stage in a poor imitation of eroticism. What little appeal she has is ruined by the disinterest on her face.

  ‘You fancy a private dance, honey?’

  I turn to focus on the girl speaking to me.

  ‘Not right now. I’ve only just got here.’ I give her a smile. ‘Why don’t you let me buy you a beer until I’m ready?’

  She lets her eyes flit round the room, no doubt weighing up the odds of someone else paying her to dance in the time it takes to have a beer with me.

  ‘Sure. That’d be cool.’ She waves to the barman and takes a seat beside me, her cheap perfume catching the back of my throat.

  I hold out a hand. ‘I’m Frank.’ Sometimes it doesn’t pay to use your real name.

  ‘Onyx.’

  Onyx is stick thin with a drawn face. A pair of obvious implants strain against the pink bikini she wears.

  With a practised spiel she works at my defences, trying to entice me into the private dance.

&nbs
p; Ignoring her questions about the existence of a Mrs Frank, I start asking a few of my own.

  Onyx isn’t much help as she has only worked here for six weeks. What I do get from her is she doesn’t think the guy who owns the club is as bad as some of the sleazeballs she’s worked for. Although she admits she thinks he has other businesses as well as the club.

  I slip her enough money to cover the beer and the private dance I am never going to have and ask where I can find Hank Young.

  Her eyes become slits. ‘You a cop?’

  ‘No. A potential business partner.’ I shrug. ‘For one of his other businesses. Not this one.’

  Onyx tosses a fearful glance over her shoulder towards a door marked ‘Private’. ‘He don’t take kindly to unexpected visitors.’

  ‘Then be a honey and go tell him to expect me. You can also tell him it’s about Candice and that I’m a couple of hours ahead of the cops.’

  Onyx stalks off towards the door, heels clacking as she goes; the seductive sashay has vanished from her gait as she tries to guess who and what I am talking about.

  Five minutes later she hasn’t reappeared, although one of the obvious security cameras now points at me. I settle back in my seat, give the camera a wave and pretend to drink my beer.

  Nothing happens for the next few minutes until Mr Steroids comes over to me. ‘Mr Young isn’t here today. I suggest you try coming back in twenty years.’

  I keep my voice even and save the steel for my eyes. ‘He is here and in a moment I’m going to walk through that door marked private. If you try and stop me, you will be responsible for your own injuries.’

  He lays a hand on my shoulder pushing me into the seat.

  Digging a thumbnail into a pressure point on the inside of his wrist, I use my left hand to remove his and stand up. Thoughts of a counterstrike register in his eyes, so I squeeze a fraction harder, causing him to yelp and reconsider.

  I look him in the eye and release my hold on his wrist. ‘You can lead the way, or I can knock you down and walk over the top of you. What’s it gonna be?’

  Mr Steroids ambles towards the door rather than giving me a verbal answer.

  I follow him but make sure there are a few paces between us in case he gets brave or stupid. There is also the possibility he isn’t the only goon on the premises.

  Leading me through the door, he takes me into the non-public areas where there are a storeroom, kitchens, a changing room for the dancers and various other storage areas.

  He doesn’t hesitate before knocking on an unmarked door.

  This is a good sign as far as I am concerned. Hank Young doesn’t scare him more than I do after a simple move like squeezing on a pressure point. That tells me Hank Young isn’t too much of a tough guy and neither is his bouncer.

  ‘Enter.’

  When we enter Hank Young’s office I get a glimpse of more than just the physical person. There are posters of girls dancing in the club on every spare piece of wall space and there is what looks like a hide-a-bed against the back wall. It doesn’t require too much stretching of the imagination to work out how job interviews go in a strip club.

  Hank Young is a stereotype if ever I’ve seen one. Mid-fifties with a bald strip on top of his head, his remaining hair is greased into an oily ponytail. A faded sports coat adorns the back of his chair and his desk is littered with various bits of paper and two huge computer screens.

  I wait until Mr Steroids takes up a position in front of the door before I take a seat. Deciding to try a gentle approach first, I lean back in the seat and try to look as non-threatening as I can. ‘I’m not here to cause you any problems, Mr Young. I’m here for information on one of your employees.’

  ‘So I heard.’ His brow creases. ‘You also said something to Onyx about being a couple of hours ahead of the cops.’

  His accent isn’t local, it’s more New York than Salt Lake. That is telling in itself. Either he is well-enough connected to keep the local gangs off his back or he pays them off.

  ‘Kira Niemeyer, who works as Candice for Fantasy Courtesans, has been murdered. Her body was found yesterday and after looking into her life, I was led to your door.’ Pressing home the advantage of surprise, I paint the blackest picture I can. ‘The cops’ll follow the same trail I have and when they come here they’ll tear your businesses apart. Interview all your staff, all your customers.’

  I see his pudgy face blanch at the idea of the cops focusing on his business and the customers of Fantasy Courtesans. The investigation would ruin him and probably end in a lot of expensive divorces for his clients.

  ‘If you help me solve this case, perhaps we can work together to limit police involvement.’

  The resistance drains from him. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I want the real names and contact details for Kira’s last ten clients and the dates she saw them.’

  He starts to fiddle with his computer, but I’m not finished. ‘I also want references from other girls who’ve seen these ten clients. I want to know about any kinks or attitude problems.’

  He looks up from the keyboard he is pecking at. Fear fills his eyes. ‘That’ll take days to do. The police’ll be here soon won’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, so you’d best get those answers as soon as you can.’

  ‘There’s no way I can get all that information together before the police get here.’

  I throw him a glimmer of hope.

  ‘Perhaps not. But if you’re in the process of getting it, they may go easier on you.’

  My logic gets a nod of approval before he turns back to his computer.

  After five minutes he’s scribbled out a list of names and the dates they’d seen Kira aka Candice.

  The most recent client had seen her ten days ago, the previous to him had been three weeks ago.

  Reading down the list, I see regular gaps of two or more weeks between each client.

  I rap my knuckles on the desk. ‘Are there usually gaps this long between clients?’

  ‘No. The girls who work for Fantasy Courtesans usually only see one client every month or six weeks. Candice is, sorry, was one of our most popular courtesans and she chose to see more clients than anyone else.’

  ‘Do you know if she worked for anyone else?’

  ‘She didn’t as far as I’m aware, but she might have.’ Young adds an email address to each of the names on his list. ‘That’s the only contact details I have for them.’

  I look at the list again. Some of the dates match Kira’s Amex usage. ‘On some of these dates she flew to LA. Did she visit clients at their own place?’

  ‘Certainly not! My girls are not dial-a-hooker bimbos. They are high class courtesans.’

  I make a point of looking around his office with a cynical expression. ‘So what was she doing in LA, when according to you she was with clients?’

  ‘Some of our regular clients organise vacations where the courtesans accompany them to various Caribbean resorts. They meet at LAX before flying to the client’s chosen destination.’

  I can’t help but notice how he refers to his stable of hookers as courtesans, as if using a classier word makes it less immoral and more legal. No amount of verbal window dressing can disguise the fact he is a pimp based in a strip club.

  I don’t expect any more from him, but I push to find out more about the names on the list from his other girls and place a card on his desk as I rise to leave.

  ‘Call me as soon as you learn anything.’

  Young fingers the card I’ve given him. ‘Mr Boulder, while I am sympathetic to your cause and grateful for your coming here rather than just informing the police, I do not like the way you have assaulted my employee. Should you further trouble any members of my staff, you may find you regret it.’

  Mr Steroids turns away from the door and opens it for me, but I am not fool enough to go first and present him with a chance to get some revenge. All the time we’ve been in the office, I’ve been watching him from the corne
r of my eye as he fought the urge to massage his wrist.

  ‘Watch your security tape again and you’ll see he made first contact. I just made a more telling one.’

  While I could use some fancy line about his man’s poor chances, I’ve always thought actions speak louder than words.

  I give Mr Steroids a push into the wall he is walking towards and then stand back with my fists in front of my face.

  He bounces off the wall, turns and gives a roar as he launches himself forward, his ham-sized hands rising to match mine. My judgement about him is correct and I can see he fancies his chances in a straight fist fight.

  Swinging my leg forward I kick him under the knee, my boot lifting the kneecap enough to tear cartilage and sinew. He gives another roar, only this one is filled with pain instead of rage.

  He hops on one leg with his injured knee held between both hands. His eyes stay on me as he awaits the next blow.

  I put him out of his misery by thumping the heel of my hand against his exposed chin. The blow drops him into an unconscious heap.

  Young hasn’t moved from his chair.

  ‘I’ve joined your sordid little website and you’ve got my joining fee.’ I point at the unconscious Mr Steroids. ‘Consider that me getting a bang for my buck. Like I said earlier, I’m not here to cause you any problems. But if I wanted to, I could cause you a lot of big ones. Understand?’

  I don’t wait for his answer.

  Once I’m back in my car, I send the names and email addresses to Alfonse so he can start tracking them down.

  12

  The Watcher turns from the side road and falls in behind the car, intent on following his next target, prepared to follow him until an opportunity presents itself.

  This is what he does when stalking his prey. Observe routines, plan and wait his chance.

  He’s four cars behind Paul Johnson as he turns north towards Panchtraik Reservoir. He knows the man works on the reservoir as a technician, managing the flow of water over the turbine blades.

  Darkness is falling as he leaves town. Once he’s on the open road, the other three cars accelerate past the slow-driving Johnson leaving the two of them behind. He eases off the gas until he’s a half mile or so back.