Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee

by Edward Lee

  "But you say you never saw Debbie-" He held up the picture once more. "-you never saw her doing any of this freaky stuff?"

  "No."

  Clements had a good feel for this sort of girl. Crack addicts were consummate liars; they could beat polygraphs sometimes because their devotion to the addiction overrode physiological responses. But this one's not lying. There's no reason why she should. There's no one to protect.

  A welcome breeze blew through the car's open windows. Clements looked up when he heard some hollow thunks in the distance.

  "Looks like those guys are finally leaving," the girl said. She was rubbing her knees again already.

  One last glance in the binoculars. The fumigation van was pulling around the estate's great circular entrance drive. Clements watched them disappear as the road was swallowed by the woods.

  "What now?" the girl asked.

  I want to go in there, the thought popped up instantly. He had his lock-picks with him, and his gear. But-

  Don't be stupid.

  "You must really want this Debbie girl bad. What is she, your daughter?"

  "No. Her parents hired me to keep tabs on her. Then I started snooping around, and the parents wound up murdered."

  "That sucks. So you're a PI?"

  The house loomed in its curtain of floodlights. "I used to be," he said.

  "So where's Debbie? Is she dead, too? Did that Hildreth kook kill her like all the others?"

  "Nope. All the bodies were accounted for, and she wasn't one of them."

  "Then where is she?"

  Clements started the car up. "I can't explain why I feel this way, but I just feel it in my bones, I can feel it all the way at the back of my heart, that she's still in that house."

  Chapter Two

  I

  Westmore felt less than confident when he hopped off the #35 trolley at the Baywalk shopping complex. In the front of the window of some ritzy designer purse boutique, he could see himself. Jew Christ, I look like a tourist ... White slacks, loafers, and loose blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt with pineapples on it. He'd have worn his suit, but ... he didn't have one anymore. It was part of his paring down process when he'd quit the St. Petersburg Times to go freelance. Move into a really small, really cheap efficiency, sell the car (not that he could drive legally anymore anyway), and give all the clothes he didn't absolutely need, plus any other clutter to Goodwill. The white slacks and pineapple shirt were all he had clean at the last moment.

  And ten grand in an Express Mail package is one hell of a serious job inquiry.

  He'd done a quick Nexus-Lexus search on Vivica Hildreth and found nothing of consequence. Plenty on her husband though, the recently deceased Reginald Parker Hildreth-mostly links to adult DVD distributors, but the wife was the goose-egg, which would've made him suspect were it not for ...

  Ten fucking GRAND in an Express Mail package, he reminded himself. Cash, too, not even a bank check. A very loud hello.

  Tampa Bay past the Pier shined like lime-green ice in the blaze of sun. The sunshine and the fresh, salty sea-scent off the water reminded him why he'd moved to Florida. Several stunningly attractive women in provocative bikini tops and sheer sarongs provided another reminder. Westmore hadn't cut his hair since he'd left the paper; now it was a shoulder-length dark mane, and when he stepped across 2nd Avenue, a breeze stirred round his head and blew it all back in his face in a tangle. When he reached for his comb, he frowned, realizing he'd forgotten it. Yeah, I'm gonna make a great impression, all right.

  Before him, downtown St. Petersburg stood clean and uncrowded. It was a small and diverse metropolis but with a big city feel somehow. The restaurant block reminded him of slices of other cities all amalgamated into one: a little bit of Bourbon Street dropped into Rodeo Drive peppered with specks of Baltimore's Inner Harbor. Westmore liked it-classy but unpretentious eateries, sophisticated but genuine people, and upscale bars. But when he walked past one of those same bars, his heart twinged. Yes, Westmore liked this area but he didn't come here anymore. He couldn't trust himself.

  The glowing neon light in the front window of the mar tini bar could've spelled his name. That sadness, that loss of part of himself-however bad-never went away.

  He crossed the next block, exiting the sun into a wall of cool shadow thrown by downtown's tallest buildings. Next thing he knew he was standing in front of his favorite oyster bar, watching the skilled shucker effortlessly peel the tops off bivalves larger than his hand. Westmore ate here a lot when he was on the paper. He also did something else here a lot, and he remembered that with a jaded fondness now as he stared through the window and saw rows and rows of top-shelf liquor.

  He turned away.

  The street's shadow covered him. He'd seen the Strauss Building countless times in the past: sleek, narrow, forty stories high. It looked like a massive rectangle of perfectly smooth, perfectly black volcanic glass-for the darkly tinted windows that formed its skin. He'd seen it a lot, yes, but never knew that it was a residential condo tower; he'd always thought it was an office building. Maybe Vivica Hildreth has an office, it occurred to him, or maybe she was using her late-husband's business office for the interview But then he remembered the rest of her letter, inviting him to her "home."

  This is some home, he thought when he entered the posh lobby. A security guard signed him in, even scrutinizing him with a metal-detection wand. Rich people were often paranoid. As he approached the elevator, he spied the parking garage through a door's chicken-wire window, noticing a Rolls, several Porsches, a Ferrari, and a multitude of Mercedes. Just as the elevator opened, a woman stepped out and said, "Mr. Westmore, I'm sorry I'm late."

  He was taken by surprise. The short, well-built woman with the reserved smile couldn't have appeared more prim in a black-leather half-shirt over a sheer gray turtleneck, black skirt, high heels-a high-class sort of sexy office-manager look. Razor-straight bangs and flawlessly straight strawberryblonde hair to her neckline. She looked forty but was probably only thirty---the Florida sun did that to women, roughened the skin just a little, but an exemplary tan forgave it all and somehow enhanced the harsh attraction.

  He'd seen a picture of Vivica Hildreth. As he shook her hand, he said, "You're not-"

  "No, I'm not Mrs. Hildreth. My name's Karen Lovell. I'm ... currently engaged as Mrs. Hildreth's personal secretary.

  "Pleased to meet you." The way she'd phrased the statement seemed peculiar, as though she'd been something else until recently. Until Hildreth's death? he wondered.

  "And now if you'll come with me," she went on, "Mrs. Hildreth is anxious to meet you."

  He stepped into the elevator with her, watched the door close without a sound. "I've got to be honest with you," he tried to start some conversation, "I'm an investigative reporter, and I've been in the area for quite a while. But I've never heard of the Hildreth Mansion."

  She looked at him with the same repressed smile, burningblue eyes intensely magnified behind the petite glasses. She didn't say anything in response.

  Yeah. "Where exactly is it?"

  "I'd prefer not to talk about the house at this time, Mr. Westmore. Mrs. Hildreth will be happy to tell you everything you need to know"

  "But I presume she's hiring me to disclose some things that she doesn't know"

  No response as the lift ascended. Baroque muzak played almost inaudibly from unseen speakers.

  Do I need afuckin' crowbar to open your mouth so you'll talk? "At least that's usually how it works. When somebody hires me to write something for them, it's also to find things out."

  "You haven't been hired yet-"

  I like a unman with a positive personality, came the irresistible sarcasm. Westmore shrugged it off; the cold shell was often his turf because nobody ever really trusted a reporter. She was probably afraid he'd dig up a lot of bad info on the husband, or maybe even Vivica. An over-protective employee.

  She turned an unmarked keyhole on the button panel as the elevator continued to go
up. Some scent off her hair smelled intoxicating. "But don't get me wrong, I hope you do get the job," she eventually offered. "Mrs. Hildreth is a very complex woman obsessed with detail. It would do her a world of good to find out exactly what happened out there. It's unpleasant information, Mr. Westmore, but it would at least give her some peace."

  Now we're getting somewhere. The statement alone told him a lot. "I'll do my best. I'd like to think I always do."

  Westmore was looking up at the lit floor indicator. The top floor was 39. 38 lit and went out, then 39 lit and went out. The lift continued to rise one more floor-to what he presumed was the penthouse-then it stopped and the doors slipped open.

  "I'll leave you now, Mr. Westmore. I hope you have a good interview."

  Westmore shook her hand. "You're not coming in?"

  "No. The security guard and the housekeeper are gone, too. Mrs. Hildreth prefers to speak with you in total confidence. You never know who might overhear something and run their mouth."

  Hmm. This was getting more interesting by the minute, and he hadn't even met the woman yet.

  "I'll be waiting for you across the street at the oyster bar. Come over there when you're done, and I'll drive you home."

  "Great, I don't have to take the trolley back. It was nice meeting you," he said, but the scent off her hair was driving him nuts. Honey, you are one cold stick in the mud ... but your hair smells so good I just wanna lean back and do a rebel yell!

  "See you shortly, Mr. Westmore," she said as the doors were closing.

  Wow, there's a live one. Now he faced another door that appeared to be a composite imitation of black marble. A gold plaque read V. HILDRETH, and above it hung the strangest gold knocker: an oval plate depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. The eyes seemed to appraise him. When he raised his hand to knock, though, the door clicked and swung slowly open on its own.

  He stepped into the foyer and found no one there. Must be some kind of electric lock or something ...

  The look of the foyer stunned him. Were the walls made of black Plexiglas? Shiny black and white tiles composed the floor, and the ceiling was a mirror. Wire stands housed funky silver vases full of artificial flowers that were disproportionately large and black. Total Art Deco, Westmore thought. A far cry from her husband.

  "In here, please, Mr. Westmore."

  The demure voice drifted out to him. An awesome sitting room opened out from the foyer, but there was no one sitting in any of the Warholish wire couches or chairs. Rich blue-violet wallpaper shot up to a rounded ceiling. On one wall hung an abstract-expressionist painting he remembered from college art-history class: a smeared face in pastel streaks, a face that looked hopeful and crushed and hideous at the same time. It was called A Study of Woman Number One by Willem deKooning, and it didn't look like a print. If that's original, he realized, that's ten million fucking dollar hanging on the wall.

  Through a curiously narrow doorway, he saw sunlight.

  "In here. I promise I won't bite."

  Westmore stepped into an enclosed balcony that was ablaze with blurred sunlight; he almost had to shield his eyes. This is one strange place, he thought. It was not open-air at all; instead it was completely enclosed by transparent security bricks.

  "You're in the penthouse but you don't want the view of the bay?" he asked without thinking.

  The woman looking up at him was intensely pretty in a seasoned, mature way. Late forties but well, well-kept. Vivica Hildreth sat in one of the familiar silver-wire chairs that appeared to hover in mid-air. Westmore expected someone matronly but this was the opposite. Casual attire for the rich, I guess. She sat with her legs crossed, wearing black cashmere shorts and an intricate dark-Paisley shawl around a black t-shirt with white block letters that read ROTHKO. The t-shirt was knotted to expose a flat and very tan abdomen. Black flipflops with-Good Lord!-diamonds studding the straps. Finger- and toenails shined with a polish flecked with gold leaf. Man alive, Westmore thought.

  "I love the sun, Mr. Westmore," she said of the clear security blocks, "but I don't like to be seen."

  "Will people see you on the fortieth floor?"

  "Those awful beach planes! With the ad banners? God!"

  It was an amusing comment, but ... Is she serious? "Then how did you get the tan? A salon?"

  "I have a tanning bed here." She looked at her legs, then her arms. "It works well. And at any rate, I hope you like my home. Most people find it refreshing."

  It's a futkin' eyesore. "It's diverse and unique," he said instead. Her elegant hand bid him to sit. The wire rocked when he put his butt down on a clear plastic pillow case full of brightly dyed goose feathers. "And thanks for inviting me here ... and the money, too."

  "So you need money," she said rather than asked. "I guess everybody does." Her voice was a cold yet gentle lilt. Softblonde hair hung straight to her collarbone. She sat gracefully, her face calm yet her myrtle-green eyes intense. It all gave her an exotic cast, not an aged one; she was highbosomed, striking in her funkiness. Westmore thought of a Lauren Hutton or a Jacqueline Bissett dressed for a Goth club.

  "I'm not poor but----"

  "But you don't have a deKooning on your wall," she finished, smiling.

  He chuckled. "No, ma'am, I definitely don't."

  "I saw you looking at it-" An elegant finger pointed upward, to the mirrored ceiling in the sitting room. "-in the reflection. If you're an art enthusiast, feel free to look in the den before you leave. It's stuffed with wonderful art."

  "I'll do that," he almost stammered. This was off to an odd start. "But your decor surprises me. The little I've read on your late husband tells me he was quite a fan of Gothic Revival architecture and design. Yet this is as opposite as you can get from that."

  "So you've seen the Hildreth Mansion?"

  "No, I haven't. I'd never heard of it until I got your letter. But I do remember reading about something very brief in the paper about it, when ... when the tragedy happened several weeks ago. Murders in Prospect Hill. As I recall the article didn't refer to the mansion by name."

  "No, I paid them not too."

  Her directness stilled him. Even in this day and age, the rich had their back-channels to keep details of familial crimes out of the limelight.

  When she turned, her chair squeaked. She pointed behind him. But in the process, her pose elucidated more of her physique, the twist of her waist which pulled the t-shirt tighter to her bosom. Westmore-in the brief glance-was taken by her. The crossed legs, her shorts straining at the crotch, the breasts obviously bereft of a bra standing out in a dizzying vision. The $20,000 flipflop hanging off the tanned, perfectly manicured foot. Westmore felt a ludicrous arousal. Even the thread-thin lines of her inclined waist were attractive. Some women wore middle age well; this one wore it like a mink coat. IT bet she paid more for plastic surgery than she did the deKooning. But she was pointing behind him, so he had to take his eyes away. "I'd offer you a drink but my people tell me you're a teetotaler."

  There goes one grenade. He never lied about it. "I'm an alcoholic, Mrs. Hildreth. I always will be. But I haven't had a drink in three years." She'd been pointing to a bar stand, a glass counter on a silver wire stand. Black shot glasses stood in a row before bizarre, twisted bottles. "I love those shot glasses, though."

  She got up, walked as demurely as one could in ffipflops, and picked up one of the glasses. Westmore kept stealing glances at her physique, the meticulous lines of her shoul ders and back, the swell of her breasts. All that tight, tan skin-shining. The butterflies in his belly were sinking to his groin, then he snapped, What the hell is wrong with me! I'm lusting after a woman fifteen years older than me who's also a fivelame prospect! See if you can get more unprofessional!

  She smiled thinly, and placed one of the shot glasses in Westmore's hand. "It's onyx. And I'm glad you quit drinking, I did too. It's best to redirect destructive pursuits for pleasure ... to natural ones."

  Wow, was all
he could think. Yeah, you're right. I haven't been laid in a year ... He watched the backs of her calves, that feminine flex, as she walked back to her seat. "Thank you for the glass. It's beautiful."

  "My husband was the same way. He never drank, never used drugs. Sex was his intoxication."

  Wow, Westmore thought again. He began to say something but she cut him off.

  More overt directness. "I'd like to buy your confidence, Mr. Westmore."

  Baby, it's for sale. "I can guarantee my discretion, ma'am. This is a private job. I'm not a news hound anymore. But I'm still not sure what you'd like me to do. You'd like to hire me to write a book about your husband's mansion? You want me to write his biography?"

  "Nothing like that. But first I want your confidence" She leaned over, bosom swaying, and handed him a fat envelope.

  He could tell it was money just by feeling it. "You've already paid me a generous retainer."

  "Open it."

  Westmore almost toppled out of the chair. More bands of cash.

  "That's twenty-five thousand dollars, in addition to your retainer. You can keep that envelope, too, even if you don't take the job. I need to tell you something right off the bat, that you must agree to not repeat."

  Westmore couldn't take it anymore, so he simply said what was on his mind. "Mrs. Hildreth-look. I want money as much as the next guy but ... This is crazy. You don't know me from Adam. Theoretically I could say yes, take this money, and still talk."

  "Don't be silly! There's a non-disclosure agreement in there too!"

  "Oh." He looked, pulled it out and read it. Pretty cut and dry. But this woman is definitely serious.

  "Sign it, and the money's yours. And if you repeat what I'm about to tell you, you'll be very very sorry."

  He couldn't resist grinning. "Is that a threat?"

  "That is a stone-cold promise, Mr. Westmore. I don't simply have a lawyer. I have a law f rm, and if you break this confidence, they will bury you so deep that you won't see light for a hundred years."

  She wasn't smiling.