by M. Z. Kelly
Natalie must have seen my confusion and whispered, “She’s got a sock in the box.” She apparently still wasn’t sure that I got it. “Prissy’s a tranny.”
“I’m so…pleased to…meet you,” Priscilla said in a high pitched staccato voice that made it sound like he had the hiccups from inhaling helium.
The owner of Voodoo Mama wore a black leather skirt and a form-fitting, see-through mesh blouse that didn’t really reveal anything because I wasn’t sure if there was anything to reveal. A spiked collar, skull necklace, and orange hair complemented the ensemble.
We made small talk for a minute after Natalie and I took a seat at the table where Prissy, as he wanted to be called, dressed the dummies for a new window display.
Prissy finished up with the mannequins and said, “I’m so happy that Natalie and Mo have come to work here. It reminds me of my dress-up parties when I was a boy.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Natalie said to me, “Prissy knows why we’re working here. She’s game to help out any way that she can.”
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if I may,” I said to Prissy. “But, please keep in mind that everything we discuss here is strictly confidential.”
“I’m the mouse in the house,” he said, giggling. “My dad was a vice cop in Baltimore when I grew up. I’ve always had a place in my heart for law enforcement.”
“We’re investigating a case involving a woman named Myra,” I said. “We have reason to believe that she may be the leader of a cult.” I gave him the first names of the cult members which was all I knew, and told him about Chloe Bryant.
Prissy’s narrow shoulders shrugged. “I know this is about the Occult Killer. It’s been all over TV. The names don’t ring a bell, but I’ll give it some thought and certainly keep my eyes open. We get all kinds in here.”
I had no doubt about that. I brought out the most recent artist’s rendering of Myra, based upon a description Harley Porter had given us. The police artist had told us the sketch was a best guess because Porter wasn’t able to provide much detail on the facial features due to Myra’s heavy make-up.
Prissy studied the drawing before handing it back to me. “It’s hard to say. She doesn’t look familiar but, again, there are so many of these types that I see. I’ll think about it.”
I then showed him the artist rendering of the leather masks worn at the Trevon Jackson murder scene.
“Wow, these are way cool.” He stood and motioned us into a back room. “Let me show you our Dom and Diva line.”
We trailed behind him until Natalie and I were standing in a small storage room full of dominatrix supplies. Natalie went over and pulled out some kind of harness with leather straps that had a ball attached.
“Not sure where the ball goes,” Natalie said, holding it against her tutu. “In fact, I’m not sure where the harness attaches.”
Prissy giggled. “Silly girl, you really need to spice it up in the bedroom.”
That was the last thing Natalie needed. Prissy pulled the harness over his head but didn’t fasten it. The red ball dangled in front of his face.
“When the game gets serious,” Prissy said, “the ball goes in the mouth.”
“Oh.” Natalie turned to me and shrugged. “Guess I was thinking ‘bout trying to saddle the horse from the wrong end.”
Prissy removed the device and went on to show us ankle restraints, a leather penis sheath, whips, riding crops, paddles, and a leather hood. “The hood is one of our most popular items, but it’s different than the one in your drawing.”
I examined it and saw that it had red stitching, but the cutouts for the eyes and mouth were different from the artist’s rendering of the one Myra had used.
“Very intimidating,” I said, handing it back to him. “But you’re right. It’s no match.”
“There are lots of suppliers for these kinds of masks. I’ll look through some catalogues, see if I can come up with anything that’s a match.”
We returned to the general supply room where we spent the next twenty minutes chatting about Voodoo Mama. I learned that Prissy hoped to someday open a nationwide chain of the stores, creating something he called a, freak-franchise for goth entrepreneurs.
After we said our goodbyes, we walked to my car chatting about the establishment. Natalie’s enthusiasm for her new job was still evident.
“Had me a load of fun muck’n ‘round in the smock ‘n mask store,” Natalie said. “I think I might go mad for this gothic business. Maybe it’s time to give up being a muggle.”
“Yeah,” Mo agreed. “Nat’s thinking of going over to the dark side.”
“I’m sure Clyde would love that,” I said, unlocking the car.
Natalie opened the door. “He just needs a pair of razor cut pants and a leather vest. He’ll fit right in. Might even get him one of them cock socks.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that, but then realized by the look on Natalie’s face that she might be serious. Just the thought of old Clyde with a…never mind.
“Did you guys make it to Karma’s today?” I asked, changing the subject as we pulled away from the curb. “I’m just wondering if you’ve gotten to know any of the staff working there, besides Earl.”
“All I know is Earl’s a squirrel who’s a little too happy with his nuts,” Mo said. “The guy’s using his position to get to know all the celebs and groupies. He’s also dabbling in more than the body juice, if you know what I mean.”
“He’s dealing drugs?”
Mo shook her head. “Supplies ‘em for free, just so that he can get access to parties and clubs. He’s a player, looking to score with the ladies.”
“Maybe the tootsie roll still has some chocolate in it,” Natalie suggested.
“What about Vee and the other staff?” I asked Natalie as I turned onto the street where they lived. “Any thoughts on anyone who might be suspicious, maybe a danger to Karma?”
“Vee spends all her time fuss’n over Karma. Had me a couple a chats with Karma’s driver, Bobby Collins. Nice enough chap. He told me basically what Mo said about Earl, that he’s up to no good. I’m still checking out some of the wait staff, butlers, and the like.” As I pulled to the curb Natalie added, “I know you’re not keen on it, but Robin’s checking out some of the hair staff. Karma’s got more wigs than a British courtroom.”
“Do me a favor and keep an eye on him,” I said, feeling the tension in my neck as I rolled my shoulders. “He tends to wade in a little deeper than he should sometimes.”
Natalie must have seen my stress. “Mo and me got the day off tomorrow. We’re going to Karma’s day spa, Buddha’s Bodyworks. Since we work for Karma, it’s free and we can bring a friend. Why don’t you join us if you’ve got a free hour in the afternoon? Let ‘em work out the kinks.”
“Yeah,” Mo chimed in. “I’m thinking ‘bout letting Mr. Frederick work his magic on my locks.”
“Mr. Frederick?” I asked, stopping in front of their apartment and thinking about my tangled frizzies. “He does hair?”
Natalie glanced back at Mo and giggled. “We’ve heard he’s a real artist.” She turned back to me. “What do you say? It’ll do you wonders.”
“I’ll see if I can make it,” I said. Then I saw Mo laughing in my rearview mirror. “What?”
“It’s nuthin. I just got a feeling Jack’s gonna be real happy with Mr. Frederick’s work.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Tomorrow, we kill the cop,” Myra says after contacting her beloved, and putting her own piece of the game in place. “Azazel is raising the stakes.”
Rose smiles, kisses her sister on the lips. When they part, she says, “This should be fun.”
As their lips come together again, Myra thinks about staying. Spending the night and making love to Rose without Azazel and the Predators watching, sounds exciting. As much as she wants to be with the beautiful young woman, she resigns herself to taking care of other pressing duties.
A
s she prepares to leave, Myra says, “Be sure the dog isn’t around when you do the crawly. No mistakes.”
Rose nods. “I’ll be careful.”
Forty-five minutes later, Myra stops at a gas station near a residential area in the city of Glendale. She uses the restroom where she takes a few minutes to transform herself.
After slipping out of her leather clothing, Myra puts on a blue cotton dress and pair of brown flats. She pins her hair back, dons on a wig, and then removes the jewelry from her piercings and makes sure that her tattoos are covered.
Myra’s final transformation involves latex facial prosthetics, a pair of blue contact lenses, and using a dental appliance to conceal the teeth she has filed into fangs. After years of practice, using skills she learned from a former studio makeup artist, Myra is an expert at dramatically altering her appearance. She studies herself in the mirror, satisfied with the image of the prim little housewife that stares back at her.
By the time she’s driven through the neighborhood and pulled into the driveway of the modest home, Myra has gone away. She is hidden in the shadows of her transformed features and altered personality. The change is so complete that, as she opens the front door, the killer momentarily forgets about the dark world of Azazel, her sisters, and the Predators.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Myra says, putting her purse on the counter and kissing her husband.
“Not a problem,” he says, lingering in her arms. After a longer, more passionate kiss, he adds, “I just fed Emily and got her ready for bed, if you want to tuck her in.”
Myra pulls away, then comes back to him. “How about a glass of wine when I’m finished?”
“You got it. I also picked up some takeout.”
Myra walks down the hallway and opens the door to her daughter’s room. It’s pink and white and has a hand-painted mural of a mermaid in the corner.
“Mommy,” the four-year-old says, extending her arms.
“I missed you today,” Myra says, smothering her daughter with kisses. “How was grandma?”
“We had fun. I baked cookies.”
Myra turns her head slightly, smiling at Emily. “Did you eat your dinner?”
“I ate it all.” The little girl pauses, returning her mother’s smile. “Well most of it. I didn’t eat all the broccoli.”
Myra snuggles her daughter in her arms. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Would you like to read a story?”
“I get to pick,” Emily says, shuffling through a stack of books with nursery rhymes and stories in the corner of the room. “Let’s read about Elmo,” she says, bringing over a book.
Myra spends the next ten minutes reading to her daughter about the Sesame Street character before the child begins to drift off to sleep. She kisses Emily, pulling the covers up around her, then joins her husband on the sofa in the modest family room.
They exchange kisses as Myra accepts the glass of wine. Her husband fixes her a plate of almond chicken, hands it to her.
“Busy day?” Myra asks, setting her glass down and tasting the chicken.
“Not really” he says. “Lots of waiting around, as usual. And, you?”
She shakes her head. “Just spent the day trying to calm a few nerves. The murders have been all over the newspapers and television.” She smiles at her husband. “I hope they catch whoever’s involved soon. I think it’s getting to everyone.”
“Me too. All this talk of death and dying gets a little depressing.”
After chatting about their day for half an hour, Myra and her husband begin to exchange kisses again, this time more passionately. Lights are dimmed and doors are locked. The couple moves into the bedroom, slips off their clothes, and falls onto the bed.
“Let’s make this special tonight,” Myra says, finding her way into his arms.
Her husband chuckles. “What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s pretend I’ve done something really bad and you have to punish me.”
“That’s going to take a lot of imagination,” he says. “You’re usually a very good girl. But I’ll see what I can do.”
Myra spends the next several minutes being scolded and punished as the man she is married to, the man she despises, berates her for all manner of fabricated failings. After a few gentle slaps, Myra brings out a pair of bondage bracelets, leather ties, and a strap.
“Where did you get these?” her husband asks.
Myra giggles. “I have my sources.” She holds her hands up. “I’m all yours.”
Her husband ties her wrists to the headboard. Then, as she demands, he spreads her legs, tying her feet to the bedposts with leather straps.
“I’m ready for my punishment, now,” Myra says, when he’s finished.
The leather strap she’s brought him—a beaded metal flogger, is designed to cut into the flesh with each stroke. After her husband brings the whip down a couple of times on her breasts and legs, Myra sees the blood oozing from her flesh. A delicious, icy feeling washes over her.
“I can’t do this,” her husband says after a moment. “I’m hurting you.”
Myra feels something sour rising in her throat as she hears his words. Her husband is a weak little bastard who couldn’t harm a flea.
When the games are over, the man she is married to finally enters her. As always, his lovemaking is hurried and selfish. Myra’s thoughts drift away. Her mind is floating somewhere above the room until it fixes on an imaginary scene.
A decision is made. When the time comes, there will be a tribute to Azazel. The man she loves will receive a human sacrifice—her husband.
Chapter Thirty
“You look beat down,” Charlie said to me before cramming a donut into his mouth.
“Just a little cramp in my neck and shoulders,” I lied. I took Bernie over to a corner of the HSS conference room where I had him settle.
As a trade-off for Robin doing my hair, I’d agreed to give him a break and spent the night at Mom’s house. Miss Daisy ended up roaming around all night, fading in and out of trances, and warning me about the gathering dark forces.
I then had the unsettling experience of going to my apartment to get ready for work this morning and thinking someone had been inside. There was nothing I could put my finger on, but, either I was imagining things, or a couple of my personal belongings were not where I thought I’d left them.
The outfit I’d decided on was all wrong, too. I had on a pair of plaid flannel pants and a dark blue blazer. On my way into the meeting, I’d stopped by the restroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I was horrified.
My pants looked like pajama bottoms. What the hell was I thinking when I got dressed? My hair was also frizzing out again. I’d considered running out of the building and calling in sick, but there was no way I was going to miss this taskforce meeting, not with Skully already breathing down my neck.
I took a seat between Charlie and Pearl as the room filled with detectives and several FBI agents. Pearl pointed out Special Agent Byron Ellington, the head of the fed’s side of things. I’d been told he was a no-nonsense go-getter, but he looked to me like a chunky Denzel Washington.
Stan Baker sat across from me and must have overheard my conversation with Charlie; seen my distress.
The smart ass little detective motioned to me and said to his partner, “Maybe the case is putting a cramp in her style.”
“There are some days of the month that’ll do that,” Kennedy agreed.
I leaned over, levelled my eyes on them. “It sounds like you two are experts on menstrual periods. I read a case study recently that said guys like you had cloying mothers who molested them.”
Baker tried to come up with a rebuttal, but couldn’t pull it off before Skully called the meeting to order.
We spent the next fifteen minutes with introductions. I learned that, in addition to Ellington, the federal side of the taskforce consisted of two profilers, Special Agents Hank Sullivan and Janice Taylor. There was also an expert on t
he psychology of cults and mind control, Fred Lundy, on loan from NYPD.
The cult expert tried to lighten up the proceedings by telling us that, while his name rhymed with Ted Bundy, he hadn’t committed a serial murder in several weeks. We were also told that the feds had an agent working on the Internet side of things who would join the meeting in progress.
“We will be adding additional staff and resources in the next day or two,” Ellington said, in his best FBI baritone. “We expect a sizable addition to the agents already assigned as we ramp up our efforts.”
“I’ve brought the FBI up to date on where we stand,” Skully chimed in, “but I have a list of several items I’d like to get an update on from our SID unit and detectives working the case.”
Bob Woodley and his supervisor, Stan Walters, entered the room and took seats across from Skully. I wasn’t surprised that Chandra Martin hadn’t joined them.
After introducing the SID staff, Skully said, “Can you go over the physical evidence and other issues that we’ve been waiting on?”
Woodley cleared his throat and started to say something, but Walters, a classic administrator in a cheap suit who I knew from past encounters took himself way too seriously, took over.
“Let’s start with the blood and fingerprint evidence,” Walters said, shuffling through some papers and adjusting his glasses. “We found several footprints at both the Trevon Jackson and Marilyn Bryant crime scenes. Some of those footprints were a match to prints from the shoes taken from the woman who was shot and killed off the Santa Monica Pier yesterday. She’s been identified as, Henna Marie Patterson, age twenty-six.”
Woodley handed out mug shots and the arrest record of the deceased woman. Walters went on, “As you can see, Patterson had a record of convictions for petty theft, public intoxication, and some minor drug charges, but nothing too serious. She was born and raised in Temecula, before dropping out of school in her senior year and leaving home about six years ago. Her mother describes her as a lost soul, basically a street person. She denied any knowledge of her daughter associating with the woman we know as Myra or any cult members.”