Play Dead

by Anne Frasier

  Jiggle, jiggle.

  "You've probably built up a resistance to the Valium. I'd tell you to double your dosage if I could be sure you haven't been drinking," she said.

  He tasted blood and realized he'd gnawed through the skin on his knuckle. He sprang up off the floor and grabbed the bottle of tranquilizers from the counter.

  Had he taken one? Or two?

  He squinted at the pills as if they might be able to tell him something. And how long ago? Minutes? Hours? Couldn't remember.

  "David, if things get worse, go to the hospital. Do you hear me? Or call your partner. I have an idea. Why don't I call her for you? Would you like me to do that?"

  "No!" Jesus! "I have a reputation to maintain."

  His laptop was in sleep mode next to the beer bottles. He touched a key and it came to life. He opened the drop-down menu and scrolled to a bookmarked Savannah Web site, spotting something he hadn't noticed before.

  Savannah Legal Escort Service.

  Hmm.

  The picture got fuzzy.

  His head suddenly felt heavy as hell.

  He let the cursor hover over a small photo of a dark-haired woman, clicked to enlarge it.

  The antidepressants had made him almost asexual. He'd hardly thought about sex in almost two years. Now he was feeling horny. Maybe sex would make him sleep. Used to work. Years ago.

  Bracing the receiver between his shoulder and ear, he typed his address into the form on the computer screen and ordered a girl.

  Just like that. With a few keystrokes.

  "Isn't the Internet amazing?" he asked around a thickening tongue, fighting the impulse to drop to the floor, thinking he'd better wait until he was off the phone.

  "Oh, yes," Dr. Fisher agreed. "I never dreamed we'd be able to do the things we can do with it."

  David stared at the blurry face on the screen. "Me either."

  *

  Flora Martinez drove through the deserted Savannah streets, the directions she'd printed from the Internet on the seat beside her. The wipers beat quickly, but with each sweep heavy dew reappeared.

  Normally she didn't take cold calls. It was dangerous, and you never knew what kind of freak or freaks you might run into. But business had been slow, and she had a lot of bills to pay, so she'd had her photo put up on the escort service's Web site.

  Escort service.

  They'd been taught to always call it that, no matter what. A couple of girls had actually come across some naive gentlemen who'd thought it was an escort service.

  Rent a date.

  They'd just wanted to rent an attractive girl to decorate an arm at the company party. Sad and funny. A lot of things were sad and funny.

  She located the address.

  Mary of the Angels.

  Shit.

  She pulled to the curb, dug her cell phone from her purse, and called Enrique. "You know the job I just got? You won't believe where it is." She craned her neck to look up at the four-story stone building. "Mary of the Angels."

  Enrique inhaled loudly. "No way."

  "I'm looking at it right now."

  "Don't go in. Only a crazy person would live there."

  Anybody who'd been in Savannah long enough had heard of the place. There was supposed to be a tunnel that ran from the old Candler Hospital to a nearby cemetery. Years ago, the tunnels had been used to transport yellow fever victims straight from their bed to the ground so people wouldn't freak out over the high number of deaths.

  The bodies were supposedly piled in the tunnels until they could be buried under cover of darkness. She'd heard that sometimes the piles had moved, either from rats rummaging through the carcasses, or because someone had been pronounced dead a little prematurely.

  The building was haunted. That's what people said.

  Flora believed it, because she believed in ghosts and if any place was haunted, it would be Mary of the Angels.

  "Maybe he's new in town," she said into her cell phone. "Maybe nobody told him about it."

  "Don't go, Flora," Enrique begged. "Come home."

  She smiled. It was sweet of Enrique to worry about her.

  "I'm going to check it out. If anything seems weird, I'll leave."

  "Keep your phone handy."

  She told him good-bye, and tucked the phone back in her purse, leaving it open for easy access.

  David was the customer's name. She'd written it in her schedule book under the date.

  She found his apartment number taped to the intercom system. Nearby, the heavy scent of tangled wisteria begged her to stay outside.

  She pushed the button and the door buzzed. She entered and took the stairs to the correct floor.

  She didn't have to knock. He was waiting for her, door ajar.

  Dressed in faded jeans. Barefoot. Shirt unbuttoned, tails untucked. His hair was sticking up in every direction, as if he'd been raking his hands through it again and again.

  "Don't let the cat out," he said thickly, stepping back as she entered.

  She closed the door behind her, listening for any sound beyond the living room and kitchen. "Anyone else here?"

  The place smelled like a litter box. But at least the guy had a cat. A guy with a cat was harmless, right?

  He frowned, as if he didn't get the question or its purpose. He shook his head.

  "I like to ask," she explained, dropping her purse on the counter. "If there's more than one person, I don't stay. You know what I mean?"

  "That you're a one-guy woman?"

  "That's right. One at a time." More than one could get ugly. More than one could get dangerous.

  "You're in luck," he said. "Because I'm a one-woman man."

  He was making a joke.

  "You're cute," she said suspiciously.

  Most of her clients were gross. They were often fat and bald, and they sweated profusely with the kind of nervous perspiration that smelled so bad. They were usually businessmen with wives and kids. She rarely got cute ones. When she did, they always wanted her to do something she didn't want to do, and she usually ended up running.

  "So what's wrong with you?" she asked. Should she get the hell out of there? "What kind of weird shit you into?"

  "I'm antisocial."

  She laughed. A real laugh. "That's why you called me?"

  "I'm not going to go to a bar and pretend to be interested in a girl just so I can have sex. I have no interest in socializing. That's all. Too much work." He waved a hand. "Too much trouble. This way there is no pretense. Nobody gets hurt."

  He was okay. Just wasted. Really wasted. Barely able to stand, wasted. "Did you see our price list?" she asked.

  Some of her associates played fantasy games with the customers. Flora never pretended it was anything more than what it was. A business transaction. Payment for goods received.

  "We take cash or credit. No checks. Pay is by the hour. If we go as much as one minute over sixty, you pay for another full hour. Those are the rules."

  "I might want you to stay all night."

  "Night's almost over."

  He glanced at a window, as if the news surprised him. "Until I have to leave for work, then."

  She shrugged in signature prostitute lingo, then followed with the cliche, "As long as you're paying. And just so you'll know, that payment is for my visit. Sort of a consultation. The sex is free." All legal that way. Or kind of legal.

  "Want something to drink?" he asked.

  "How about a glass of water?"

  With slow, deliberate movements, he filled a glass and handed it to her.

  "I like your place," she told him.

  Now it was his turn to laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

  "It's creepy, and I like creepy things." She took a swallow of water and strolled around the room. "I'll bet a lot of people died in this building."

  She put down the glass and pulled her white, gauzy top over her head, dropping it on the floor. "Bedroom this way?" she asked, heading down the short hall and peeking into the only
other room in the apartment. It was dark, with a rectangle of light from the living room spilling on the floor. "You haven't lived here long, have you?"

  "Three months."

  "You need something on your walls." There was nothing but a bed with rumpled white sheets, and a dresser. "Posters or something."

  He came up behind her. "What's this?" He touched a small, circular, raised area on her lower spine that was exposed by low-slung black pants.

  "A mojo."

  "Mojo?"

  "It protects me from evil."

  "Evil... is everywhere."

  "That's why I need a mojo."

  "A little scar ... won't protect you."

  "It might."

  "You talk too much," he said.

  "Oh, that's right." She turned in his arms. "You don't want any socialization."

  She smiled at him. He smiled back.

  He was so damn cute! He took her fucking breath away.

  They stripped.

  He had an athletic body.

  Not a spare ounce of flesh.

  Swimmer? Runner?

  All sinewy muscles below a smooth layer of skin.

  She produced a condom.

  He wasn't too drunk to put it on.

  He gripped her waist with his hands. He tasted her breasts.

  She dug her fingers into his damp arms, and lifted herself closer.

  He smelled like beer and soap.

  He was intense. Alive. Electric.

  "Lie back on the bed," he said softly, gently, as if he cared about her.

  She tumbled backward, and suddenly imagined that she wasn't a whore, and that they'd met somewhere else. At the office. No, jogging through Forsyth Park. They saw each other every day. They always smiled and said hello. One day he asked if she'd care to join him for sweet tea in a little nearby café. A week later, dinner.

  "I'll bet somebody died in this room," she whispered against his jaw. "Maybe in this very bed."

  "You're weird."

  "Thank you."

  "I'm dying right now."

  They fell in love.

  After the jogging and the cafe and the dinner, they fell in love.

  She was a nurse.

  No, an art student at SCAD. He was—

  He slipped inside her.

  She had a moment to marvel at the sensation. Because she was a young art student. Not a virgin, but not very knowledgeable when it came to men and sex.

  "You're shaking," she said. His body was trembling.

  "I haven't had sex in a long time."

  "How long?"

  "I don't know."

  "A couple of weeks?" she guessed.

  "Years. It's been years."

  Years. "Oh, sweetie." His confession made her feel special, made her feel in some way ... brand-new.

  She wrapped her arms around him, sheltering him, lifting herself to meet his strokes. She was a young art student; he was her dark, mysterious lover.

  Chapter 11

  Gould was late.

  Elise sat at her desk in Police Headquarters, reading a clipping about the first misdiagnosed death that had also ended up at the morgue. Name, Samuel Winslow. The subject had lived only a few hours after being found. In the article, the EMT said the body was lifeless and that he'd detected a strong odor, like decomposing flesh.

  "Eyes were fixed," he said. "The skin on the arms was purple due to lack of blood circulation. I checked for a pulse in the carotid artery, but couldn't detect anything. The subject presented all the signs of death, and any medical professional in my position would have made the same presumptive diagnosis," the EMT said in his defense.

  Her phone rang. It turned out to be Seth West, a coworker of Truman Harrison's—one of the last people on her interview list.

  "Truman and I ate fast food the day he died—or the day we thought he died," Mr. West told her. "He had a hamburger, fries, and a soda."

  "Any fish?" Elise asked. "Or seafood of any kind?"

  "Nope."

  After a few brief follow-up questions, Elise thanked him and disconnected.

  No seafood. But that didn't mean he hadn't eaten any that day. He just hadn't eaten any in front of Seth West.

  A sound in the hallway got her attention. David Gould came tumbling into the room, slamming the door behind him. Without looking left or right, he dived for his swivel chair and collapsed. "Oh, fuck." He spun around, crossed his arms on the desk, and dropped his head on them.

  His hair was sticking up and bent. He reeked of alcohol.

  He'd dressed himself, but not very well. His shirt tail hung from below his jacket, and Elise had noticed several buttons undone as he'd flown past.

  Wow.

  She'd wanted him to loosen up, but this wasn't what she'd had in mind.

  "I spent last night at a softball game," she said, directing her words at the back of his head. "How did you spend your evening?"

  "Something very similar," he mumbled, rolling his forehead back and forth against his arm.

  "I'm sure."

  "My head. My fucking head."

  "You smell like you took a bath in beer."

  He pulled open his jacket and took a whiff. "I don't smell anything."

  "Take my word for it. You stink."

  "All right, then."

  She pulled a bottle of water from her bag, opened it, and placed it on the desk in front of him. "Why didn't you stay home? And now that you're here, why don't you go back?"

  "I'll be okay." He straightened, eyed the bottle of water, then reached for it with a trembling hand.

  Now that he was upright, she could see he hadn't shaved. And Gould was one of those guys who needed to shave twice a day.

  "Go home," she cautioned. "Before somebody sees you."

  He lifted the water to his mouth, quickly draining the entire bottle. "I said I'll be okay." He stood and buttoned his shirt, tucked in the tails. Then he tried to smooth down his hair. "There." He tugged at his jacket. "Fresh as a daisy."

  "Only if a daisy smelled like Jack Daniel's and was in need of a shave."

  "Are you making fun of me?"

  His collar was twisted. She stood and adjusted it. "I'm only trying to tell you that you aren't exactly a favorite around here, and Major Hoffman might just be looking for a reason to send you on your way. Do you have an electric razor with you?"

  He ran a hand across his jaw. It sounded like sandpaper. "A guy shouldn't be penalized because he doesn't kiss ass."

  He seemed a little hurt to find he was regarded with a lack of favor within the department.

  "I can't be telling you something you don't already know," she said, sitting back down and opening desk drawers until she found a bottle of Tylenol. She held it within his line of vision.

  He shook his head.

  She dropped the Tylenol and shut the drawer. Sighing, she decided that as long as he wanted to act like he could be productive, she might as well discuss the case. "I've talked with Harrison's coworkers and all of them say they never saw him eat fish the day he collapsed."

  She grabbed a pen and leaned back in her chair. "So, what I've been wondering is if there's a connection between the body that showed up in the cemetery last night, Truman Harrison, and Samuel Winslow, the misdiagnosed death of three weeks ago."

  Gould perched himself on the corner of his desk. He wasn't wearing socks. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. It could all just be coincidence. A weird cluster of events."

  Elise got on the phone and ordered a crime scene team to inspect and collect possible evidence at Mr. Harrison's home and workplace. His locker. Vehicles. Wherever he spent time.

  As soon as she hung up, her phone rang.

  John Casper.

  "You know the guy who came in last night? Jordan Kemp?" he asked. "I've found something you might be interested in. Can you stop by?"

  "Be there in thirty minutes." She disconnected. "Feel up to formaldehyde fumes and corpses?" she asked Gould. The morgue could be tough even on a good day.

&
nbsp; "Formaldehyde and corpses?" He gave her a weak smile. "Two of my favorite things."

  *

  The morgue was located in a new building on the outskirts of town, next to the crime lab. Not handy for police detectives, but they'd needed the ground and space.

  Elise and Gould followed Casper to the walk-in cooler, past several sheet-covered forms, to the body of Jordan Kemp.

  "I wanted you to see this." Casper uncovered the body, which had been left facedown.

  Elise leaned closer. On the lower spine, just above the tailbone, was a raised circle slightly bigger than a silver dollar.

  "Teflon body art," Casper explained. "I was thinking it might be a gang symbol."

  "It's not a gang symbol," Elise said, straightening. "Have you ever heard of Black Tupelo?"

  "Isn't that a bar?"

  "Among other things. A bar. Massage parlor. Plus a front for prostitution. It's located downtown, near the river."

  "And what does this have to do with body art?" Casper asked.

  "Black Tupelo belongs to a Gullah woman named Strata Luna."

  "I've definitely heard of her," Casper said.

  "This is the trunk of the tupelo tree," Elise explained, pointing. "And these three lines are branches. It's a very simple, effective design actually."

  "You mean to tell me she brands her prostitutes?" Casper asked in a horrified voice. "Like cattle?"

  "It's a mojo," Gould said.

  "Mojo?" Elise frowned up at him. How did he know about mojos?

  He was staring at the emblem, looking queasy again.

  "Who told you that?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "Just something I heard somewhere."

  "I don't know about a mojo, but it's definitely a logo." Casper pulled up the sheet, covering the body. "That's not all. There's something else you need to know. We got the lab work back, and you're never going to guess what we found."

  Elise was afraid she could, but allowed Casper his moment.

  "TTX," Casper said.

  That news was still settling when Elise's phone rang.

  It was Major Hoffman. "Truman Harrison is dead," she said. "For real this time."

  Chapter 12

  Enrique and Flora watched as Strata Luna nailed a small cross made of wooden Popsicle sticks to the trunk of a tree. On the double headstone that marked her daughters' graves, she poured the loose incense she used to communicate with the dead. After a brief sizzle and flame, the pungent odor of saltpeter and herbs filled the gathering darkness.