The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure

by Bill Jones Jr.

  “Don’t worry, there are enough glitches around here already.” I paused before the word “glitches” and pointed a look in Samuels’s direction. Her smile faded. It was rude and childish, but she’d pissed me off by being so desirable.

  Okay, that made it sound even worse. I can be an asshole at times.

  ***

  Four hours after my meeting, during which time I reached out to every mutual acquaintance that Dark and I shared, I was walking along Oxford Street, headed back to the hotel. I’d come up empty except for a cryptic response from Dark’s sister, Juliette. We’d not met, but I’d seen her face pop up more than once on Dark’s phone. It was a brief exchange via text messaging. I’d not known how to reach her otherwise, so I sent her a Facebook friend request. To my surprise, she accepted within minutes, and seconds later, sent me a message that read, “Bon jour, Foss. I have wondered when you would contact me.” I was relieved to know she spoke English, as her Facebook feed seemed to be entirely in French. On impulse, I clicked the telephone icon on the messaging app, and seconds later, she picked up. I knew immediately I’d found the right sister.

  “I didn’t know you could call on Facebook,” she said. Thirty seconds earlier, neither had I.

  “I’m looking for Jeanne, Juliette. It’s urgent that I speak to her. Have you heard from her?”

  There was a pause, followed by, “Call me Jette. Sadly, non, I have not. Jeanne is allergic to being consistent. Is she in trouble again?”

  Given I didn’t know the answer to that myself, I answered no, and responded with a request that she have her sister contact me if she heard from her. I was relieved to note that Jeanne wasn’t specifically avoiding answering only my calls, since Jette was in the same boat. That relief turned quickly to more worry, however, once I realized the possible implications.

  I was composing a thank you in my head and preparing to sign off when Jette asked, “When are the two of you coming to visit? I have so much to tell you!”

  With what I’d learned about their family, I had a great deal to ask. “As soon as Jeanne and I wrap up this case, I’ll make sure we make a stop in France.”

  “Good. After English breakfasts and haggis, my sister will need some real food. Perhaps you can come soon, oui?”

  “Haggis?”

  “Oui. She was determined to try it once she reached Scotland. I think it’s disgusting. Of course, I eat snails, so who am I to talk?” She punctuated her sentence by messaging me a smile; not an emoticon smiley face, but an actual self-portrait photograph of herself smiling. It was Jeanne’s face, but fuller and with blond hair and bright green eyes. I wanted to kiss that face, a reaction that startled me more than the photo itself.

  “Did Dark … did Jeanne say she was going to Scotland?”

  “It’s okay. You can call her ‘Dark’ with me. I think it’s sweet that you have pet names for each other. She called from the hotel to say she was going on a short trip to Scotland. I assumed you knew since you were in bed with her at the time.”

  I refrained from mentioning that my newest pet name for her sister had become Pain in the Arse. “No, I didn’t know. I was unconscious.”

  “Oui, I thought it very romantic, her calling me so soon after your—liaison, shall we say? It must have been very vigorous, the way you were sleeping.”

  “Romantic, yes.” If you consider nude calling your big sister while lying next to a semi-comatose man with a mild brain injury romantic, then oui, we were quite the passion storm. I was wondering more than ever what sort of game Jeanne was playing. Why would she lead her sister to believe we were lovers?

  “I so look forward to meeting the man who can handle my Jeanne,” she added.

  “Yeah, me too. Maybe you can introduce me to him so I can get a few pointers.”

  She laughed, a boisterous sound that ripped all the sour notes from my gut. Jeanne had to be okay, I reasoned, because angels were laughing in my ear. “Take care, cher,” she said, “I’ll be hugging you in person soon.”

  Despite my growing fear for and irritation with my partner, I found myself smiling through London’s crowded central district for the remainder of my walk. Jette was as open and guileless as her sister was cryptic. Dark had told her she planned to visit Scotland, for reasons unknown, but hadn’t told me. I was her partner, but Jette was her confidant and best friend. If I was to clear the air regarding their family secrets, Dark’s sister would be the place to start. What set of circumstances could result in two so obviously different personalities? I didn’t know, but it was a mystery that I would have to put on the back burner. It was approaching dusk and I had a lot of favors to call in if I was going to get a lead on wherever the hell Dark was in Scotland.

  ***

  Two mornings later, I was more frustrated than ever. Despite help from the lads and ladies at Scotland Yard, I’d gotten nowhere. There were no sightings in any of the major cities up north of anyone that fit her description. I might as well have been looking for the bloody Loch Ness monster. At least there was no record of her having passed through Immigration. She was still in the UK, but only she and God knew where. By the time midday rolled around, I’d wandered into the Soho district, my mind swirling with thoughts of how to get to Scotland myself and where to go once I got there. Instinct told me big-city-girl Dark would have started in Glasgow or Edinburgh, especially since we were on the track of a sex-ring of unknown size. If this was a franchised operation, it was more likely to be operating within one of those half-million-person population centers rather than some kilt-wearing shepherd’s field in County Kiltshire or God-knows-where.

  With this occupying my attention, I turned onto a narrow, brick-paved alleyway lined along both sided by shops and thronged by shoppers’ maddeningly unhurried pace. I was weaving around them, my legs churning in symphony with my racing mind. It was mid-afternoon, and I needed a place to think, a sandwich to pick over, and a beer to settle my frenetic energy. I spotted a pub fronted by the smiling visage of William Shakespeare and figured that would be as good a spot as any. Still cruising along at my speed-walker’s pace, I made an abrupt turn toward the pub and barreled over a snuff-colored man in a dark suit who’d rushed from the corner of my field of vision to intercept me. He slid butt first across the brick walkway after taking my unintentional shoulder block, and I instinctively reached in my coat pocket for the gun I was not carrying in London. He raised both hands in capitulation.

  “Don’t kill me, mate,” he said. “I’m not looking for a fight. I only want to talk.” He stood, brushed off his seat, and extended a hand, which I ignored. I still didn’t know his intentions, and I wasn’t prone to be an over-truster. He was approximately five feet eleven inches and I guessed around thirty years of age. He was bald, though I could see enough of his hairline to recognize it was by choice and not genetics. He had dark, inquisitive eyes that almost succeeded in drawing my attention away from his black handlebar mustache. I’d never seen one on a brown-skinned man, and briefly wondered if it would look as striking on me. I couldn’t tell his ethnicity—whether he was of African, Indian, Middle Eastern, or mixed descent. Welcome to London.

  “Mr. Cain? I’m Robert Mackleton of Reuters—well, technically, I’m freelance. I’m doing an investigative piece on an enterprise that I believe you are familiar with.” He paused, extended his hand again, this time with a business card. I took it. “Is there someplace we can talk?” he asked. He bent over slightly and exhaled, looking up at me. “I’ve been chasing you since Regent Street. You are a hard man to catch up to.”

  I gave him a quick scan. In addition to the hairy handlebar and thick eyebrows to match, he sported a single gold hoop earring, purple bow tie, tailored gray suit, and an impeccable white shirt. The man was clean, and in my experience, although white-collar criminals were neat, thugs were not. I let down my guard and nodded toward the pub. “If you’re buying, I could really do with a Guinness about now.” Security protocols forbade my getting friendly with inquisitive strangers
, but I wasn’t particularly feeling like a government employee at the moment. Besides, I liked the guy right off. If I’d learned nothing from Dark, it was to trust my instincts.

  We headed into the pub, grabbed a table about midway, and ordered two stouts. When he asked for a bowl of “crisps,” I broke out into a broad smile. There was something about seeing a brother speaking as if he’d just had tea with Prince Charles that made me smile. His Received Pronunciation told me he was well-educated, if not moneyed. From the way he stole glances at me, I got the impression he was gay and interested. I was neither, but just conceited enough to take his interest as a compliment. I hoped that wasn’t the sole reason he’d stopped me. I was beginning to get the feeling that my crazy magnet had begun to transmute into something less sinister but more annoying. I was decent looking, but no James Bond or John Shaft; however, since meeting Dark, it seemed that almost everyone I met had some sort of flirt to offer. I decided to push this impromptu meeting toward its business ending as quickly as possible.

  “So, Robert, first of all, you want to tell me how you know me and what ‘enterprise’ you think I’m interested in?”

  “My friends call me Rob.”

  I took my first sip of the Guinness. “Well, Rob, since you bought the first round, I reckon that does make us friends.”

  He laughed. “I suppose it does.” He took a long draft of his drink and spoke. “I really should have a cover story detailing how my investigative skills ferreted you out and how I’ve been tracking you since you arrived in London. The truth is, I’m afraid, I know a chap in the Metropolitan Police whom I play cricket with at the weekend. He gave me your name.”

  I made a mental note to speak with Detective Inspector Arnold about his team’s security. Rob read me adeptly, as he quickly added, “Don’t hold them responsible. Some police are grossly underpaid and could use a few quid to keep their local journalists properly informed.”

  “So, you bribed the cops for information.”

  He took another sip and gave me a sly smile. “Well, if you’re going to push a crass American spin on the situation, then too right.” He smiled and I did too. “In any case, I’d been pestering Monica Samuels for information, without luck, for some time. It was fairly easy to wait outside her office building until you showed up. I should have hired a bicycle for all the good that did me.” I could see him rubbing an ankle under the table. As I said, I do walk quickly.

  “So, what did your contact tell you about my work here?”

  “Not much, to be honest. I’ve been working for some time on a story about a network of sex workers headquartered somewhere on the continent.” He paused, likely looking for confirmation that I knew what he was talking about.

  “Escort services,” I offered.

  He nodded. “Escorts, caterers, there’s even a group that uses childcare as a front. Drop off the children, have a shag while you wait. The mummies love that one.”

  “Jesus.”

  “It gets a bit sordid. In any case, they operate like loosely connected franchises, although I suspect there’s a single person or a coterie at the top of the pyramid. I traced them to a small, but growing cell here in London, but I’ve had no luck getting anyone to talk to me. I understand that you may have had more fortune.” I took a sip but said nothing. He nodded in response, as if approving of my caginess. Perhaps he was sizing up whether I could be trusted with his secrets too. “As I suggested,” he said, “perhaps an exchange of information.”

  “I’m listening.”

  He opened a billfold he’d been carrying and pulled out a grainy photo of a boyish, but robust gentleman with a close-cropped head of dark hair and wearing some sort of military surplus jacket over shredded jeans his mother would have discarded. Rob watched me, saying nothing, until the dim light of recognition brightened. “That’s Danni,” I said, as much to myself as to him. It was the same boyfriend I saw in the photo on Rosie’s mantle, although this version was much less spindly.

  “Right,” he said. “This was Danni from when I first found him, five months ago.” He pulled out a second photo, this of a decidedly female Danni. She was nude and in the process of being entertained by the tongue of a very feminine blonde who’d she’d tied to a bed. “And this is a still from a marvelous little epic entitled ‘Danny Does Dallas,’ released in 2009. Her blue-eyed friend there is Dallas, apparently.”

  I studied the photo. “A lovely little place, Dallas,” I decided.

  “If you go for that sort of thing.”

  “I do, actually.”

  “Pity.”

  I chose to ignore his look of disappointment. “Know where I can get a copy—you know, for investigative purposes?”

  He gave me a disapproving look. “There’s a shop not far from here that carries quite a few of Danni’s old titles.”

  “So this wasn’t a one-off?”

  He shook his head. “Danni had quite the porn career at one point, working under the name Danny Hunter. She made at least a dozen films before retiring from the porn business and the whole business of trying to be female. He came out as a male and shortly thereafter started the escort service.”

  I handed him back the photo. “So Danni really is the ringleader?”

  “Here in London, yes. But he’s not working alone, that’s for certain. I’m hoping you can help me figure out who he’s working for.” He pulled out a third photo, this one more recent, judging by the date and timestamp imprinted on the shot.

  “Wow, Danni doesn’t look so good,” I said. It was the same woman, from all appearances now living as a man, except she was in no way robust. I felt a shudder of embarrassment that she’d been able to render me unconscious in her state. “She looks like she’s been undergoing chemotherapy.”

  “She is now a he, Foster, though I don’t think he’s had the gender reassignment surgery yet.”

  “Well then, he looks a mess.”

  That earned me a smile. “True, but I can get no information at all. I’ve checked every possible treatment center in the UK, and nothing. If he’s seeing a cancer specialist, I can’t find the bloke. Even my contact in Scotland Yard won’t tell me what he’s sick with.”

  I shook my head and leaned back in my chair. This was the point where my partner would decide whether she could trust the other party and never turn back. It was the same move she made with Rosie and earlier with her mother. Now, I was facing my own Dark moment, where I realized that my instincts and ability to read people were the only real tools I had. I studied Rob for a few moments, noticing the intensity of his eyes, the frustration and redness from months of too much work and too few results. Everything told me he was legit.

  “It’s not cancer,” I said.

  “It’s not? What is it?”

  “Classified.”

  Rob practically pounded on the table. “Oh, come on Foster. I’ve been open with you. How about a little reciprocity?”

  “How about you tell me something important I don’t know first?” He’d told me plenty, but this was a negotiation, of sorts. Negotiation is all about lying while seeming as sincere as possible. I was good at both.

  He clasped his hands together, looked into his billfold as if about to pull out something, and then stopped himself. “I’m about to go out on a limb here. My contact in the police swore he’d kill me if I disclosed this.” He gave an involuntary glance at the door. He didn’t want to share his information, which made me even more determined to know it. Rob’s eyes searched my face and stopped at my eyes. “I need to know I can trust you. This is more than a year’s work. If someone else finds out about it, I’m done for.”

  I held up my glass. “I swear to Guinness you can trust me.”

  He gave me half a smile and muttered. “Story of my life. I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face.”

  “Well, there’s something you and I share,” I said.

  He scoffed and pulled out a manila folder and slid it towards me. Inside were case files of suspected homic
ides—names, photos, details, places—all of the victims of which seemed to be pretty well connected, according to Rob. “This one’s a vicar—well, he was a vicar. This lady? She was an up-and-comer in the Labour Party. The others are bankers, captains of industry, all wealthy or famous.” He slid the files back into the folder.

  “I give up. What do they have to do with my case?”

  “From my investigation, they were all clients of Danni’s escort service. At least a few can be traced to Danni’s girlfriend, Rosemary Campbell.” He reached as if to pull out a photo. I stopped him.

  “We’ve met,” I said. “I thought Rosie didn’t see clients.”

  “I don’t think she did. I’ve managed to get a couple of the kids—the escorts—to talk to me. From what I can gather, Rosemary was strictly back office. But she’s lovely, and powerful people begin to believe anything is for sale at the right price. ”

  “So I’ve noticed,” I said. “Let me guess, some of these decedents were among those who insisted they wanted Rosie’s personal attention.”

  Rob nodded. “As a result, they would be unceremoniously stricken from the guest lists. I’d reason that they were later silenced to keep from disclosing details about the escort ring.”

  “If the police know all of this, why haven’t they done anything?”

  He gave me a hard look. “Absolute power corrupts absolutely. And then it quite effectively covers its arse.”

  “Meaning enough bigwigs are involved that the cops are discouraged from pursuing the investigations further.”

  “Correct. On the record, these are ordinary attempted robberies, accidents, and the like.” He took his folder and placed it back in his case. “So, that’s me. Now it’s your turn.”

  I only hesitated a moment. “Arjun Rao died from polonium poisoning, helped by a healthy dosage of monkshood.”