by Graham Smith
‘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.
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 dis
guise 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 corner 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.
Chapter 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.
Tail lights are visible in the distance and he knows where Johnson is going, so it’s safer to hang back rather than alarm him.
Twenty miles from town, he sees hazard lights come on. The gap between the two cars closes. Fast.
His heart thumps and he can feel his right foot pressing down harder. Taking a deep breath, he calms himself and eases off the gas a little. If this is to be the opportunity, then great, but he’s not going to blow everything by pouncing too soon.
The knife used on the Niemeyer slut has been dumped and his random selection has thrown up a framing hammer for Johnson. It lies in the passenger footwell on top of a few other tools put there as camouflage.
His hand caresses the shaft of the hammer as he approaches Johnson’s car. He’s pulled as far off the road as he can and the Watcher can see the back end of the car is jacked up at one side.
The opportunity is just too perfect to be passed up.
He draws to a halt and parks twenty feet behind the lame Chevy. Johnson rises to his feet and shields his eyes from the Watcher’s headlights with one hand. The other holds a wheel wrench against his leg.
The Watcher climbs out and fixes a smile onto his face. ‘You need some help there, buddy?’
‘I’m fine changing the wheel, but if you could pull your car a bit closer the light would be a big help.’
‘Sure thing.’ He pulls his car nearer to Johnson’s, resisting the urge to floor the gas and crush his target between the two cars.
He chats to Johnson as he removes the wheel and replaces it with the spare. It’s one of those narrow space-savers and looks odd where once there was a fat tyre.
Johnson puts down the wheel wrench and turns to start lowering the jack.
The wheel wrench speaks to the Watcher so he relegates the framing hammer until another time and slips his fingers around the wrench.
A look both ways to check for headlights reveals nothing.
The first blow lands on Johnson’s temple, just below the greying hair. He falls onto his back.
Ten more times the tyre iron smashes into the target’s face. He counts the blows then adds another to make it a round dozen. Odd numbers are just that as far as he’s concerned. Odd.
He pulls back Johnson’s cuff and checks for a pulse.
There isn’t one, so he begins the clean-up before someone comes. His muscles burn as he hauls Johnson’s body into the trunk of his own car. He’s heavier than expected and the virus has weakened him more than he cares to acknowledge.
The jack and wheel wrench are tossed on top of the body. Sometimes it’s safer to leave the murder weapon with the victim rather than get caught trying to dispose of it.
Next he strips to his jockey shorts and dresses in the spare clothes kept in his trunk.
He turns south until he finds a side road where he hides his car and opens the trunk. It only takes him a minute to don the ghillie suit before setting off at a run towards a decent vantage point.
The only thing he carries is a pair of night-vision binoculars and a desire to further progress the pattern.
Hunkering down in a clump of sagebrush, he wriggles until he’s comfortable. A rock is picked from beneath his chest and placed to one side. It may be a long wait but he’s in no hurry. All that matters is having a good view of Johnson’s car.
Chapter 13
By the time I pull into Alfonse’s drive I am tired, hungry and more than a little irritable. Long drives are part of the American way of life but they’ve been the hardest thing for me to get used to.
Driving mile after mile on arrow-straight roads where the biggest dangers are speed traps and the soporific effect of tyres on asphalt always grates on my nerves. Being a man of action, the two-hour drive each way felt like a waste of time, despite the fact I’d gotten pretty much all the information I’d hoped to get.
I enter the house and find Alfonse beavering away at his laptop. He doesn’t speak, but he does nod his head towards the kitchen. The mixed smells of coffee and chilli were already drawing me in like some kind of culinary mermaid.
After fixing myself a large bowl of chilli and filling two mugs with coffee, I sit down at the opposite side of his paper-strewn desk.
Alfonse pushes his laptop away and stretches without leaving his seat.
I swallow a mouthful of chilli. ‘What you got?’
‘I’ve traced nine of her last ten clients, and read through the messages she received through the site. They’re all about the last visit or fantasies for the next one.’ A shrug. ‘It all seemed rather mundane. At least as far as that kind of thing can be.’
‘Do any of her clients seem like a possible?’
‘Not at all. Judging by the message history the clients are ones she’s seen a number of times before.’ He passes me a sheaf of papers with all the details on. ‘I also found a database she had created on each of her clients and their sexual preferences.’
‘You’ve been busy.’ It may be stating the obvious, but i
t’s as close to praise as either of us is comfortable with.
He gives a small nod of acknowledgement and leaves me to finish my chilli while I read the notes.
Alfonse’s chilli is just perfect, hot enough to tingle the lips, yet not so hot as to scald the throat. I spoon away until the bowl is empty, my eyes never leaving the spreadsheets he has drawn up.
Eight of the nine live several hundreds of miles away, while the ninth has a number of homes around the world. Each of the men is wealthy in a way I can only dream of.
Thinking about it, I should have figured that out from the prices listed on the website. Kira and the other girls charge ten big ones per visit. And that is for basic companionship. Vacation company is fifteen grand a day plus expenses.
The guys who hire these hookers aren’t your average Joes working behind a desk for someone else. They are guys who own companies, run multinational businesses or live off family money.
In fact, they are guys like her father and brother.
Is that what Kira’s hooking was about? Some distorted way to seek revenge against her father? The secret kept so clients could laugh at him behind his back?
That line of thought doesn’t ring true with my memories of her though. No matter how much I scour my brain, I can’t recall Kira criticising her father or other family members in any way.
Eight of the ten had seen Kira at her home in Casperton. One of the others had booked her for vacations of varying lengths and the final one had requested she join him in LA to entertain guests at his parties. Alfonse’s digital excavations had followed the clients back through time. All bar one had at some point visited her in Casperton.
That meant we had nine suspects who knew where Kira lived.
We know who nine of these men are but the tenth is a mystery. He’s the one with the party bookings. Lifting the spreadsheet bearing his alias, I look at the message history Alfonse has attached and see the tenth man booked Kira on three separate occasions.
Her brief for the parties was simple. She was to be one of a number of girls hired to accompany and entertain her client’s friends.