Exposed - A Thriller Novella (Chandler Series) by J.A. Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson

by JA Konrath

  “Your purse doesn’t have anything heavier than a cell phone in it. I can tell by how it hangs. And that dress … you couldn’t conceal anything in that dress.”

  “Just make sure you’re ready to pick us up when you’re called.”

  “I’ll be ready for more than that.”

  The car emerged from foliage, and I caught my first glimpse of the house. All contemporary angles, glass and sprawl, it looked cold and hard and expensive. The blue of the water beyond held the unreal look of a movie set.

  I scooped in a breath of salt air. My big break. Photos on the beach. My name is Claire Thomas, and The Bradford and Sims Modeling Agency is going to make me a star.

  “Remember,” Morrissey said out of the corner of his mouth, “she can’t be harmed.”

  That again.

  I was going to ask him what the deal was with that when the front door opened, and a man wearing a blue polo shirt and gray trousers stepped out. Shoulders as wide as a linebacker’s, he squinted blue eyes into the sun, his scalp pink under blond stubble. He stood at the top of the staircase, a Tec-9 submachine gun hanging under his arm on a strap.

  What kind of modeling agency required that much fire power?

  “Follow my lead.” Morrissey gave me a final look and stepped out of the car. He circled the Lincoln and opened my door. Like a good chauffeur, he offered his hand to help me from the car.

  I took it. His skin felt rough, a man used to doing more than driving for a living. Jacob hadn’t told me anything about him, but most likely his work was similar to mine. Though I didn’t let on, I liked that he noticed my dress. After all this, maybe we’d have an opportunity to get together. There was no room in my life for a real relationship, but that didn’t mean I had no needs. Someone like him might be just the ticket. No strings, no complications.

  He hauled me out into the sun and released my hand. I allowed myself to look him over as I followed him up the steps. The stillness I’d noticed earlier left his body, and his stride took on the swagger of a man who fancied himself a player. He tossed a look over his shoulder, pride with a hint of ownership in his gaze, as if he’d just won a hand of blackjack in Vegas and I was his prize.

  I had to wonder if I changed that drastically when settling into character. Probably. It was hard to know who another person really was, but in this line of work it was damn near impossible.

  I’d be smarter to stick to the usual outlet for my sexual energy; random men picked up in bars.

  Morrissey stopped in front of the burly sentinel and cocked one leg. “Hey, Udelhoffer. How’s it going?”

  The behemoth eyed me. “Who is this?” His accent carried hints of Eastern Europe but with Brooklyn overtones, suggesting to me he’d been in the States for a while.

  “Nice, huh?” Morrissey said, continuing with his schtick. “Your boss said if I found girls to model, he’d give a bonus. If they had something special clients liked, a little extra.”

  “This is a closed shoot.”

  “Not what I heard.”

  The big man gave Morrissey a dead-man’s stare. “You heard wrong.”

  I kept silent. A young girl in my situation wouldn’t dare be too forward, not with her dreams on the line. If Morrissey couldn’t pull this off, I’d find another way.

  Morrissey thrust out his hand, palms up. “So, what? You expect me to turn around and drive all the way back to the city?”

  Another stare for an answer, silent this time.

  Morrissey shook his head. “Not gonna happen. I was given promises. I stuck my neck out here. This one?” He motioned to me, “A favor for Tony D’Angelo.”

  The man didn’t even spare me a glance but kept his attention on Morrissey.

  “You know who D’Angelo is, right?”

  A nod from the hired help.

  Morrissey continued, punctuating his words with thrusting waves of his hands. “I said I’d help her get a job, know what I mean? He’s not going to like it if I don’t come through on my word. He might even call some of his friends, you know? And I ain’t going to take all the blame.”

  Udelhoffer let out a heavy sigh. “Wait here.” He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him.

  I did a quick scan of the doorway and eaves. No closed circuit cameras. Probably not needed with an armed guard at the entrance. Even so, I kept my voice low, paranoid about bugs.

  “D’Angelo? Let me guess. Gambino family?”

  Morrissey gave a curt nod. “I needed to make it easier to let you in than turn you away.”

  “And you think they’ll buy that I’m some mistress he needs to get rid of?”

  “That depends on how well you sell it.”

  When I’d assumed a cover identity in the past, I had prided myself on preparation. Knowing everything about who I was supposed to be and who I was dealing with had saved my ass more than once. This operation had been rushed from the beginning, and now I was supposed to be the pawn of a mob figure I knew nothing about. I had to wonder if, in getting me in the door, Morrissey had just handed me a death sentence.

  “I can sell it.”

  I would have to. Not only was my life dependent on it, but so was a girl’s future.

  The door swung open and Udelhoffer motioned me inside. As soon as I stepped into the marble foyer, he held up a hand, blocking Morrissey. “You’ll hear from me if she works out.”

  Morrissey nodded and the door closed in his face.

  I was on my own.

  The man stared down at me with the dim look of hired muscle. “You wanna be a model, huh?”

  I channeled eager. “More than anything.”

  He shrugged a shoulder and heaved another sigh. “Yeah. We’ll take care of you. Purse.”

  “Huh?”

  He grabbed it without asking, digging a paw inside, fingering my phone and make-up. If he noticed I was conveniently missing a wallet or any kind of ID, he didn’t give me any indication it made him suspicious.

  “Come with me.”

  I followed Udelhoffer to the back of the house, taking note of my surroundings as I went. The house was furnished in a modern, generic style, the pieces and arrangements big on price tags but low on originality or warmth. I smelled gardenias from the back porch, a hint of some sort of animal musk, and the distinctive oniony, deep-fried smell of McDonalds coming from the kitchen and breakfast nook. A police scanner erupted in fits and starts, blending with a faint Latin beat drifting from somewhere in the house.

  “How many girls are you shooting today?” I said without selling the obvious irony.

  Udelhoffer kept walking, not bothering to answer. He led me out to a patio surrounding a kidney-shaped pool. The air smelled of salt water and fish, and beyond the pool, sunlight shimmered on Long Island Sound. Three other men stood near the diving board. They weren’t armed that I could see, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they had weapons nearby. The blonde in Jacob’s picture perched on a chaise lounge, dressed in a miniskirt and tee, a small carry-on suitcase on the paving stones in front of her sandaled feet.

  No one even pretended to be snapping photos.

  Udelhoffer stopped in front of a swarthy man with a hawk-like hooked nose, and they shared a few hushed words. Too quiet for me to hear, but I’m a fair lip reader. I saw Gambino, favor, and ice.

  Even though the big man towered above, it was clear from their body language that Hawk Nose was in charge. Dressed in a button-down open at the neck, he looked more like a South American businessman than a thug, except for the shoulder holster under his jacket.

  The third was average height and skinny, yet judging from the sinewy muscles in his arms, as strong as steel wire. He had ex-military written all over him and reminded me of a man I’d killed in Columbia. Tight shirt, and I didn’t spot his carry until I noticed the bulge on his right ankle.

  The fourth was portly, with sweat stains in the armpits of his Hawaiian shirt. He wore khakis and loafers, no socks, and I couldn’t spot a pistol on him. An investor, may
be? Or a perspective buyer?

  Udelhoffer finished his briefing, and Hawk Nose slowly walked over to me, a smile on his face that was pure mockery. “So … you ever model before?”

  I pegged his accent as Venezuelan. “I’ve done some—”

  “Then you know how this works.”

  I had no clue. But since I doubted he did either, I gave him what I hoped was an enthusiastic nod and motioned to Julianne James, the real reason I was there. “Should I go sit down with the other model while you get ready?”

  “In a minute.”

  His smile widened. He grabbed a nearby bag, rummaged inside, then held up a skimpy bikini.

  “Put this on … for the pictures. And since you’re a model, you should be used to dressing and undressing at the shoot.”

  These men might not be overly concerned about selling their modeling agency cover, but they weren’t stupid. Making me strip in front of them provided more than a cheap thrill. It let them check if I was wearing a wire. Or a weapon.

  “Sure.”

  I unslung my purse. Leaving my heels on, I pulled the dress over my head. Next I slipped off my bra, stepped out of my panties and stood in front of them totally nude.

  The fact that four men were staring didn’t bother me. After all, I was a model, used to being gawked at. I tried on a playful smile and held out my hand for the bikini.

  After a lengthy pause, the man in charge handed me a scrap of a swimsuit.

  I pulled it on, keeping my voice steady. “Let me know when you’re ready for me,” I breathed, then wiggled across the patio and took the chair beside the blonde.

  “I’m Claire.”

  “Julianne.”

  I peered into her sunglasses, but only my reflection stared back.

  “Are you going to be part of the shoot?”

  A slow shake of her head.

  “They say I’m going to Paris.” She didn’t seem convinced, and the syllables took too long to roll off her tongue. From all appearances she was under the influence of something beyond the lust for modeling stardom.

  “Really?” I forced awe into my voice. “To model? When?”

  “They said soon.”

  Jacob might not have a lot of information about this operation, but what he did have was correct as usual. Now I only had to figure out how to get her out of here before “soon” rolled around.

  “Have you signed a contract?”

  Another head shake. For someone who’d been told she was about to go to Paris to model, Julianne was acting incredibly detached.

  “I know an attorney. He told me what to look for. You know, just to make sure you’re getting what you’re worth.”

  I didn’t know if an eighteen year old would care about something as practical as contract negotiation, especially when she was sailing on whatever drug they had given her. But I needed to lure her away from the pool and the men watching us, and beyond physically dragging her, I had few options. “If we could go somewhere private for just a few seconds, I’ll fill you in.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “It’ll just take—”

  She lowered her voice. “They aren’t going to like you talking to me.”

  Then I understood. I wasn’t hearing disinterest in her voice. I was hearing worry.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  She leaned in closer. “They haven’t taken any pictures of me. They won’t let me leave. I can’t even make outside phone calls.”

  “You’re the only girl here?”

  “No. There are others. But they’re doing X-rated stuff.”

  “Have they made you do any?” I asked, feeling myself grow cold.

  “They haven’t even asked. No one has tried anything.” She shook her head, like she was denying an accusation. “Men have always liked me. I’ve never been around guys who didn’t try to hit on me.”

  My first thought was surprise that these men hadn’t tasted the goods.

  My second was that maybe there was a reason.

  “Julianne, are you a virgin?”

  Virgins fetched top dollar on the slave market.

  A crease dug between her eyebrows. “What?”

  “Are you?”

  “Not since I was fourteen.” She lowered her sunglasses, staring into my eyes. They were glassy, but there was panic dancing beneath the dope haze.

  “Have they hurt you? Threatened you?”

  “They mostly ignore me. I thought maybe they were gay, but I saw two of them messing around with the other girls.”

  I considered repeating what Jacob had told me, that she was going to be sold. But I didn’t see how scaring her even more would improve the situation. Besides, something wasn’t adding up.

  “I don’t think they’re taking me to Paris,” she said.

  “So why are you here?”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes focused on me, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m scared.”

  “I can get you out of here,” I said. “Do you want me to?”

  She nodded. “Will you? Please?”

  “Leave it to me, okay? Just be ready when I tell you.”

  “Thanks.” She reached over, squeezed my hand.

  I squeezed back.

  Movement, in my peripheral vision. Hawaiian Shirt had left the other men and was now circling the pool to where we sat, an expensive-looking digital camera around his neck. He motioned to me, the tip of his tongue flicking out and running across his bottom lip.

  “Okay, you. Miss Hot to Trot. Come on.”

  I didn’t want to let Julianne out of my sight, but I couldn’t exactly refuse my chance to become a big star. A few bikini shots in the sand would still give me a chance to keep an eye on her. I scrambled to my feet, doing my best to look excited.

  He turned in the direction of the house.

  “I thought we were going to shoot on the beach, since I’m wearing a swim suit and all.”

  He opened the patio door and ushered me inside. “Trust me, honey. This will be better.”

  Inside he made for the staircase to the second floor.

  I could guess what kind of pictures he was planning to take. A guess that was confirmed as we went deeper into the mansion. A long hallway opened at the top of the stairs, doors flanking both sides, most standing open. I peeked into the first, hearing moaning.

  The lighting—a simple klieg on a tripod—was strictly amateur hour. And so was the talent. But what she lacked in professionalism she made up for with enthusiasm. I guessed this shoot could have been called, I Love Fruit, because that’s what the girl was doing.

  “Now the Bartlett, babe,” the cameraman cooed as he snapped away. “And put the strawberry up to your lips. No, your other lips.”

  The next door down was a video production of the more vanilla variety. Guy on girl, pretty standard stuff.

  Scratch that. An animal musk odor made me look closer, and I noticed a miniature donkey next to the bed.

  I’d call that production, A Piece of Ass.

  “You like to watch?” Hawaiian Shirt asked, leering over his shoulder.

  “I’m more of a doer than a watcher,” I answered, hoping my grin looked real.

  We passed another door, saw another video shoot.

  I’m pretty shock-proof, but my cover persona, Claire Thomas, wouldn’t be.

  “Yuck.” I gave a shudder. “That’s gross.”

  “Gotta keep upping the ante,” Hawaiian Shirt said. “We’re calling it Three Girls, One Cup. You want to join in?”

  “No, thanks. I already ate. And I don’t want to eat that.”

  We were almost to the end of the hall when a sound caught my attention. More a beat in my chest than a noise, but I recognized it immediately.

  A helicopter.

  Many millionaires had vacation homes in the area and few suffered the inconvenience of traffic snarls on their way back and forth to Manhattan. Around here, helipads were as common as tennis courts. But as much as I told myself all these facts, my gut sai
d the arrival of this particular aircraft was no coincidence. It was here for Julianne, and I was stuck modeling for nudie shots with this chubby Seymore Butts wannabe.

  He chose the last bedroom on the left.

  The room was large, furnished only by a king size bed. It smelled of new paint and sheets that needed changing. Windows looked out on the Sound, and I spotted a purple Bell corporate-type helicopter approaching the beach.

  “Let’s try a few on the bed. Take off your top, show me those sweet tits again.”

  I struggled to look unsure.

  “Come on, all the famous bitches did nudes. Marilyn Monroe did nudes. You want to be famous like her, right?”

  I chewed my lower lip and pretended to think it over. “Well, okay, I guess.”

  I set my purse on the nightstand, perched on the bed and untied the bikini top. I needed an opening, some way to escape my photographer without the men downstairs finding out and greeting me with gunfire.

  I let the top fall to the bed.

  He snapped a few shots then paused, stretching his neck.

  “Stiff neck?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing. Arch your back more. Show me what a hot little slut you are.”

  I’ll show you something else instead.

  “I can help you with that,” I cooed. “The stiff neck. I used to date a chiropractor.”

  I climbed to my knees. Sitting back on my heels, I spread my thighs wide and patted the bed in front of me. “Why don’t you come over here.”

  The smile spreading over his fat face had nothing to do with spinal adjustment. He put down the camera and sat where I’d indicated.

  I massaged his shoulders for a few seconds, then unbuttoned his shirt, revolted that his boobs were even larger than mine.

  “You really do want a modeling career, don’t you?”

  “More than anything.” I pressed myself against his back, skin on skin. Circling my arms around his shoulders, I snaked one hand down to his crotch.

  He moaned, deep in his throat.

  “I can adjust this, too,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, baby. Here I thought I was going to have to slap you around. I still might. Horny bitch like you would like that, I bet.”

  Charming.

  I cradled his head between my breasts then smoothed my right hand around his shoulder and massaged up the back of his head to his scalp. I could feel him relax, goose bumps rising on his back.