Death of an Escort

by Nathan Pennington

  Death of an Escort

  The First Ray Crusafi Mystery

  Published by PNC Publishing at Smashwords

  Copyright 2011 Nathan Pennington

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Death of an Escort

  The First Ray Crusafi Mystery

  Chapter 1

  I crossed my legs and looked down at my yellow legal notepad. I wasn't sure how to phrase this right, so I did it bluntly.

  "Your mother was a prostitute, and she only did women?" I asked.

  Her daughter, Macy, nodded.

  "And she committed suicide over the weekend in a motel room, at least that is how law enforcement sees it?"

  Again she nodded.

  "And you want to hire me to look into the matter."

  Macy stared at me, and then she nodded. I looked down at my notepad and pretended to scribble some notes. Really, I was buying time. I needed to think.

  I'm a licensed private investigator, and I usually do things like follow people around, or check up on someone's background, or things like that.

  Investigating how a dead person got that way isn't something I normally did. But, and yes there's always a "but", due to the economy, work was scarce, really scarce.

  I needed the money.

  So, that by itself was tipping me to saying yes. But still . . .

  I scooted down lower in the burgundy leather chair I sat in. It was vintage 1970s. The whole room was. The carpet was not quite shag, but it was a deep pile, and it was yellow. The large wooden desk that Macy sat behind was stained a dark, walnut color.

  However, the walls were more modern. They were painted an off white, but if I had to guess, I'd say that there had been dark wood paneling on them at some point.

  "What do you think?" Macy asked.

  I looked up at her. She looked like the exact opposite of her mother. Macy was nineteen, or that's what she told me, but she looked older, and she was well over two hundred fifty pounds.

  The picture she'd shown me of her mother, well, her mom was hot. She didn't look old enough to have a ten-year-old, let alone a daughter who was nineteen.

  "Well," I said. "This isn't a normal case for me. I don't usually look into deaths."

  She sighed. "I understand that, Mr. Crusafi."

  "Call me Ray, please."

  "Okay, Ray. I know that. You're the third PI I've called."

  That was a great ego booster. I was third down on the list. She couldn't get the first two she wanted; so she finally resorted to me.

  "Let's go over the details concisely and see if I'm missing anything. Then I'll make my decision," I said.

  "Okay," she said.

  "Your mom was a prostitute."

  "An escort," she said.

  "Who took money for sex," I said.

  She nodded.

  "That makes her a prostitute," I said. "And it's illegal, by the way."

  She looked exasperated.

  "So your mom took money for sex, but only from other women. However, she wasn't a lesbian."

  "She wasn't even bi-sexual," she said.

  "That could be a hard one to defend," I said.

  "No, really. She did women because it was safer for many reasons. It's an underserved market here."

  I nodded. Who was I to disagree? I had no market research data on horny, unattached lesbians. Probably there weren't enough prostitutes going around for them.

  "Moving on," I said. "Last Saturday night, she was meeting with a client, and at some point that evening, she died."

  "Correct," she said.

  She seemed too emotionally composed about this, but again, what business was it of mine?

  "She died in a local motel. It wasn't exactly a high end place, as I understand it, and it looked like she committed suicide, right?"

  "It looks that way," she said.

  "And it looks that way because she suffocated with a plastic bag over her head."

  Now a tear rolled down her fat cheek. She flicked it quickly with the tip of a finger.

  "She didn't commit suicide, Ray," she said. "She didn't do that."

  "That's what you want me to look into?"

  "Yes. She didn't do that to herself."

  "I assume you've told this to the police," I said.

  She nodded. "But they say that it looks like the exact setup for a suicide with an exit bag."

  "Exit bag?"

  "That's what it's called, I guess," she said. "You put a bag over your head, fill it with some gas, and tie it around your neck. An exit bag."

  "An exit bag? Now, this raises a question," I said. "If someone did this to your mother, how did they pull it off? I mean, did she lie there and let them do it?"

  She turned away from me. Apparently, the emotions were bottled up before. Now they were going to come out. And judging by the way her shoulders were shaking, they were coming in torrents now.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  She turned back around and was wiping her eyes vigorously with the back of her hand.

  "It's so sudden," she said.

  I did something I shouldn't have. I let emotion get in the way. I decided that I would take the case right then because I felt bad for Macy, the orphan daughter.

  "Okay," I said. "I'll look into this."

  "You're hired," she said. She was still crying a little, but she smiled a little.

  "You have to understand that I may find that it all is exactly as it seems."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm going to look for the truth. If the truth is that she really did kill herself, then that's what I'll report to you."

  She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

  "I'm going to need to get as much information from you as I can," I said.

  She looked at the wall clock. The garish, 1970s clock said it was noon. "Could we go to lunch?"

  "Lunch? I suppose," I said.

  "There's a salad bar place around the corner," she said.

  And that's where we went. I hadn't been using the yellow legal pad before, but now it was time to tip it into high gear and take some serious notes.

  She led the way out of the house. It was an older one, but quite large.

  The house was also situated on a main street. I let her go out first. Only after she'd walked out did I peak around the corners of the doorjamb.

  As the house was right on the main street, it felt exposed. Two lanes of traffic zipped by in both directions.

  I was being cautious. You see, my name isn't really Ray Crusafi. I'm not really a black-haired Italian. Not really. Fifteen years ago, I used my real name like everyone does, but I did something that got some very powerful and scary men angry. Angry enough to put a price on my head that attracted some top bounty hunters.

  I think that they may have forgotten about me by now, but I'm still not taking any chances.

  So, I let her go out first, and I made a very quick, but very thorough canvass of the walk and street in front before exiting, and an even wider sweep after exiting.

  She was already down the steps, and I followed. As we were already on Main Street, the restaurant was only three buildings over. Very convenient.

  We entered and ordered. I found out that when she said salad bar, that was exactly what she meant. It was stric
tly a salad bar, but there were two soups to pick from too.

  On the bright side, it was cheap.

  We sat down in a booth opposite of each other. She took out a checkbook and started filling it out.

  "Can I make it out to your name?"

  "That would be fine," I said.

  "Would a retainer of fifteen hundred be enough to get you started?"

  It would, indeed. "Yes," I said. "And I'll invoice you extra if any other expenses come up."

  "For how long will the retainer last?" she asked.

  "My rate is two hundred per day," I said. "So, a little over seven days."

  She ripped the check out of the checkbook, made a notation in the registry, and handed it to me. Then we both went up and filled our plates with iceberg lettuce.

  I topped mine off with croutons, sunflower seeds, a few raisins, bacon bits, and a pickle on the side, and Thousand Island dressing over top. Then I took cup of chicken noodle soup, and a package of cellophane-wrapped twin saltine crackers.

  We met back at the booth and slid into separate sides. I took out my notepad.

  I figured I should approach this like a logic problem. I would assume the conclusion false and the premises true. If I then found no problem with that, I knew the argument was false.

  In plain English, I would assume that her mother, Kelly Brandt, was murdered. I would draw up a list of suspects. If each had an alibi, if I could convince myself that none of them did it, then it would have to be suicide.

  Of course, for this to work well, I'd have to get an accurate list of suspects. Was that possible?

  How could I know? This wasn't my line of expertise. I don't do murder investigations.

  I started writing at the top of my pad. She started eating. I wrote "Unknown suspect", and "Macy".

  Not that there was any reason to suspect her, but I wasn't going to leave anyone out.

  "Where is your father?" I asked.

  She looked up at me like I'd jabbed her with my fork. "What?"

  "Your father?"

  "I never knew him. I only heard about him from my mother."

  "But he knew of you?" I asked, and I poised my pen ready to write his name down.

  "No," she said. "He's been dead for almost nineteen years. He died before my mom even knew she was pregnant with me."

  "She told you that?"

  She nodded.

  "And you know for sure that he's dead?"

  "I've visited his grave." Anger flashed in her eyes.

  I put my pen down. "I'm sorry."

  I stuck my fork into the salad and took a mouthful. Then I picked up my pen. I wrote down, "last to see her alive".

  "Who was she with the night she died?" I asked with my mouth partially full.

  Again, I got this blank look.

  "Do you think she discussed that kind of stuff with me?" she asked.

  "I don't know," I said.

  "I have no idea who she was with," she said.

  "Okay," I said. This was going to be harder than I thought. "Is there any kind of client list?" Even before I finished the sentence, I knew it was a dumb question.

  "No," she said. "As you so delicately put it, she was not in a fully legal line of work. She didn't keep records."

  "So you have no idea who she was seeing for business?"

  She looked angry, and I took that as a no.

  "And," I said, "she only took cash?"

  Macy nodded.

  "Can I ask a side question?" I asked. She didn't say no, so I continued. "Are you paying my fee with money she earned?"

  Macy looked out the window. She kept looking out the window. She said, "My mother was a good provider. She kept me safe and protected."

  I guessed that was a yes.

  "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

  She looked back at me and shook her head no.

  "Did your mom have any other children?"

  "Didn't I say no?" she snapped.

  I leaned back against the hard plastic booth back. "Look," I said. "I understand that you lost your mother and you think foul play was involved. That's got to be very emotionally trying, but work with me here. I'm trying to collect the info I need to work this case for you."

  Her bottom lip and chin quivered. "Sorry," she said and looked like she might cry.

  The restaurant was not very full. No one was taking any notice of us, but if she started crying and sobbing right now, well, they would start looking and it would all get really uncomfortable really fast.

  "It's okay," I said. "It's okay."

  We munched salad in silence for a while.

  "Can you think of anyone else connected to your mother?" I asked.

  She raised her eyebrows. "Her fiancé."

  Chapter 2

  "Fiancé? She was engaged?" I asked.

  Macy nodded.

  Interesting. She's a hot call girl, escort. She's old enough to have a nineteen-year-old. She only services women, and she was engaged to be married.

  Not the normal mix of things. At least not in the people I'm familiar with.

  "What is his name?" I asked.

  "Mickey," she said. "Mickey Richardson."

  I wrote that on my legal pad. The pad was sitting way to the side so that she couldn't read what I wrote.

  "Do you know how I can contact him?"

  "He's the owner of a business. Brass Works Wholesale," she said.

  I noted that on my pad.

  "What about your mom's family?"

  "Well," she said. "She was an only child. I think her parents are dead."

  And that's a dead end. "So, no other family that you are aware of?"

  Nothing else came up. No other leads. All I had written on the pad was an unknown suspect, and yes, that is vague. I had the fiancé, and I had her, just to make the list complete.

  She gave me the name of the motel where her mother's body was found, and after lunch I headed there.

  The motel was a dilapidated building. I didn't know what Kelly Brandt charged for her services, but it was my impression that escorts weren't cheap.

  Besides that, apparently, she had been fulfilling an under served segment of the market. It would seem then, that she'd be rather expensive. It would seem so, but here she had met her last client at this dump.

  Even though the paint was peeling and the filthy white siding was loose and falling off in places, I could still recognize what it had been.

  Once upon a time, this place had been a Motel 6. Then sometime back, it had gone private. Now it was called Sleep EZ Inn. I wouldn't spend a night here, and I wondered if they rented rooms out hourly.

  If they did, that would tell you exactly what kind of clientele used the place.

  I got out of my car and walked up to the front door. It swung open easily as I pulled on it.

  Inside, the carpet looked like it may have been forest green at one time. There were dark, irregular splotches all over it. It was even threadbare at the counter where everyone stood when checking in.

  I wondered why they didn't put a mat over that spot.

  Behind the counter was a balding man. He didn't make eye contact, and I knew right then that this wasn't going to be easy.

  "Hello," I said.

  "Thirty dollar a night," he said.

  I walked up to the counter and almost leaned over it, but I stopped myself. There was no way I was going to put my elbows on that countertop. It looked nasty, and I wasn't even sure that I wouldn't stick to it.

  "Thirty a night," he repeated himself.

  "I'm not here to check in," I said. "I need to investigate something." Bad choice of words. He made eye contact for the first time, but it was in no way friendly.

  "What?" He drew the word out.

  I set a plain, white business card in front of him. Actually I held it out and let it drop down to the desk in front of him. The business card was simple. Listed on it was my name, Ray Crusafi, and my cell phone, which was a disposable, reloadable, cell phone. It also said I was a
private investigator.

  "Can't help you," the man said.

  I took a deep breath. "I need to see the room that the woman killed herself in Saturday night."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," the man said.

  This felt like I was going to be wasting time. I wanted to wrap my arm around his spongy neck and put a choke hold on him. I wanted to "help" him remember, but the last time I made confession, I told the priest I was working to give up violence. So far, I'd done well, and I didn't want to let this little pudgy ball mess that up for me.

  "I think you misunderstand. I'm a private investigator."

  "I know what you are. Get lost," he said. He opened a minimized window on the computer screen that was in front of him. I could see it at an angle from where I was. Whatever he was looking at was pornographic.

  "Excuse me?"

  He ignored me.

  "I'm not leaving," I said.

  "Then I'll call the cops," he said.

  "Really? Here?"

  "They know where it's at. Usually they're here once a week anyways," he said.

  This wasn't getting me anywhere. I fished in my pocket and set a heavy, metallic object down in on the countertop.

  "See this?" I asked.

  Lazily, he turned to look at it. "So?"

  "It's a tool called brass knuckles."

  "It's also illegal," he said.

  "So is splitting your head open, but I'm getting pretty close to doing that."

  "Are you trying to scare me punk?" He turned towards me. "'Cause I got a nine in the drawer here I'll pull out and use if you get rough."

  That did it. I came around the desk. He started to pull open a drawer, but I blocked it from opening all the way with an outstretched hand.

  Then I slammed it shut. The computer monitor he'd been using was one of the older style CRT ones, not the newer flat-screened ones.

  I picked it up. It was heavy. Then I gave it a yank and one of the cords popped loose. The monitor shut down and went black. I had planned to drop and smash it, but I didn't. Instead, I set it down.

  "Where'd the woman commit suicide?" I asked.

  He stared at me. This was pissing me off. My other pocket held a folding knife. I brought it out and flicked my wrist. The blade snapped open.