Death of an Escort

by Nathan Pennington

  "Computer?" she repeated.

  "Yes," I said. "Show me your computer."

  She frowned at me, but she led me through the kitchen and the edge of the living room, and down a hall. The first room on the right was the one we went in.

  It was as disorganized as the living room. I hated laundry strewn about.

  "Here it is," she said.

  "Turn it on," I said.

  "You are weird, you know?"

  "I know," I said.

  "You probably shouldn't even be in here." She turned the computer on.

  "Probably not," I said.

  We waited in silence for the computer to boot up. A little more than half-a-minute later, it was ready to go. I noticed that the computer was still using Windows 2000 for the operating system.

  "It's an older computer?" I asked.

  "Yeah," she said. "Now what?"

  "What program do you use to surf the internet?"

  She used the mouse pointer to indicate Internet Explorer. I put my hand over top of hers and clicked it.

  Momentarily, a browser window opened up.

  "You want to stop touching me?" she asked.

  "You're free to move your hand," I said, and she slid her hand out.

  I checked the temporary history file.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Looking to see what websites you guys have been looking at?"

  "What business is it of yours?"

  I pointed at one result. "See that? It's a cookie to the Hemlock Society webpage," I said.

  "So?"

  "What's the Hemlock Society?" I asked.

  She shrugged.

  I typed it into the search box and hit enter. We both watched the page load.

  "It's a site devoted to suicide," I said. "Interesting."

  I navigated through it and found the page I was looking for. It was a whole section devoted to killing yourself with an "exit bag". There were even instructions on how to make one using various household items. Also listed was a section about filling the bag with a gas. Helium was mentioned.

  Chapter 24

  "Ever seen this website before?" I asked.

  "Nope," she said.

  "But it was in your history," I said.

  "My sister uses the computer too," she said.

  "Good point," I said. I went back to the temporary history folder. I highlighted the cookie.

  "It says this file was created on a Friday at 2:36pm," I said. "What time does your sister get off of work?"

  She didn't answer.

  "It isn't until after 3pm, is it?" I asked.

  No answer.

  "You got helium for your sister's party not too long ago," I said. "Whose idea was that? Yours?"

  She still said nothing.

  "I remember you said you liked climbing rock walls. You know what is kind of like a rock wall? A brick wall. Sort of," I said.

  She stared at me.

  "Kind of like the exterior of the Sleep EZ Inn." I looked straight into her eyes.

  She didn't move a muscle, but she was staring hard back into my eyes.

  "Someone saw you. Saw you climb the wall. What do you think about that?" I asked.

  She started to say something, but then she stopped.

  "It was a homeless guy. He's a little odd, but he said something about seeing a person smaller than an adult going up the back wall of the Sleep EZ Inn."

  "You're crazy," she said. Her voice was constricted sounding.

  "He also said that the person had what looked to be like a jetpack on his or her back. In the dark, a tank of helium might look like a jetpack. Imagine it was sticking out of the top of a backpack."

  Her face was becoming pale now.

  "Furthermore, I have you on video tape," I said. "Your sister doesn't know it, but the whole encounter was taped. At the end, a dark shape shows up in the window after your sister leaves. I bet image enhancing will reveal it to be you."

  She sank down on the chair.

  "After all, who's the person that hated Kelly Brandt? Wasn't that you?"

  "Okay," she said. "I did it."

  "How did you get the bag over her head?" I asked.

  "I thought you had it on tape?" she asked.

  "I couldn't see that part," I said leading her to believe I had more on tape than I did.

  "She'd fallen asleep," she said. "Guess my sister wore her out."

  "So, you came in, put the bag over her head and filled the bag with helium?"

  She didn't answer, but we both knew that was what happened.

  "Kelly Brandt's autopsy revealed that helium was in her bloodstream when she died."

  I'd nailed it. Yeah!

  "So, what will happen to me now?"

  I thought it odd, but she didn't sound frightened.

  "You need to talk to the police and tell them what happened," I said.

  "What if I don't?"

  "Doesn't matter," I said. "I'll tell them, and I'll give them all the evidence I gave you."

  "Maybe I'll kill you," she said, and she looked up at me with haunting eyes.

  "Maybe," I said. "But others have found me rather difficult to get rid of. And you're just a child."

  "You've got a gun on you, don't you?" she asked.

  Instinctively, I looked down to see if it was showing. It wasn't.

  "I can tell," she said. "I can tell when kids at school have them too."

  I didn't know what to say to that, or why it had been brought up.

  "You should have left us alone," she said. "Kelly was the problem. She's gone, and things were okay. Now you're the problem."

  "Stop threatening me," I said. "You're not going to scare me."

  "I'm not trying to," she said. "But I'm a minor. At worst, I'll only be in for five years. Then I'm going to get you."

  I took out a business card and set it down next to her. "Here's my card. Look me up when you get out and give me your best shot."

  "I will," she said quietly.

  We locked eyes, and she didn't back down.

  I took out my phone and called the police.

  A detective from the force came, and Adrienne was forthcoming with all the details. She was taken into custody before Carlie even got back to the apartment.

  Fingerprints that matched Adrienne's were found on the second story window sill of the Sleep EZ Inn where Kelly Brandt died. It was going to be and open-and-shut conviction. From what it sounded like, she wasn't going to be tried as an adult. Indeed she would be out in less than five years.

  Whatever. She'd be the least of my worries.

  That night I was in my real office again. I had gotten a second-hand computer and desk. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air.

  I was working on a letter that was addressed to three women: Morgan Kisenski, Jaycee Kirkwood, and Shellie McCormick. They were the three other fiancées that I'd uncovered. All were engaged to Mickey at the same time. All were being exploited for his dirty, illegal voyeur porn website.

  In the letter I explained to each what was going on, and I gave each of them the names and phone numbers of the other ones.

  I also included the porn website address where video of them was posted.

  Somehow, letting them take this to the authorities was so much better than doing it myself. Besides, this might make Mickey mad. It might make him mad enough to do something stupid towards me again.

  In truth, I wanted a good reason to put a slug in his head and not feel bad about it.

  Finishing the letter, I printed three copies on a borrowed printer. The accountant in the office next to mine had loaned it to me. He lent me the printer because he said he felt bad that my office was the only one the explosion had damaged. All the other tenants in the building believed it was a gas pipe accident.

  Apparently that was the cover story.

  I had come to realize that everything in life was a cover story. You can't trust what you see or hear about anything or anyone. Take me for instance. Was I Ray Crusafi?


  Not really. But no one knew except me.

  The mail came. I only had one letter. It was from Macy Brandt. The paper was tear-stained. The note was brief, and it thanked me for the job I'd done for her.

  After the trial, she'd be able to collect on her mother's life insurance and while that wouldn't bring her mother back, it would allow her some level of security.

  Also enclosed was another check. It was generous. Like in the four figures generous. She also covered my hospital bills for the last visit when the broken bottle was shoved into my gut.

  This was enough money for me to take a vacation. I figured I'd join my wife. With the letters I was sending out to Mickey's fiancées, things could get a little hot around here.

  I didn't want anything bad to happen to her, my wife, that is.

  I locked my office and headed to the first floor with the three letters in hand that I was going to mail.

  Outside, the sun was almost setting. Rush hour traffic was rushing by on the main highway.

  A lone man was walking on the sidewalk. My breath caught in my throat.

  I'd recognize that bald head anywhere, even though I hadn't seen it in fifteen years.

  They were here.

  They'd found me.

  After all this time, they'd found me. But then he walked on by, not even taking notice of me.

  I stood there, frozen. Only after a minute did I realize that my hand was resting on my hidden gun.

  I watched him walk away into the orange sunset. What do I do now? Part of me wanted to chase him down and shoot him.

  He must be here for me? Right?

  But come to think of it, given the nature of my former associates' business, it was possible they could be in town for unrelated business.

  Still, it was him. He'd walked right by my building. Did that have no meaning? Purely happenstance after fifteen years of hiding?

  And that made me wonder; do I even reunite with my wife? Or do I go on the run now? Changing name, look, occupation, mannerisms, etc?

  I wanted to make the right decision. More than anything, I wanted to be with my wife, but was that being selfish? She didn't deserve to be in danger because of me.

  For some time I stood in the parking lot, motionless.

  The sun went down. With some effort, I made my decision. I hoped I didn't live to regret this. Or not live to regret it.

  I pulled my disposable cell phone out of my pocket. I dialed a number.

  After two rings, her voicemail answered.

  "Hi, honey," I said. "It's me." I paused. "I'm driving down tonight. We have to talk. There are some things about me you don't know, but you should. I'm going to tell you my secrets."

  No more going on the run.

  No more changing names and hiding.

  It was time to come clean and face the consequences. Time to act responsibly.

  I snapped the phone shut and dropped it into my pocket.

  I am Ray Crusafi.

  * * * * *

  The Next Ray Crusafi Mystery

  City of Chaos – Excerpt

  “Get down!” a panic-filled voice yelled. I had no idea who it was. Almost immediately after the warning, shots were fired. I hit the ground.

  The shooting stopped momentarily, and my ears were ringing. I reached for my concealed weapon, but it wasn’t there.

  That’s right, I remembered. I had left it in the glove box; my gun was a good fifty feet away in my car in the middle of the parking lot. Damn!

  Two more shots rang out. Women screamed.

  A can of green beans slid off the shelf and clunked onto the floor next to my head. From a newly punctured bullet hole in the side, some of its contents spilled out.

  I was in a small, independent grocery store in some tiny town in Missouri. I was on my way to Tulsa, Oklahoma to meet my wife. On a whim, I decided to stop here to get some lunch. What luck.

  A hoarse male voice yelled unintelligibly. Another tenor voice yelled louder. More shots.

  I hated this. Naked described how I felt. I was defenseless. There was nothing I could do except lay there in the canned goods aisle and hope the gunman didn’t come down the aisle where the canned beans were.

  Sure enough, the gunman came to my aisle. Other than that he was a man, I couldn’t tell much else about him. His clothes were black, and he wore mask making him unidentifiable.

  “Get up!” he yelled.

  I got up and held my hands high.

  “Walk towards me,” he commanded.

  I did. As I got closer, I saw that his torso was bulkier than it should have been. He was wearing armor underneath. Perhaps he expected some of the store customers to be armed?

  He guided me to where the group of the other shoppers had been rounded up.

  Quickly, I noticed that I was the only guy. Well, there were some male clerks, but I was the only guy shopper.

  Another similarly dressed gunman stepped towards me. “Is he the last one?”

  “Yep. Got them all here.”

  “Keep your hands high,” the second gunman said. I did as he had his gun trained at me. The original gunman who’d found me plunged his hands into each of my pockets. Each thing he removed, he examined and then dropped to the ground. Everything that is, except my solid stainless-steel brass knuckles.

  “Hmm,” the guy checking my pockets said. “Heavy. Probably made in Eastern Europe.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You know your weapons.”

  He didn’t answer, and he almost slipped them into his pocket but dropped them on the ground instead like everything else. It clanked heavily onto the tile floor. If he hadn’t been wearing gloves, he’d have left excellent fingerprints on the broad, flat metallic surface. Oh, well.

  The guy frisking me backed away. I could sense they were about to make their getaway.

  Without warning, the guy who had been covering us raised his gun and began shooting over our heads. I instinctively crouched just like the others. Bits and pieces of stuff from above us rained down as the bullets dislodged stuff from the ceiling.

  Everyone was screaming. Everyone except me. I watched the gunmen back out while shooting over our heads. I had my hands over my ears as I didn’t want these assholes to permanently damage my hearing.

  They exited through the glass sliding doors. Then they shot out the big glass windows to the sides of the doors.

  The shooting stopped. Everyone remained crouched or lying down, but I stood.

  I saw them turn their backs and run into the parking lot. In the lot, they ran up to a white car and got in. They sped off. I tried to get the license plate number, but it was too far away for me to see clearly.

  I looked down at everyone. There were about twelve or fifteen people. They all lay there like they didn’t realize it was okay to look up now.

  I waited for a moment. Still, no one moved.

  “They’re gone,” I said loudly and brushed debris off my shoulders and the off the top of my head. What the hell had just happened?

  One of the store clerks looked up. An older man in the group of shoppers struggled to stand; I hadn’t noticed him before.

  “Get up, boys,” the man said. “Josh, go get a broom. Dave, call the sheriff.” He brushed himself off and stood. His two clerks got up and moved off following his instructions.

  The other shoppers were slow to start moving. The older man stepped over people and made his way to me.

  “I want to apologize,” he said.

  I tilted my head to one side, not understanding.

  “I’m Shawn White,” he said and held out his hand.

  Now it started to make a little sense. I’d seen the name of the grocery store on my way in. It was called White’s Grocery and Liquor.

  “You’re the owner?”

  “I am.” He shook my hand. “I’m very sorry about all of this.” He bent down and started picking up my wallet and other odds and ends that had been pulled out of my pockets and dropped.

  My case of
business cards had opened and cards spilled out when it was dropped. He paused as he was gathering them up.

  Then he took one and read it carefully. He looked up. “You’re from out of state.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And you’re a private investigator?”

  “I am,” I said. Around us, the other shoppers were getting up.

  “Can I ask you to stay a moment? Will you wait for me?”

  I stepped to the side and waited. The store clerks were back. One was pushing a broom. The stuff he was sweeping made tinkling noises as he pushed it. Broken glass was everywhere.

  A sheriff’s deputy arrived. Everyone, including me, had to give a statement. However, none of us were able to give much of anything that could be useful in apprehending the gunmen. As such, the deputy left not more than fifteen minutes after arriving; there wasn’t anything else he could do at the moment. The clerks and owner helped the customers out. Each was given coupons and vouchers for future shopping visits. The owner was very apologetic.

  Finally, when it was just the two of us, he turned back to me. The two clerks were tacking large sheets of plastic up over the gaping holes where the windows had been to either side of the doors.

  “Would you come to my office?” he asked.

  * * * * *

  You can get a copy of City of Chaos where you bought the book you are currently reading. Thank you!

  * * * * *

  Author's Bio:

  Action and adventure are what you’d expect in one of Nathan Pennington’s stories. A writer of both novels and short stories, Nathan draws on a wide range of experiences to make his stories realistic and exciting. If asked, his best source for writing material comes from merely observing what is really happening all around him on a daily basis.

  Nathan currently lives with his wife and daughter in Waukesha, Wisconsin.

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  If you liked this story, visit http://www.NPennington.com to see more written by Nathan Pennington.