by Mike Markel
“Any calls to or from a Daryl Sorenson or Cletis Williams?”
The spreadsheet jumped up and down on the wall. “A few with Daryl Sorenson.” Jorge highlighted them. None from the last two weeks. “Three to Cletis Williams, about three weeks ago. Five days in a row, all at nine in the morning.”
I turned to Ryan. “That would be when she was threatening him, right?”
Ryan looked down at the notebook in his lap. “Yeah.”
I turned back to Jorge. “Any calls to or from an Elena Moranu?” I spelled the last name.
“No.”
“Abby Demarest?”
He searched. A blue box jumped around on the screen. “About fifteen.”
“When was the last one?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
I looked at Ryan. “That’s an odd time to be talking with your professor.”
Ryan shrugged, a maybe-so, maybe-not gesture.
“Any record of a Martin Hunt?”
“No.”
I turned to Ryan. “Did I leave anyone out?”
Ryan said to Jorge, “You see a Robert Rinaldi?”
Jorge searched. “Seven in the week up to her murder.”
“When was the last one?” Ryan said.
He looked at the screen. “The afternoon she was killed. At 3:16.”
I said, “Can you tell where he was when they talked?”
Jorge looked up at me. “Not from this. But Verizon’s got a map that shows the cell towers, which will tell you, more or less.”
“Make it more.”
He hit the keys. A map of the U.S., with a big red dot on Rawlings, Montana, appeared on the wall.
“That’s interesting,” Ryan said.
“You think?”
Chapter 22
“What did Robert Rinaldi’s roommate say he was doing when he left Portland?” Ryan and I were sitting at our desks.
He looked down at his notebook, flipped a few pages. “‘Cleaning up some shit his mother was into.’”
“That shit would be his mother screwing a prostitute?”
“I’d phrase it that she was in a relationship with a prostitute who had moved into her house.”
“So as he’s driving here from Portland, he’s calling her. He arrives in Rawlings Monday, the day of her class.”
“Or Sunday.”
“But he didn’t stay in his bedroom, right?” I said. “The bed didn’t have sheets on it.”
“The night of the class, is he upstairs at his mother’s house?”
“I say no. The students reported hearing two women arguing, then Krista storms out.”
“He could have said all he had to say before the students arrived,” Ryan said. “Then he just watched his mother and Krista arguing.”
“It’s nine-thirty,” I said. “The class is over, the students have left. Krista’s gone, too. Robert comes back to his mother’s place. Or he never left. They get into an argument—”
“She tells him she doesn’t care what he thinks; she’s not going to break it off with Krista.”
I was silent a moment. “How do we figure out if he’s the kind of guy who goes apeshit because his mother’s moved a hooker into the spare bedroom?”
Now it was Ryan’s turn to be silent. “We can’t figure it out. He’s got a gay roommate. He could be gay himself. So maybe that makes him more tolerant.”
“Yeah, but it’s Mom with a hooker.”
Ryan put up his palms. “It’s not possible to know how he would react. Maybe he was fine with it—I mean, her relationship with a prostitute. It could be something else.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Krista was stealing things or taking his mother’s money. The only way we can even guess would be to interview him.” Ryan picked up his phone and dialed. Nothing. “Voicemail.”
“Contact Oregon Department of Transportation. Get the specs on his car. Put out an APB on it.”
Ryan wrote in his notebook. “Done.”
“While we wait on that, the only person who can help us understand what happened upstairs that night is Krista.”
“We have no phone for her. Want to go over to her place?”
“No, I’m tired of that. We gotta move faster. Punch in the pimp’s number.”
Ryan did it. Line 1 on my phone lit up. I picked up the receiver. The phone rang three times. Christopher James Barlow picked up. I put it on Speaker.
“Mr. Barlow, this is Detective Seagate. We need to talk to Elena Moranu. Could you give me her number?”
“Like I said the other day, I don’t know that person.” His voice was patient but weary.
“Mr. Barlow, give me her phone number. And tell me which hotel you use.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Mr. Barlow, this is the last time I’m gonna ask. Give me her phone, tell me what hotel you use, and tell me the name she’s using for the room. If you don’t give me that information in the next ten seconds, I’m gonna contact all four networks and the newspaper, give them your address, and tell them we’ve broken a major prostitution ring here in town. Then, once they set up their satellite trucks outside your house, I’ll send over three squad cars. Lights and sirens.”
“That’s absurd. You wouldn’t—”
“Nine, eight, seven, six—”
“All right. Stop. Let me look up her number.” He put me on Hold, then picked up again and read me her phone number.
“If I phone her now, is she gonna pick up?”
“She might be working now.”
“Where?”
“Comstock Hotel.”
“What name will she be using?”
“Crandall. Helen Crandall.”
“All right, Mr. Barlow. Thank you. One more thing: if you contact her and she’s not there when we get there, I’m coming for you, and I’m bringing Vice. Do you understand me?”
He hung up, which I took to mean yes.
Ryan and I headed out to the Charger and drove to the hotel. The Comstock, built almost a hundred years ago, was a four-story brick and wood-framed building with gingerbread ornamentation on the outside. Back then, it was a tourist attraction because it had the first elevator in the city. It’s on some kind of historic register because Teddy Roosevelt and a couple other presidents stayed there on their way to someplace else. Otherwise, it would have been torn down decades ago.
We walked into the drafty, echoey lobby full of ugly dark wood lit only by dim chandeliers hung from the carved box ceiling. I showed my shield to the middle-aged, doughy guy at the desk and asked what room Helen Crandall was in. He said it’s against their policy. I said I need to speak to the manager. After a tedious but relatively quick back-and-forth with a woman in a dark grey suit who agreed with me that a story about hookers using her hotel would interest the local TV stations, we learned Krista was working in room 306.
We took the elevator to the third floor. Even through the thick wool floral carpeting, our feet squeaked on the wooden floors in the hallway. I knocked on the door of room 306. There was some sort of a commotion inside, then a man’s voice, muffled, said, “What the fuck?”
I knocked again. “Rawlings Police Department. Open the door.”
A few seconds later, the door opened. A fifty-year old man, bald, wearing a sleeveless undershirt and black socks, was gripping a towel that didn’t quite make it around his super-sized waist. “What do you want?”
“Good afternoon,” I said. “We need to speak with Ms. Moranu.”
“Who?”
“The red-headed woman in there. The one you’re paying to screw you.”
“I’m not paying her.”
Sometimes I wish I knew how to persuade people to do what I want without threatening them. Other times, like now, I don’t give a shit. “My partner and I are gonna stand in the hall for sixty seconds. Then we’re gonna go into the room and arrest anyone who’s still inside. How many of those sixty seconds you want to spend discussing t
his issue?”
Watching him drop the towel, turn, and scurry back into the hotel room, I thought, as I think several times on a typical day, they don’t pay me enough money to have to see things like that.
After fifty-two seconds, he emerged, wearing his slacks and the sleeveless undershirt but carrying his shirt and shoes. Krista had used the time to put on matching translucent black panties and bra and plant herself in a sun-bleached armchair next to a small end table with a copy of Montana! magazine on it.
The heavy, dingy bedspread had been tossed off to the side. I found a relatively undisturbed section of the bed, near the foot, and sat down. Ryan remained standing, near the door, looking down at his shoes. “We can wait while you put on some more clothing, Ms. Moranu.”
She waved off the suggestion with a flutter of her hand. “I did not take money.”
“Yeah, we know that. You’re not a prostitute.”
“Why you come here? What you want?”
“We need to talk about some things.”
“I tell you everything already.”
“Well, you know how cops are. We want to talk to you some more.”
“Then talk.”
“Tell us about Robert Rinaldi.”
“Who?”
“You want to talk at headquarters? We can hold you for twenty-four hours before we charge you or release you.”
Her gaze drifted off toward the white painted door with the glass knob that led to the bathroom.
“Tell us about Robert Rinaldi. Have you ever met him?”
She looked at me. “No.”
“What I think is, he was upstairs Monday night. I think you and Virginia were arguing because he had come to town to tell his mother she couldn’t have you living in her house. Is that right?”
She sat there in her underwear, trying hard to look like she hadn’t even heard me.
I stood. “Elena Moranu, you’re under arrest for prostitution.”
“He was not there then.”
“But he had been there.”
She nodded.
“And that was why he was in town, right? To tell his mother she had to get rid of you.”
“Yes.”
“And Virginia told you you had to go?”
“Yes.”
“You agreed?”
“Yes.”
“You told her you would come back to get your things?”
“Yes.”
“Did you come back after the class that night?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Too upset.”
“So you didn’t see her again before you learned she was dead.”
She lowered her head and began to sob quietly, her hand coming up and covering her eyes.
“Where were you that night? After nine.”
“My apartment.”
“Were you alone?”
She looked up, scowling, as if I was asking whether she did a guy that night. “I was alone.”
“We need to talk about a few other things. Tell us about the guy with the beard and the baseball hat, the guy who videoed you and Abby.”
She looked confused. “Beard and baseball hat? No guy like that.”
“Ms. Moranu. We’ve been very patient with you. You say you’re not a prostitute? Fine, you’re not a prostitute. We don’t arrest you for doing that fat guy who just ran out of the room. But you gotta work with us. You can’t just deny everything we say. There are a bunch of people who told us about the fight at Virginia’s house, about the porn video, about a lot of things. If you don’t tell us a better story, guess who we’re gonna arrest for killing Virginia?” I paused, but she wouldn’t make eye contact. “One more time: tell us about the guy with the beard and the baseball hat.”
“No guy like that.”
“The guy you brought to Abby’s place? That wasn’t what he looked like?”
“Didn’t bring guy to Abby’s place. Guy already there.”
“You’re saying you went to Abby’s place alone, and the guy who shot the video was already there?”
She nodded.
“What did he look like?”
“Average.” She pointed to Ryan. “Smaller than him.”
“How old was he?”
“Twenty-five maybe. Blonde hair. Little …” She rubbed her fingertips on her cheeks.
“A little stubble? Like he hadn’t shaved in a day or two?”
She nodded. “Stubble.”
“Did Abby use his name when she talked to him?”
“Didn’t say much to him. No name.”
Ryan reached into his briefcase, which was sitting on the floor at his feet. He pulled out the photo roster from Virginia’s porn course. “Do you see him here?”
She glanced at it for a moment. “No.”
“Look again,” Ryan said, his tone low and stern. “Look harder.”
She furrowed her brows to make a show of looking harder. “Still no.”
“The guy,” I said. “Was he Abby’s boyfriend or something? Did they look like they knew each other well?”
“Not that I see. He didn’t say anything. He was excited to be filming. Two women sex.”
“After the sex, Abby gave you money and you left, right?”
“Yes.”
“The guy stayed there?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Moranu, tell us about the party at Alpha Phi Sigma.”
“What party?”
“We have witnesses putting you there. And a couple of selfies with you in them. You don’t look too good. What were you doing there?”
She looked down at her hands. “Working.” She raised her eyes. “You arrest me?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Virginia Rinaldi. That’s all we’re interested in.” I turned to Ryan. “Would you show Ms. Moranu the chart?”
Ryan walked over to her and handed her the paper with the numbers crossed out and “$/Fuck” at the top.
She looked at it, frowning. “What is?”
“This was taped to the wall in a room at Alpha Phi Sigma. It shows that somebody paid a woman—you—five-hundred dollars. Ten people had sex with that woman. With you.” I pointed to the number at the bottom. “So the price per fuck was fifty dollars.”
She seemed to be preoccupied, as if her mind was someplace else. Or like it wasn’t her at the fraternity.
“Ms. Moranu, did you hear what I said?”
“I heard.”
“Was that you? Was that you at the fraternity party?”
“Yes, think so.”
“You agreed to have sex with ten guys?”
“Agreed to five-hundred dollars.”
“You don’t remember ten guys?”
She shook her head. “Don’t remember.”
“Were you drunk?”
“One drink. But don’t remember.”
“That’s rape.”
She laughed softly. “What you do about that?”
“Can you identify any of them? The ten guys?”
She looked at me. “No.”
“Ms. Moranu, did you know it was a ‘Bye, Bye Virginia’ party?”
Ryan held up the banner, and she stared at it.
She looked at me, puzzled. “I don’t understand. What do words mean?”
“It means that the boys in the fraternity were happy that Virginia was dead.”
“Why that?”
“They’re idiots. Virginia wanted people to understand what life was like for sex workers. That it was a business run by people who own the websites and the magazines. And the people who run the girls, like Christopher James Barlow.”
“Happy that Virginia was dead?”
“That’s what I said.”
Elena Moranu started to shake. She shifted in her chair. Tears started to roll down her cheeks. She wiped them away with her fingers but soon she couldn’t stop them. She bowed her head and covered her face with both hands. She began to groan in frightening, low tones.
Ryan s
tarted to move toward her. I waved him back. She moaned and wept for a good minute. Then, she lifted her head, her cheeks stained with mascara and eye shadow, her red lipstick smeared all over her chin.
She pointed to Ryan. “Give me pictures.”
Ryan retrieved the photo roster from his briefcase and walked over to her.
Her fingers still shaking, she took it from him. She stood and walked over to me. She knelt down next to me. With a purple fingernail she pointed to the photo of Zach Gilcrist. “Him.” Then she pointed to the photo of Martin Hunt. “Him. He hired me—to do five boys. One-hundred dollars each. Five-hundred dollars. That was agreement.”
“So why did you do ten boys?”
“In drink. Maybe put drug in drink.”
Chapter 23
Back at headquarters, Ryan and I tried to unravel what Krista had told us at the Comstock Hotel after we chased the fat john out of her room.
“I don’t buy it,” Ryan said. “She’s a liar. That’s what she does for a living—and what she does every time we interview her. She doesn’t know who the video guy was? I do: it was her pimp, or a guy working for him. One minute, she doesn’t know who screwed her at the party. Next minute, she identifies two of the guys from Virginia’s course. She sees Martin Hunt put a roofie in her drink, then she drinks it? She hasn’t given us one piece of evidence that we can use. There won’t be any forensic evidence in her body—nothing that would show up in a tox screen or a rape kit. One thing about Krista: Everything she denies, we have evidence it happened. Everything she claims, there’s no evidence it happened.”
“Yeah, I know her first instinct is to lie to us. I get that. But you noticed she didn’t tell us anything when all we were talking about was the gang-rape at the party. Once she figured out the point of the party was to shit on Virginia, she fingered two of the idiots.”
“And she’s got you thinking that now she’s really telling us the truth. But if she’s a chess player, this is how she sets up someone else for Virginia’s murder. The frat boys are low-life rapists, so they must be murderers, too. But isn’t that exactly what a whore and her pimp would like us to think?”
Ryan was right. If Krista had any brains at all, she’d start by lying and denying everything. Then, if we got closer to the truth, she’d make this big show of how she really loved Virginia so we should to believe her now when she points us to the frat boys. She played Virginia for a fool, and now she’s playing us. Yes, Ryan was probably right. He usually is.