“I see,” she said. “The cops haven’t been in. Is this a ransom thing?”
“Maybe. It might be political. I’m still working things out. Can you tell me what you know?” I threw in the political angle hoping it might keep her from talking to people, but it had been a lot of hours, so it might have been too late for that.
“Political? I hope not. I don’t need Security Forces poking around in here. What do you want to know?”
“I got lot of holes in what I know. Give it all.”
“You paying, right,” she said. It wasn’t a question. A business woman.
“Sure, and I won’t even ask to tuck it in your g-string.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t mind. You ever think of that?” she said raising her eyebrows.
“Sure, I thought about it, but if word got out, every club owner in the Red Light would be asking for the same treatment when I come to them for help. Some of those guys are just... ugh.”
She glared at me, but it was a friendly glare. “Okay, smartass. He comes in about 3PM and wants to know if he can get a private room for a small group. He asks about girls that might do more than just dance. He was uncomfortable asking about it, like he’d never done it before. I tell him this is a strip club not a brothel. I mention there are some places that cater to those kinds of needs and if he were to bring some employees of those places as guests, well, whatever goes on in private isn’t my business, right?”
I started wondering why a guy on the board of directors of a major corporation would be setting up something like this. You’d think a guy like Savan might know some cream of the crop bed liners from the Spire, or at least knew somebody that knew, but maybe not. Then again, maybe those guests weren’t worth it.
“He pays for the private room and leaves,” Lacey continued. “He comes back just after dark. He waits at the bar and tells one of the night bartenders, Teddy, that he’s expecting guests. The girls, four of them from Cassandra’s, show up first. They go to the room, then four men show up a little while later. They were North Africans, at least that’s what Savan said. They go to the room and Savan goes with them, but he only stays for a few minutes. He comes out, sits at the bar, and orders an orange juice. Teddy said he was acting nervous. Every so often Savan goes in and checks on them, then comes right back out and goes to the bar.
“He gets a call on his mobile, a seriously high-end piece of phone according to Teddy. Savan gets into an argument with somebody on the other end of the call. Says something about not being comfortable with something. That was all Teddy could hear.
“Savan goes back in the room and comes out with a different mobile and makes a call, then takes the phone back in the room.
“About a half hour or forty-five minutes later two guys come in, one big and the other one bigger. Teddy called me to the front because he thought something was up. The big guys talk with Savan. An argument starts and Savan says, ‘I am not going with you, Rex.’ Rex was the bigger guy. The guys grab Savan and start dragging him out. He yells for help, wants us to call the cops, but you know how it is. Nobody called, not then at least. Lucy was at the counter by the entrance and stepped out in front of them. You know she has no sense. Teddy thought the guys would just shove her out of the way, but the smaller big guy draws a handgun, a blaster, Teddy thought. Lucy ran and the guys take Savan outside and stuff him in a ground sedan and take off. That’s it.”
“Did you call the cops?”
“Of course. The cops would jam me up if they heard about this and I didn’t call. Besides, what those two thugs did wasn’t right. The police operator said they’d send somebody out to take a report. I’m still waiting.”
“What kind of sedan was it? Anyone get a registration number?”
“It was a big grey car. Luxury model. I saw it out the door, but I doubt anyone bothered to jot down the number if they even thought of looking. You know how it is, Rick.”
“Yeah, Red Light’s the Red Light. What did the North Africans do?”
“When they found out what happened one of them called somebody on his mobile. When he was finished, they threw a handful of scrip on the table in the room, another handful behind the bar, another behind the front counter, and went out the front door.”
“What time did Savan get dragged out, and how long was it until the North Africans left?”
“It was a little after 11PM when they dragged Savan away and fifteen minutes later the other guys left.”
“Whose phone did Savan borrow?”
“I don’t know, but it had to be one of Cassandra’s girls.” Lacey shrugged. “Maybe one of the North African’s.”
“How big was the fight over the scrip?” I asked with a smirk.
“In the room it was quite a show. I should have sold tickets. Strippers and pros wrestling for scrip.”
“Thanks, Lacey. What do I owe you?” I asked digging in my jacket for some dough.
“I changed my mind. I don’t want bucks. I’m going to swing by your office some afternoon and you’re going to take me to lunch.”
I found out my guess about her crush on me was right. I was going to give her scrip despite what she said. I didn’t need the complications she’d bring, because lunch wasn’t just going to be lunch. But the look on her face told me if I tossed some scrip on her desk I’d probably have to shoot my way out of the club.
“All right,” I said, trying not to look terribly excited by her change in the deal. “I’ll try and keep this Savan thing on the QT.”
Maybe lunch wouldn’t be so bad, I thought. It was certain to cost less than what I was going to pay her for the info.
I went back to my office and did a little sniffing around. Called a few guys I knew to see what they might have heard about Savan. I didn’t mention any names or the kidnapping of course. Came up with next to nothing, just a rumor about some exec from the Spire who got drunk and had to be carried home from a club in the Red Light. No names dropped, and no clubs mentioned. That was odd because of the amount of witnesses there must have been, but then again most folks were looking to steer clear of trouble. Especially if the trouble came in the form of large men willing to kidnap a Spire exec in public.
I called Beverly Savan’s number, the one she labeled on her info page as emergency only. I got her messaging service and left a recording saying I had some info that she needed to hear face-to-face.
About 11PM, she returned my call. She told me she had been at some charity affair. I told her I had something important and it wasn’t something to be talked about over the phone. She told me she’d leave immediately.
A little before midnight a skycar set down just up the street. It was Mrs. Savan. I imagine her chauffer was thrilled standing by the car at night in the heart of the Red Light.
Once she was in my office, I told her of what I had discovered. I mentioned I hadn’t called the cops, even though I was supposed to.
She looked shocked, for about a second. “I do not want the police involved, not yet,” she said on the edge of tears. “I don’t know why this happened. Why has there been no ransom demand? Will you look into this for me?”
“I will, but it might be tough keeping this quiet. If the cops get wind of it….”
“Please do your best to be discreet,” she said, back in control again. She pulled an envelope from her handbag and slid it across my desk. “That is five thousand in scrip. There will be considerably more as needed, and I will pay you an additional twenty thousand credits upon the safe return of my husband, no matter how it occurs. I do not want the police involved. I have little faith in their capabilities. I would prefer to resolve this privately. Please call me as soon as you find anything.”
She stood and I walked her to the door. A few minutes later, the skycar was gone.
Twenty-five thousand. That was long-time money. The first question that came to me was why. Why me? I already had her answer about that, but still. Why not get one of the high-powered firms that worked the Spire to handle this? Why no
t one of the discreet mid-level guys?
I checked around. She didn’t go to anybody else. She came straight to me. Why? I’ll admit there are times when enough money will plaster over a lot of qualms and ethics when a client wants something unsavory done. This was different. There’s an old rule about that: If something seems a little too good to be true, then it is too good to be true, except when it’s not. Knowing the difference is the hard part.
Did she already know about the kidnapping? Was I being set up as a patsy, or was there another reason? Did she actually think I knew High Town better than most? Maybe she was on the up and up and figured I could stay off the radar. Maybe I was as obscure as she was likely to find. I had a whole lot a maybe’s and why’s and not much for answers.
There was a PI from way back that said something about when you have competing theories the simplest, most plausible one is probably right. Maybe I was the lowest rung on the reliable PI ladder. That thought filled me with confidence. R.R. Johnson, worst competent investigator in the metroplex. I didn’t think that made for a good advertising blurb.
I decided to hit the sack and get started early. It dawned on me that the timing of Mr. York’s trip was suspicious.
I caught a cab north out of the Red Light and the driver had a morning show from one of the news services on the vid with a pair of those awful, perky, blathering idiots that every channel seemed obligated to air. I was in the process of tuning out the program when they came on with a story about the Savan kidnapping. Beverly Savan. Somebody nabbed her at approximately 1AM at her home as she was getting out of her skycar. Stunned her chauffer and carried her away in a skyvan.
I had the cab driver take me back to my office. The cops would eventually wonder where she was before she came home, and that would bring them to me when they figured it out or the chauffer spilled. Since I was going to lie I needed to get my story straight.
Complicated and convoluted lies usually work best with those who aren’t very smart, especially if they are lazy. They never want to unwind the ball of crap you gave them, especially if it seemed to be the truth. In this case, I doubted the cops would be using some dumb, pig-brained detective though.
The news said Beverly Savan’s maiden name was Harrison. That meant old money. Big money. The Savan’s wealth went back to the 20th Century. The Harrison’s went back a couple centuries before that. The cops would be trotting out their all-stars for this, especially once they realized Charles had already been abducted. My lies needed to be simple.
I decided I wasn’t going to wait for them to come to me. I’d get the ball rolling first. I made a phone call that I hoped would give me some cover, then I got Detective Blanc on his mobile and told him he should swing by my office as soon as possible because I had something for him.
A little while later Blanc showed up. “What did you want to see me about, Rick?” the kid asked when he came in.
“The Savan kidnapping, I have some information you can use.”
He gave me a questioning look. “You working cases in the Spire?” he asked.
“No. I am working a case for a person from the Spire though. A lady named Beverly Savan.”
“Why—” That threw him for a loop. He flopped into the chair in front of my desk. “What did she have you looking into?”
“That’s a long story, and one I’ll tell you, but there’s a more pressing matter.”
“What’s that?”
“Charles Savan was kidnapped the night before last. Right here in the Red Light,” I said with a tap on my desktop.
“What are you talking about?” he said leaning toward me.
“Mrs. Savan had me looking into her husband’s activities in High Town. Thought he might be screwing around. She mentioned he had not been home since the morning two days ago. I catch wind of a rumor while I’m poking around that there was a Spire businessman got snatched, thrown into a sedan against his will two nights ago.
“There’s another version says it wasn’t a kidnapping, just a drunk exec that needed a ride home. I find out it was outside Lacey’s, so I check to see which version might be true. Lacey says it was a snatch. She claims she called the cops, but nobody ever showed. I talked with Mrs. Savan last night and told her I’d look into things. I figured maybe the cops know what’s what, but I’d dig a little further to be sure until I hear Mrs. Savan got nabbed this morning. I put the two together and I thought maybe the reason he didn’t go home was because he really did get kidnapped.”
“Son of a bitch,” Blanc said as he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. “I’m going to call dispatch.”
The kid got good and mad. Police dispatch had logged the call from Lacey Danns, but they deleted the recording and never dispatched anyone. When a cop on a call doesn’t want to do a case, the cop will find a reason to not do it and tell the victim there’s nothing the police can do. Then the cop will tell their supervisor it was nothing worth filing paperwork over. It’s called shit-canning a case. You know you have a good department when your dispatch office will do preemptive shit-canning for lazy cops.
Blanc gave them hell over the phone. He told them if a call that needs an investigator comes in, it’s his decision on whether it’s worth pursuing, not theirs. I’m sure they took it well.
“Rick, would you go over to Lacey’s with me?”
I was sure he meant the club. It didn’t dawn on the guy that better than half the places in the Red Light are open afternoon to the wee hours of morning, not nine to five.
“The club is closed, Detective. But I know where Lacey lives. C’mon, we can walk.”
On the way over Blanc called his captain and told him about Charles. The captain kicked him over to the lead investigator on the Beverly Savan case, a Lieutenant Weaver. I’d heard of him. The word was that he was a stand-up guy.
Weaver told Blanc he wanted him to handle the High Town end of the investigation for now and look into the incident with Charles Savan. The young detective looked like a kid that got his first pellet gun for Christmas when he heard that. Maybe Weaver didn’t know that Blanc was only a few days on the job, or maybe he knew how bad most detectives in this neck of the metroplex were and thought Blanc could do no worse. In any case, Blanc was working his first major.
We got to Lacey’s home, a second story apartment in a decent building a couple of blocks from her club, and Blanc pushed the call button by the door. We waited. As he was getting ready to push the button again we could hear movement inside and the door being unlocked. The door cracked open a few inches, a security bar was visible at waist height.
She peeked one of her doe-eyes around the edge of the door. “This better be good,” she said in a cranky, sleepy voice. “I just went to bed a few hours ago.”
Blanc told her who he was and why he was there. She looked at his credentials and opened the door, motioning us in with an irritated wave of her hand.
“Have a seat,” she said pointing at the sofa as she walked past the living room furniture and into the kitchen. “I’m going to fix some coffee. Either of you want any?”
Blanc declined, but I figured I could use the caffeine because it was already a long day.
A few minutes later, she sets a steaming cup down on the coffee table in front of me then plopped herself down in a big cushy chair across from us. I guess she had a thing for big chairs.
“The cops actually answered a call,” she said with only a hint of sarcasm. “I’m surprised, even if it is two days after the fact.”
“Dispatch screwed up. An officer should have shown up the night you called. I’m sorry about that,” Blanc replied.
Blanc was going to get the policeman’s union down on his ass if word got out he was apologizing. I firmly believed most cops thought they looked weak if they said, “I’m sorry.”
She told him the same story she told me, leaving out a few details, like how much money the North Africans threw around on their way out and not touching on the conversation we had in her office.
<
br /> Blanc asked a few questions and once he was satisfied asked if he could use her landline telephone in the kitchen to call Lieutenant Weaver. Once he was out of the room, I smiled and quietly said, “Thanks, Lacey. I owe you.” Even with a serious case of bed head and no makeup, she still looked great.
She leaned across the coffee table and whispered, “You hold up your end of the bargain and we’re even.”
She was on the other end of the call I made before I got in touch with Blanc. The lunch deal we agreed to in her office had become an unspecified amount of lunches over an undefined period of time in the near future. I figured the arrangement was better than going to jail for failing to report a felony and would last until Lacey figured out what an asshole I was. Lunches were generally cheaper than lawyers.
We left Lacey’s apartment and I filled in some holes for Blanc as I said I would. He was particularly interested in York’s trip.
“I want to look into that. If he left Gulf City the police computer might show it.”
“Unless he used fake travel documents, or went somewhere he doesn’t necessarily need documents, like LaTex up north,” I said.
“Yes. But I might be able to sort all that out by physical characteristics if he passed through a customs point or security camera. Maybe an ID number if he went by vehicle and we can figure out which one and what route. I’ll see what I can do, but first we need to track down the hooker who lent Savan the phone.”
“The pros don’t know you, Detective. There’s about a hundred percent chance they won’t tell you anything willingly. They might talk to me though.”
“You want to help?”
“I’m already helping. Beverly Savan paid for three days of my service, in advance. I’m working on her dime.”
“I don’t know how my captain or Lieutenant Weaver might feel about that.”
The Lowdown in High Town: An R.R. Johnson Novel Page 5