The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  On the surface, they had sought her advice. But did they also want her permission? Forgiveness? Maybe they didn’t even know. But they had drawn her in, and now she felt compelled to follow through. And, she admitted to herself, she was very curious about this group of girls.

  Logging in as blowgirl_jd gave Kera a twinge of the creeps. But she believed she was acting in Jessie’s best interest. It was very possible that Jessie’s sexual activity—particularly, her “guy on the side”—was connected to her death and that some of the information on the website might help find the killer.

  Kera wanted to tell Detective Jackson about the website, but she couldn’t decide where exactly the boundaries of client confidentiality fell in this strange case. She had discovered the website on her own, independent of her job at Planned Parenthood. But some—maybe all—of these girls were clinic clients, and ultimately, their visits to the clinic had led Kera to this site. Yet, she countered, it was Jessie’s personal e-mail to her that had given Kera the screen name to get in.

  Kera made up her mind. She would read through some more message boards, then call the detective.

  First, she skimmed through a Dirty Gossip session. These chatters had different user names than those on the Sex Talk page, and the conversation was only dirty in the sense of mud slinging rather than sex. Kera didn’t remember her junior high classmates ever being that cruel—to anyone. Sure, they had talked about each other behind each other’s backs, but they had said things like “She wears that pink sweater all the time; doesn’t she own anything else?”

  But never in any school or work setting—even in the most primitive foreign countries—had she ever heard one female call another female a “donkey sucking whore.” Yet that was how these thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls talked about each other. It was sad.

  Kera moved to the Sex Talk page but wasn’t sure how much more she could stomach. Very quickly, she stumbled into a conversation that had taken place yesterday.

  freakjob37: I still can’t believe JD is dead. And why was that policeman asking us questions instead of trying to find the killer?

  racyG: It sucks. I know. A cop came to our house too. But of course, my mother, paranoid supreme queen, didn’t let him in. When is JD’s funeral? Are we going?

  freakjob37: It’s Sunday afternoon, and of course we’re going.

  racyG: Should we go out cruising afterward? While our parents are at their monthly sex club meeting? Why are they so obsessed with faggots fucking? And fornication? No wonder we’re all such perverts.

  freakjob37: Has anyone talked to NC lately? I saw her after school today with one of the nurses from Planned Parenthood. What is that about?

  lipservice: No idea.

  racyG: Maybe she’s pregnant.

  freakjob37: Don’t say that. Not about one of us. Remember our pact. No one ever tells no matter what.

  The phone rang and Kera jumped. She received so few calls now that she was alone in the house—and no longer heard from telemarketers, thanks to the national no-call list. She let it ring again while her nerves settled back down, then picked up. “Hello.” After a moment, she heard a click. The other party had hung up. They must have realized they had a wrong number when they heard her voice.

  Kera went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. Then changed her mind and poured a glass of white wine from a bottle that had been in her refrigerator since late summer. Back at the computer desk, she read a few more of the Girl2Girl chat pages but didn’t learn anything new. What she did know for certain was that these girls were horny, uninhibited, critical of outsiders, and careful to only use initials when referring to each other. Based on her list from the clinic, she was pretty sure she knew who most of them were, but they did not seem to know the identity of Jessie’s “guy on the side.”

  Kera picked up her cell phone to call Jackson. It was time to point him in the direction of the Kincaid sex club. But that was all she could do. She would not give him any of the names from her list. Then it hit her again. His daughter was probably a member of the club, or at least she had been. Kera set the phone back down, unsure if it was the right thing to do.

  Thursday, October 21, 4:12 p.m.

  Jackson and Evans rode together in his Impala. Schakowski said he’d meet them at the complex in fifteen minutes. Thunder boomed in the sky, and a sudden rain pounded the car as they drove. Jackson hoped they wouldn’t have to wait long for Slonecker.

  After a few minutes on the road, Evans said, “The mayor, wow. Isn’t he campaigning as a moral majority type? Do you really think he killed her?”

  “Maybe. But don’t forget about Oscar Grady. McCray will track every move he’s made in the last two weeks.”

  “But with Fieldstone, if the working theory is that they had a sexual relationship, why kill her?” Evans asked.

  “Maybe she threatened to end it. Or to tell someone. Or blackmail him.”

  “I buy that.” Evans nodded. “With his political career at stake, he could be driven to murder. But why take the risk of screwing her in the first place?” She looked at Jackson as if she expected him, as a man, to know.

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand the attraction to young girls. I prefer padding and mileage myself.”

  Evans laughed. “I hope you never said that to your wife.”

  Jackson didn’t respond.

  “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  He made a right on Hilyard, and they rode in silence for a minute.

  “Are you all right? You’ve been pretty quiet during this investigation.”

  Jackson wasn’t sure if he should share his concerns. He didn’t want to get pulled off the case. He decided to trust Evans. “I’m worried about my daughter. She used to be friends with Jessie.”

  “Maybe that’s why they stopped being friends. Jessie went in a direction Katie didn’t like.”

  “Maybe. But why won’t she talk about it?”

  “For the same reason cops don’t rat on each other. It’s a code of honor.”

  The Oakwood, opposite the Regency Apartments on the next block, was a smaller, newer building with fresh pale-mint paint. Set back from the street and tucked in among a cluster of overgrown maples and firs, it offered its tenants a certain seclusion. Jackson figured privacy was one of reasons the mayor had chosen it. The location was also within walking distance of Kincaid Middle School and a five-minute drive, bus ride, or bike ride from city hall—a convenient place for Jessie and Fieldstone to meet in the afternoons.

  Jackson drove around to the back of the building, which was adjacent to the basketball court and dumpster where the body had been found. The lot had driving access to the alley and the dumpster. He parked at the end in the space for unit eight. From that vantage point, they still had a view of the door to unit five, which was on the ground floor on the opposite end. The building had four apartments on two levels, with stairs at each end. A maroon Vanagon kept the Impala mostly out of sight from the driveway.

  Jackson studied the door to unit five, which was tucked under the stairs and shaded by a giant maple tree. He could see why the mayor had chosen it. A person could pull up in front and quickly slip inside without being seen.

  He and Evans sat, waiting and listening to the rain. Jackson made a quick call to Renee’s sister asking her to have Katie stay over one more night. She agreed.

  “Thanks, Jan. You’re a life saver. I’ll make it up to both of you.”

  Jackson hung up and tried not to feel guilty. These kinds of cases happened for him only a few times a year. Most of the murders he dealt with had obvious suspects. Drug deals gone bad. Abusive ex-husbands.

  “Who’s Jan?” Evans asked casually, as though they had that kind of relationship.

  “Renee’s sister.” Jackson surprised himself by giving Evans more information than she asked for. “She’s been amazing. She talked Renee out of fighting for custody of Katie.”

  “How are you going to make it up to them?�
�� Evans asked, referring to his promise.

  Jackson scowled. “I don’t know. Any ideas?”

  “A gift certificate to a day spa.”

  He would never have thought of it in a million years. “Good idea. Thanks.” He decided that talking to people about personal stuff could be okay sometimes.

  A large woman in a wool poncho, trailing two kids, came home to unit seven.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Windsong Mathews.” Evans checked her notes. “No arrests. No convictions. She works at ShelterCare, the outfit that finds housing for the mentally ill.”

  A moment later, a thin, long-haired guy in his late twenties departed from unit three upstairs.

  “That’s Louis Frank, the tenant with the drug and theft convictions,” Evans said. “I talked to his girlfriend this morning. She claims he’s staying clean, working hard, and never hurt anybody in his life. Not physically, anyway.”

  The rain abruptly stopped and silence filled the car between them. Jackson checked his watch: 5:15. Where was Slonecker? He rolled down his window. The air smelled of wet warm asphalt.

  A few minutes later, a gray older model Mercedes pulled into the parking slot in front of unit five.

  “Shit. That’s the mayor.” Jackson sat up and reached for his cell phone. “Get out there and stall him.”

  “How the hell…” Evans was out of the car and running for the building.

  He hoped she would think of something. Jackson pressed speed-dial, followed by the seven pad. A moment later, Slonecker answered.

  “Where are you?” Jackson asked.

  “I’m on the way,” Slonecker said. “I’ve got the paper, and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Fieldstone just showed up at the apartment. Call him and tell him you have a court order to keep him out.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “We can’t let him in there before we search it. I’ll arrest him if I have to.”

  “Don’t do that. Just stand in front of his door and question him like you would any other tenant. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Jackson was already out of the Impala and moving toward the building. Evans had managed to get between Fieldstone and his apartment door, and the two were engaged in a spirited discussion.

  “I told you. I’ve just arrived. I haven’t seen Mrs. Mayfield’s children.” The mayor’s tone was clipped, bordering on nasty. With his dark-chocolate suit and matching leather briefcase, he looked out of place in this working class neighborhood. His hair and skin were both golden brown, and he looked younger than his forty-six years. In fact, Jackson thought Fieldstone looked like he could have just stepped out of a cologne advertisement.

  “That’s not what your neighbor implied, sir.” Evans kept up the stall.

  Jackson moved into the mix and placed himself a step behind Evans, directly in front of the dark green door.

  “What’s going on?” Fieldstone set down his briefcase and folded his arms across his chest.

  “A young girl was found dead in that dumpster.” Jackson pointed across the alley. Fieldstone didn’t turn. “We’ve questioned everyone in the neighborhood except you because you were never here, until now. So we need to ask you a few questions. Did your assistant tell you any of this?”

  “She did.” Fieldstone looked around uncomfortably. “Can we please go inside? This is awkward and potentially embarrassing for me.”

  “I understand, sir. And I apologize for the inconvenience. This is all routine. We’ll go inside in a moment. But first, Officer Evans will retrieve a photo from my car and show it to you.”

  Evans headed toward the car, taking her sweet time. The mayor watched her ass for a moment, then looked back at Jackson with distress. “We need to do this some other time. I have to get back to a meeting soon.”

  Jackson asked, “Where were you on Tuesday, October 19, between 2 and 6 p.m.?”

  Fieldstone looked him right in the eye. “Most likely in conferences, but I’ll have to consult my schedule. I’ve had a busy week.” The mayor suddenly lurched forward. “I’m going inside.”

  Jackson stood his ground. Their faces were less than a foot apart. Up close, Jackson could see that Fieldstone’s skin was mottled with sun damage.

  “Let’s wait for Officer Evans.”

  “I’m not going to answer any questions.” Fieldstone stepped back and pulled a cell phone from his suit pocket. “I’m calling my lawyer.” Then he turned away and spoke for a moment in a hushed tone. Jackson suspected he was leaving a message.

  Evans came back with Jessie’s photo and held it out for Fieldstone. “Do you recognize this girl?”

  The mayor glanced at it casually. “She looks familiar. I think I’ve seen her in church.”

  “Look at it again. I want you to be sure,” Jackson said.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  Schakowski strolled up at that moment. “Good evening, Mayor.”

  Fieldstone rolled his eyes. “This is starting to feel like harassment. I’m not answering any questions without my lawyer.”

  “You’re free to leave,” Jackson said. “But I expect you to come in for questioning tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. sharp. If you’re not there, I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest.”

  “I’ll check my schedule.” The mayor walked toward his car. Then he turned and stared back at his apartment as the three detectives made no move to leave.

  The day was losing its light, and the four of them stood in the eerie shadow of a nearby maple tree. Jackson willed Fieldstone to get in his car and go.

  Headlights entered the parking lot, and Slonecker’s black sedan pulled in behind Jackson’s Impala. As the DA climbed out, Jackson watched Fieldstone recoil from the full implication of the prosecutor’s presence. Then the mayor pulled himself together and stepped around the front of his Mercedes to meet Slonecker head on.

  “What’s this about, Victor?”

  “We have a search warrant for your apartment.” Slonecker held up the paperwork. “I’m sorry, Miles, but in the course of the investigation your name kept coming up. If you cooperate, we should be able to clear you as a suspect very quickly. Please let the detectives into your residence so they can do their job.”

  “Not until my lawyer gets here.”

  “That’s not how it works.” Slonecker turned to Schakowski. “Go get the manager and his pass key.” The DA turned back to the mayor. “Are you sure you want to go on record as uncooperative?”

  Fieldstone strode to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open. “Go for it. I have nothing to hide.”

  Chapter 16

  From the entry, the apartment appeared immaculately clean but sparse, with pale gray Berber carpet and mahogany toned Italian leather furniture. While Evans operated the video camera, Jackson and Schakowski pulled up couch cushions and searched the entertainment center’s many compartments. An eclectic collection of videotapes included Winged Migration, the Matrix trilogy, and some standard porn. A few of the tapes had handwritten labels, which made Jackson think the mayor may have filmed his sexual adventures.

  As he began to bag the entire stack of videos to take back to the department, he heard Fieldstone—still standing in the foyer—complaining to Slonecker about it. The DA assured the mayor that everything that wasn’t booked as evidence would be returned to him. Jackson and Schak moved into the kitchen, where the refrigerator was well stocked, but the cabinets were essentially bare. The mayor had a preference for lime-flavored Smirnoff, Gorgonzola cheese, kiwi fruit, and smoked salmon, all of which he kept chilled. The two detectives headed for the bedroom where Evans was shooting footage of the room’s layout.

  “Anything of interest?” Jackson asked as she waved them in.

  “Not on the surface.”

  A king-sized bed took up a large portion of the space. While Schak opened dresser drawers, Jackson focused on the bed, recalling the “cotton-like fibers” Ainsworth had found in Jessie’s nose. He gently gathered the light blue sh
eets one at a time into separate plastic bags, careful not to shake loose any evidence. He was conscious of the camera following his movements, knowing that a judge or jury might see this tape some day. The sheets were critical. If they could find a hair or a drop of saliva that placed Jessie in the apartment—particularly, in the bed—their case was over the top.

  Schak called out “condoms,” and Evans moved over to document the evidence collection on film. Jackson stepped over and glanced in the drawer, which also contained a large jar of Vaseline, a tube of KY jelly, an assortment of multi-colored handkerchiefs, and a prescription bottle of little blue pills.

  “He’s ready for anything,” Schak muttered.

  Jackson went to the end of the bed and lifted the mattress to look under it. Nothing. So far, he was disappointed. He had hoped to find something big and obvious—like an item of Jessie’s clothing—that they could use to pry a confession from Fieldstone.

  Schak moved to the closet, so Jackson went into the connecting bathroom. Evans followed. Apparently, she thought the bathroom was a better bet than the closet. She was right. Near the sink, Jackson found a small round container of Peach Blossom Lip Balm that didn’t look like it belonged to the mayor. He placed it in a pre-labeled brown bag and said a little prayer that Jessie’s saliva would be present in the goo.

  The medicine cabinet was mostly empty except for shaving cream, a few disposable razors, and a bottle of aspirin. There was nothing under the sink except some cleaning supplies. The empty trash receptacle was also a disappointment. Jackson had hoped to find an empty douche bottle that would match the vinegar trace inside Jessie.