by Rawlyns, Nya
Ritual. Occult. Paranormal. Group…
These would be new terms to add to the white board.
Tom steered me back toward our ride, muttering to himself. He got in while I stood outside, debating next steps. My relief at the dead hooker not being Sasha was palpable. So was the urge to hop the subway and see for myself that she was safe and sound.
Glaring at me through the windshield, Tom mouthed well?
I opened the door and said, “Listen, I have some stuff I need to do. Call me later when the results come in from Chen, okay?”
Clearly it wasn’t, but he had no reason to hold me and a lot of good reasons to let me do my thing.
“And Tom? Chen mentioned something about degree of lividity around the puncture wounds. Ask her if there’s any instrument you could use to siphon off that much blood.”
That thought had already occurred to him, but he nodded agreement. If there was such a device, it would go a long way in explaining the unexplainable. As a bonus it would also derail O’Hearn’s current line of reasoning, the one angling into really dangerous territory. I needed to keep my friend safe and out of harm’s way, leaving me free to explore what I suspected… and accepted.
I shut the door and waved him off. He’d head back to his office, work on the crime board and add details. The detective was methodical and perceptive. The friend was lax and forgiving. Pretty soon he’d come back around to me, and when he did I was pretty sure it’d be the detective knocking on my door, not the friend.
When that happened, hopefully I’d be in New Orleans, getting answers we could both live with.
The Lexington line was a long six block walk. Now that Starbucks baristas were awake and doling out lattes to sleepy-eyed workers, I grabbed a venti and made my way down the stairs into the bowels of the subway. The trek to the financial district had begun early. I joined the throngs and waited on the crowded platform, barely noticing incursions into my personal space.
With my lack of hygiene I was honestly surprised anyone would be willing to get within ten yards of me. Before going back to Brighton Beach, I was stopping off at my place and getting a shower.
Heads rotated in unison as the train approached. Women clutched purses to bosoms, men in suits with briefcases adjusted position, the doors wheezed open disgorging a few intrepid souls faced with a horde funneling into too narrow a space for the number of bodies.
Cut off and jostled, I barely managed to make it on before the doors sighed shut. At Union I bailed and caught the Canarsie line. It was still a hike home, but I welcomed the exercise. A small detour took me past an Italian bakery.
When I exited the store, hairs prickled on the back of my neck. I wasn’t alone.
CHAPTER SIX
Sasha
Oscillating in that no-man’s-land of wanting to nab the tail and shake some answers loose, or just ignore whoever it was and let the chips fall, was more distraction than I had patience for.
I keyed myself into my building and hauled ass to the third floor. The landing was L-shaped with my flat on the far left, a studio directly ahead and another cubby masquerading as living space to my right. Both housed relatively spry seniors with inquisitive natures. They ‘watched my back’, as the eldest gentleman in the studio claimed with pride. Not much got by either of them. In return I did small favors, fixing broken faucets, hauling groceries.
Jerry poked his head out and rasped, “Up kinda early ain’tcha, son?” He eyed the bag of pastries.
Smiling, I opened the brown bag for him to choose. “Hear anything this morning, Jerry?”
The old gentleman reached in and selected a cannoli, carefully withdrawing it with two gnarled fingers.
“Nah, quiet today. Why? You ’specting company?”
“Not exactly. Uh, listen, Jer, I’m going to be out of town for a few. If you need anything done before I leave, I’ll be back later on today.”
“I’m good, boy, but I’ll mention it to Miz Wisner.” He eased back into the apartment but before closing the door he muttered, “You take care now.”
Expecting the apartment to still look like a bomb had gone off, I was pleasantly surprised that my compulsive neat-freak friend had taken time to tidy up. The sheets lay on the chair, folded military-tight, the pillow braced against the back. The tumblers and dishes were in the sink, rinsed. The only thing in untidy piles was the paperwork I’d been perusing before O’Hearn had showed up.
Idly I glanced over the top sheet, the one with the columns laid out with my draft picks for explanations. I’d left a space for option number three, still empty. On a hunch, I fingered the ballpoint and ran it down the right-hand side.
Clearly I was missing something, and the nagging feeling that it was right there, hiding in plain sight, was hard to shake.
Stuffing my face with the other cannoli, I headed to the bathroom to get cleaned up. When the hot water ran out, I let the cool ease me down, sweeping sweat and adrenalin down the drain. After brushing my teeth I gave myself a hard look in the mirror, envisioning the young man with shit for brains, caught up in something he’d had no business with. I’d sported facial hair back then in an effort to look older, maybe even badass.
Trina had liked it… a lot.
Maybe she’d like it again…
Micah?
Yes.
I like.
Like what?
Your name, is… nice.
She reached up to stroke my chin with long, elegant fingers. Thin eyebrows arched over almond-shaped eyes, colorless in the ambient light.
Fate.
Twice she’d brushed past me, hesitating for an instant, then moving on, trolling like me.
I wanted my reward. For the freedom I’d bought with bloody knuckles.
Free. With nowhere to go, and no one to go to.
The third try was the charm. She backed me against the wall, easing me into a dark alcove. The pounding bass receded and even the sound of my own breathing was a distant echo in the night. She pressed, belly-to-groin, wanting to know my name.
Then she wanted to know more…
When I finished shaving, I palmed my chin, wondering what Annie would think of my new look. She’d be curious at my grooming efforts. I wanted to impress… and had no clue why.
Dressing in clean jeans and a tan tee-shirt, I shrugged into the shoulder holster again and threw a summer-weight blazer over top, praying it wouldn’t be as hot today. Normally I went about my business not bothering to carry concealed, but with the tail I wasn’t going to take any chances.
After stuffing my pockets with a wallet and the small notebook and pen, I made my way down the stairs and out into shimmering heat. Gotta love the city in the summertime when entertainment options included frying eggs on the sidewalk.
Mentally shuffling columns A and B helped pass the time as I rode on the downside of rush- hour, still crushed with bodies and mindless agendas. If the tail had me in his sights, I’d never know.
I put all the bits and bobs on instant replay, looking for what matched, what didn’t belong. There might be a magic number involved: four hookers in New Orleans, four here. I doubted it had much significance. It was more likely that the increasing surveillance, and being a bull’s-eye for tropical storms, made the Big Easy unattractive for further activity. With the gap of almost a year, odds were good the perp had moved from one all-you-can-suck buffet to another, working up the red light districts until finally landing on my doorstep.
Like I’d said before; it was a crime of opportunism, nothing more.
In the back of my mind, I knew there was more. I also conjured the idea that the pattern was too obvious, too clearly a message. But a message of what… and for whom?
The Goth, Vamp and BDSM subcultures all had outposts in urban centers almost everywhere, but N’awlins and the Big Apple were ground central for loonies and paranormal freaks. Most of the enactors were straights looking to forget mind-numbing day jobs. Few embraced it to the extent that it became their life. Tho
se who did succumbed to the subcultures with feverish intensity.
For a short time, that had been me—total immersion.
The kid I’d been, all gaga over the woman with the means to send me out-of-body on a whim, her lush curves, and how she used them, all became my drug of choice.
She had been a compelling mash-up of fuck-you sophistication and childlike innocence. She was exotic to the point of terrifying. Corrupting and provocative. She taught me… things. About myself, but never her. And I preferred it that way.
The night I’d celebrated my freedom was the same one I’d willingly enslaved myself. I’d do it again in an instant.
The long walk from the subway station had me in a sweat. Sometimes you got an onshore breeze off the bay that would do a marginal cool down, but that wasn’t the case today. The air shimmered in waves above the sidewalks, the blocks of concrete buckling and chipping in the unrelenting heat. Here and there window air conditioners hummed, a baby wailed then went silent. The rubber soles on my boots made a ‘pfut’ sound as I walked along, not loud enough to drown out following footsteps. The tail was good, hanging far back—if he was even there. Basically, it didn’t matter because giving my imagination free rein was prudent. It kept me alert and alive.
I stopped a half block down from the pimp’s dormitory and surveyed the neighborhood. Nothing seemed out of place. It was quiet, but I expected that. The girls would be asleep this hour of the morning. A little fact I should have considered before coming all the way down here.
I still worked hard at convincing myself that simply knowing Sasha was alive and well, and dozing like a baby, was the sole purpose for being here. Ivan, or another of the guard dogs, could tell me that and send me on my way.
As I knocked on the door, a little inner voice said a quick prayer that she’d still be up. And if she was… well, maybe she’d agree to see me again.
I had more questions.
That wasn’t all I had. Her hand on my arm, the pleading look in her eyes, the sway of hips as she ascended the stairs… It’d been two, three days, and still my cock reassured me I wasn’t mistaken.
Ivan answered the door, giving me a ‘you’re late’ look and then followed up with, “Been expecting you.”
The mountain led me back to the kitchen, then out the door into a fenced-in backyard, mostly cemented over, but still sporting a variety of flower pots and cushioned loungers and lawn chairs. A ten foot tall, solid white vinyl fence assured privacy from next-door neighbors and passersby in the alley. It looked new and expensive, and out-of-keeping with the general squalor of the surrounding homes.
The man pointed to a lounge chair facing toward the mid-morning sun and away from the house. He said, “I’ll be right inside,” to no one in particular, though the inference was clear.
The been expecting you echoed in my head as I circled the lounger and faced the young woman stretched out, wearing nothing but beads of sweat and a bath towel bunched haphazardly around her hips. Her hair was pulled into a tail and squashed behind her head, the end resting lazily across her left shoulder. Her face still bore marks of tears, mascara, and blush muddled together until the colors beiged out, leaving her looking forlorn and child-like.
Mouth dry as tinder, I croaked out, “Sasha,” and tried hard to look at her face and not her perfectly shaped breasts, the areola pinkish against the nut-brown tanned flesh.
She moved over and bid me sit.
Bad idea. I held my ground and waited for her to speak.
News travelled fast. It’d been a mere three, four hours since the whore’d been carted away. I couldn’t recall any casual onlookers at the park, but that didn’t mean anything. And the Medical Examiner’s office sometimes sprang a leak. Not from Chen, but one of her associates… or even the janitorial staff could be fast-tracked to the tabloids for a small remuneration.
The working girls I knew seldom gave in to sentiment. The ones who’d been in it for a while knew the risks, after all. That Sasha was distressed enough to cry elephant tears told me it had been another friend.
Looming over her like the angel of death wasn’t a good conversation starter, so I crouched down and focused on her lips.
“Sasha. Did you know the woman who was found this morning?” She nodded a yes but avoided looking at my eyes. “What was her name… her real name? Do you know?”
She said nothing, leaving me to suspect the language barrier reared its ugly head. Calling in Ivan-the-translator didn’t sit well either. He’d just add a layer of protection and interference, not exactly conducive to digging out the facts.
That’s why I was here… to assure myself she was okay, get some answers, nothing more. My cock recognized the lie for what it was.
Still avoiding my hungry gaze, she whispered, “Is Nairi. Nairi Balekdanian.”
I fumbled for the notebook and pen, raising my eyebrows to see if she’d mind. She ignored what was in my hands and stared off into space.
“Did you know her well?”
“Da, Nairi was friend, good friend. Vit me, Vit Svetlana.”
That got my attention. Svetlana had been heavy into the Council of Gotham shit, doing the clubs and acting out to the point of allowing herself to be bitten. Some of that had been part and parcel of her hooking, but most of it seemed to fall into that euphemistic ‘lifestyle choice’ category. From what I’d gleaned from Ivan, she was one of the true believers.
I asked, “Did Nairi go with Svetlana to the clubs?”
I realized I should be more specific because, of course, she’d done the club circuit—as an escort, or on her own, or with the other acolytes. Sasha understood well enough to answer in the affirmative.
I looked at the upper row of windows. How many working girls lived here on a permanent basis? I’d seen one small bedroom, but hadn’t paid much attention when Ivan had led me upstairs last Saturday. There’d be three bedrooms at most in a row home this size, bunks in each, leaving six, maybe nine girls sharing space if they converted the basement for sleeping quarters.
“Did Nairi live here?”
“Nyet, but she not far. Manny has two houses, this one and one on 7th.”
That was a good-sized stable for a single pimp to run, which might be why he hired guys like Ivan to house-mother the lot while he saw to the street. Manny was the hands-on type; but he didn’t strike me as admin material, and procurement required a network and contacts that went above and beyond.
It was hard to shake the feeling I was poking at a hornet’s nest.
I asked, “Was she here a lot?”
Sasha shrugged. “Manny sometimes hard on her. For what she liked. She would come to us to hide.” With pride in her voice she said, “I take care of both. They need me.”
Then her voice broke and I could barely make out the words, something to the effect that they didn’t need her anymore; no one needed her.
At that point, I sat on the lounger, my thigh hugging her bare hip.
I need you hung on my lips, but instead I asked, “When was the last time you saw her?”
“She come here. Olga cooks on Sunday. Is tradition for us.” Her eyes glazed over, remembering. “It was hot, so no one was too hungry. Olga made borscht and black bread. I made salad. Cucumbers, tomatoes. It was nice, all of us work in kitchen. Like family.” She hitched a sharp breath. “Like home.”
“How was she?” Sasha didn’t understand what I meant so I elaborated, “Was she scared or sad about Svetlana? What did she talk about?”
“We all scared. Nairi said… she said she would pray. For all of us. She would go to church and light candles.” Hiccoughing a sob, Sasha’s voice trailed off until I could barely hear her. “She made this vow.”
That went a long way toward explaining why the latest victim was at St. Vartan’s on Sunday night or early Monday morning. But how she got from her usual haunts down to 34th in the middle of the night was a big question mark.
Manny was good as far as pimps went, providing livable accommodations
and protection; but he was a stickler when it came to money. For Manny, there was no such thing as a slow night and he kept careful tabs on transactions, emptying the till at regular intervals. Not a bad idea either. It was safer for the girls, but it also meant there’d be nothing left over for cab fare.
I needed to pursue that thought, so I pressed her further. “When did you leave… to go to work?”
“Manny pick us up before nine. He drop me off at my spot, then leave. That’s the last I saw her.”
Her friend, Nairi, would have been close by, leaving more than twenty long city blocks to hoof in stilettos to go to church. Not frigging likely. If I was a betting man, I’d put a C-note on her having a ride to the Cathedral. But was it a one-off with the wrong customer—that opportunistic thing again? Or was it a friend, or at least a person who she trusted enough to take a chance at risking Manny’s ire? If a friend, had they hung around, ready to give her a ride back? If yes, what did they see, if anything? And where the hell were they now?
My head was about to explode with all the permutations. That tingle along my spine alerted me that I might be on the right track. And that empty column on the ledger might be getting some entries once I’d worked through the possibilities.
Sasha chose that moment to lick the sweat off her upper lip, first with her tongue, then with that pouty full lower lip. All thoughts of asking more questions vanished.
I watched the sweat trickling down between her breasts, the path meandering as she drew shallow breaths, the rise and fall mesmerizing. With my thumb I traced the path through the valley between the firm globes, using my left hand on her hip to brace my upper body. She stilled but didn’t pull away.
Ivan was just inside, I was armed with a raging hard on, and the goddess reclining at my fingertips smiled and set aside the towel.
That combination made me horny and stupid.