The Kill Radius

by Nichole Christoff

  That’s how we undertook a little shopping extravaganza together—and we began near Fort Donovan’s Back Gate at an establishment called Puss-in-Boots. Being so close to the post, the place was packed with young men with pay in their pockets, alcohol in their blood, and time on their hands. And the odds were good that Damon, whether he made a regular habit of visiting shops like this or not, had also trundled into this store since it was within walking distance of the post.

  The electronic bell fixed to Puss-in-Boots’s door bee-bonged to announce our arrival. Not that anyone immediately noticed. Female staff, wearing clinging, low-cut tank tops, were too busy ringing up purchases of girlie magazines and X-rated DVDs for throngs of male customers to jump every time fresh meat walked into the store.

  The novelty items displayed against metal grillwork high on the walls and waiting in boxes on the shelving below didn’t seem to be big sellers with this crowd. And maybe that was no wonder. The whips and chains, handcuffs and ball-gags fit the store’s theme, I supposed, but they appeared to be more decorative than practical.

  Likewise, the lingerie on the racks running through the middle of the floor had been pieced together from inexpensive fabrics and marked up for a wide profit margin. Colors included the typical reds and pinks and blacks. But if anyone was in the market for skivvies in see-through camouflage, Puss-in-Boots had that covered, too.

  Of course, loitering and looking at the merchandise wouldn’t get Monique found, so I moved on—until the stunning blue shade of a certain nightgown caught my eye. It reminded me of something special I’d tucked into my carry-on before I’d left home to come down south for the weekend. And to be completely honest, I rather thought I’d be wearing it right about now.

  A sudden wistfulness had me brushing a hand along the gown’s neckline, just to feel its texture. The fabric slipped through my fingers like a luxury bath oil, and I sighed. I couldn’t say what made me glance away from the gown just then, but I did—and spotted Marc, standing at the glass-topped counter at the rear of the shop. One of the well-endowed saleswomen was chatting at him as she leaned over her side of the display case to give him a bird’s-eye view of her personal collection as well as the goods on offer. Marc, however, had me in his sights, and even from where I stood, I could feel the heat in his dark eyes.

  I cleared my throat, joined him at the counter.

  “We don’t have a Monique,” the saleswoman was saying to him, “but follow Roxie. She and the girls will show you lots of things you’ll like.”

  On a platform at the back of the shop, posing beneath a slowly spinning disco ball, Roxie offered us a wink and wave and slapped her riding crop against her thigh-high boots. The boots were quite the fashion statement, especially since she wore them with a neon-yellow bra and panties. These garments were held closed by wide black grosgrain ribbons, suggesting that one strategic tug would render Roxie completely undone.

  When Marc and I didn’t accept her invitation, Roxie shrugged a bare shoulder and led three pimply fellows behind a velvet curtain as red as her unrealistically crimson curls.

  And Marc and I headed out to the street.

  We visited five more shops like Puss-in-Boots. Each one was a variation on a theme. At each store, nearly naked girls lured willing patrons into back rooms where they would fork over their cash for the sight of female flesh—and maybe the touch of it, too.

  We saw no sign of Monique in any of these places. No one we asked knew of her, either. Or so they said.

  At the seventh shop, however, that changed.

  Down the strip from the post’s Back Gate, Pandora’s Box was a destination location, and quite a hike from where we’d parked Marc’s car. But that wasn’t the only thing that set it apart from its competitors. This was the first lingerie shop I’d ever seen that employed a bouncer.

  The bouncer was a mountain of muscle and he slouched on a stool inside the stone alcove that protected the front door from the elements as if he were just soaking up the atmosphere. His relaxed posture didn’t fool me, however. He was here because he was entirely capable of taking on rowdy soldiers who might get carried away with the shop’s offerings and the freedoms of a Saturday night.

  As Marc and I approached the shop’s entrance, the bouncer looked us up and down with a critical eye. He took in my conservative turtleneck and tweed jacket, and even checked out my boots. To him, I probably looked like a research librarian, but Marc plucked a pair of expensive shades from his leather jacket. He slipped them on. And became an instant rock star.

  “Enjoy your evening,” the bouncer said, sliding from his stool to open the door for us.

  Marc’s palm warmed the small of my back as he steered me inside.

  At first glance, Pandora’s Box didn’t appear to be dramatically different from the other stores we’d visited. The porn section was bigger and presumably better, though how the men crowding the racks measured that, I had no idea. But the place had a club feel the other shops lacked. The rhythmic thump of dance music pulsed through the floor and into the bodies of the store’s clientele. It was a tough sensation to ignore. And so was the sexy scent of night jasmine and white musk lingering in the air. The proprietors must’ve pumped the stuff into the place, and as a result, I felt like I was sneaking into a burlesque queen’s bedroom.

  Marc and I sauntered toward the requisite display cases at the back of the shop. I made the mistake of peering into one and saw a wide array of sex toys made of everything from natural rubber to silicone, stainless steel, wood, stone, and Pyrex. And though I wasn’t exactly a stick-in-the-mud, more than a few of these objects had me shaking my head.

  “I don’t know what half these things are for,” I grumbled.

  Marc chuckled. He leaned close. His breath tickled my ear as he whispered, “Pick your favorites and we’ll figure them out together.”

  Marc was kidding, of course—or maybe I just preferred to think he was. But his flirting accomplished one thing. It drew the attention of a saleswoman, who quickly appeared opposite us at the counter.

  “My name’s Victoria,” she informed us. “How may I serve you?”

  Victoria’s black hair was piled high on her head in an elaborate beehive. At her throat, she wore a triple-strand pearl choker. The deep V of her blouse revealed a lot of skin, and while the employees at Puss-in-Boots tried to channel a racy dominatrix vibe, the image Victoria at Pandora’s Box projected was one of a first-class lady who liked to indulge in her own special interests after dark.

  She opened the display case and withdrew a translucent pink gadget with a pair of suspiciously nubile nubs on the end. “Might I demonstrate this for you?”

  “Whatever baby wants,” Marc told her, his eyes on mine. He carried my hand to his lips, planted a kiss in my palm.

  “Actually,” I said, “I’d hoped to find Monique working tonight.”

  “Monique?”

  In the long pause that followed, I wondered if Victoria had pegged me as a fish out of water and would flag the bouncer.

  But then she said, “I’m sorry. Monique’s not here this evening, but Sable is very good with our visiting couples. She’ll take care of all your needs.”

  Victoria gestured to a neon-trimmed doorway on her right. “Please go through.”

  With Marc a step behind me and my heart hammering beneath my breastbone, I did.

  We found ourselves in a long, dimly lit hallway lined with smoky mirrors. Even the ceiling bounced our reflections back to us. I glanced at Marc. Behind his sunglasses, his face was professionally impassive and his arms hung loose at his sides. Whatever happened, he would have my back.

  At the end of the corridor, we halted. There were no doors, no obvious exits. And then a mirrored panel beside me slid open.

  A gorgeous woman stepped through it.

  “Welcome. My name is Sable.”

  Sable’s dusky skin gleamed with a sprinkling of gold dust and her long platinum ponytail spilled over her shoulder like a waterfall. In lieu
of a blouse or a bra, she wore gold pasties with luxe tassels that trembled when she breathed. Her gauzy underpants were nothing more than white lace. They glittered with gold embroidery. Her gold sandals had heels high enough to make a mountain climber giddy, and even her pedicure shone like precious metal.

  “Follow me,” she said, “and we’ll see what we can do for the two of you.”

  We stepped through the portal behind the mirror and into a purple room with half a dozen closed doors running down either side.

  “Left?” Sable asked. “Or right?”

  “Left,” I said, though I didn’t know what the choice would net me. I got the sense it indicated some kind of price point, however. Especially when Sable smiled.

  “Cash or credit?”

  I opted for cash, forked over the exorbitant amount of money Sable named, and she led us into a cubicle behind one of the purple doors.

  Some kind of double-wide fainting couch had been pushed against the back wall. Its burnt-orange coverlet and attendant throw pillows looked clean enough, but I wouldn’t have wanted to hit the thing with a stain-illuminating black light. The only other furniture in the small space was a wooden straight-backed chair. It faced a wide window cut into the front wall. On the other side of the glass, a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead, in outfits not unlike Sable’s, crawled all over each other.

  “I’ll leave you to enjoy the show,” Sable said. But then she licked her finger, drew a moist heart on the pane. “Or I can stay and play. Naturally, that would require an additional charge.”

  “Naturally.” I slipped the wad of bills Laura had sent me from the pocket of my jeans. Before Sable could name her price, I peeled off a few and held them aloft like an offering. “Do you know what I’d really like, Sable? I’d like to have you tell me how to get in touch with Monique Wells.”

  Sable eyed my money, bit her lower lip. Until caution got the better of her. “Are y’all cops?”

  “Not tonight.” Marc walked to the window, turned his back on the crazy mating game playing out on the other side of it, and leaned a shoulder against the glass. He removed his sunglasses, slipped them into his jacket pocket—and kept his eyes respectfully trained on Sable’s face.

  “I wouldn’t want to get a friend in trouble,” she said.

  I said, “So Monique is a friend of yours?”

  But I’d pushed Sable too hard. Her eyes flashed and her hands fisted on her hips. “Look, I don’t know what y’all are into, but—”

  “I’m concerned about Monique,” I told her. “You know her boyfriend, Damon? He was killed last night in a radioactive bomb blast onboard a riverboat. Monique was there. And so was I.”

  That stole all of Sable’s bravado.

  “Moni couldn’t stop talking about that guy. She said he was decent.” Sable sighed as she sank onto the wooden chair. “I’m sure this’ll come as no surprise to y’all, but decent’s in pretty short supply around here.”

  I bet it was. Men—and women, too—had a tendency to look at ladies like Sable and see a commodity to be consumed, like the soda you sip while watching TV. You get your fill and never think of it again. The clientele who hid behind the windows at Pandora’s Box, or pressed their luck in the darkened cubicles in exchange for a few bucks, didn’t give a damn about who these women were, where they’d come from, what they faced each day, or who waited for them at home each night.

  “Monique didn’t leave the boat with the rest of the passengers,” I said. “Radiation from the blast could’ve made her deathly sick. Or someone could’ve taken advantage of her in the commotion.”

  I had Eddie Jepson squarely in mind for that one.

  But Sable snorted.

  “It takes a tricky dick to take advantage of Moni. She’s been on the street since she was fourteen. Her folks were those uptight, holier-than-thou kind. She ran when she found out her daddy dearest was into something dirty.”

  “Dirty how?” Marc asked.

  “I dunno. She’s never said, and I’ve known her for close to fifteen years.” Sable frowned, began to pick at the cuticle on her thumb. “All the girls here are worried about her. We heard about the bombing. When she didn’t come in tonight, I called her, but she didn’t pick up.”

  “Give me her number and I’ll make sure she’s all right,” I promised. “Give me her address and I’ll go check on her, right now.”

  “No, no, no.” Sable jumped to her feet, platinum hair flying, and stormed for the door. “Listen, y’all might be all right, but I don’t know. And neither does Moni.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you my phone number. You can have Monique get in touch with me.”

  “She won’t do that.”

  “She might if you tell her I was on the boat, too. Tell her I was on the deck when Damon died. Tell her I saw the man who cornered her up against the rail.”

  That stopped Sable in her tracks.

  “All right,” she said at last. “You can give me your digits, but I can’t promise Moni’ll use ’em.”

  “I understand.”

  I handed her one of my plain-Jane business cards with nothing more than my name, the name of my company, and my cell number on it.

  And since she didn’t have a pocket, Sable tucked my card alongside the bills in the waistband of her gold-embroidered panties.

  Chapter 14

  Full-on night had descended on the Back Bay while Marc and I tried to convince Sable to trust us in the back rooms of Pandora’s Box. Now all I had to do was wait to see if Monique would contact me in turn. But I’d never been content to wait for anything.

  Still, I didn’t want to spend a moment longer in the cloying confines of that place than was strictly necessary. Marc and I emerged from the store and a stiff salty breeze blasted us. It smelled of rain and renewal and was a welcome relief after the supposedly sexy perfume of the lingerie shop where women pretended to be nothing more than playthings just to earn a living.

  I turned up the collar of my tweed blazer against the damp, and Marc and I struck out for his car. We didn’t make it very far. Half a block down, the sky opened. It let loose with a cold, hard downpour that drove chilling rivulets down my back and made me squeal.

  Marc seized my hand, towed me into the alley between Pandora’s Box and her neighbor. We ducked into a deep doorway framed in century-old sandstone. Between the two of us, it was a tight fit, but we made it.

  Wordlessly, we watched the rain. It slanted through the haze of the streetlamp out front and danced in puddles cradled by the broken brick pavers of the alleyway. It banished all sound except its own rat-a-tat-tat and that made me want to speak, just to fill the surrounding silence.

  “Thanks for watching my back tonight.” And because my gratitude felt a little too real, I added, “I thought you might get distracted by the scenery.”

  “Hey, I know how to keep my eyes on the prize. Besides, I’m not completely without morals. You might not believe me, babe, but I was a Boy Scout once.”

  I laughed. Not at the fact. At the nature of the confession.

  “It’s true,” Marc said, defending his honor.

  “I believe you.”

  “You should. You strike me as a former Girl Scout yourself.”

  “Nope.” I gathered the lapels of my blazer, but it didn’t do much good against the weather. “My father didn’t believe in Girl Scouts.”

  “Well, your father can believe what he wants, but the Girl Scouts do exist,” Marc quipped. “With all due respect to the Senator, of course.”

  Marc had never mentioned my father’s occupation before, though I supposed, like most people in orbit around Washington, DC, he’d known I was Senator James Sinclair’s daughter long before we’d ever met. Strangely, I felt a sense of relief in knowing that he knew. People get weird when the subject comes up. Like they think they need to impress me. Or like they’re planning how to use me.

  I said, “My father didn’t believe girls should be raised any differently than boys. He detested pink bi
cycles, Barbie dolls, and powderpuff football. He’d be the first to tell you it’s a man’s world. He expected his daughter to be able to function in it.”

  “I’d say you do more than function.”

  I heard respect in Marc’s voice—and something else. I didn’t want to think about what that something else might be. I clutched my coat closer to my throat and shivered as the cold nibbled at me.

  “Chilly?” Marc asked.

  I nodded.

  He shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It was a kind move, delivered by the hand of a kind man. Marc might have cultivated a bad-boy image, but the more time I spent with him, the more I suspected I didn’t yet know the real Marc Sandoval at all.

  “Can’t let you catch the sniffles,” he said.

  Marc snugged the collar of his coat under my chin. He didn’t let go. Instead, he dipped his head and his lips brushed mine.

  Softly.

  Slowly.

  “Warmer?” he whispered.

  Definitely.

  Out loud, I said, “A little bit.”

  “Only a little?” The ambient glow of the streetlight streaked the side of his chiseled face and got hung up on the corner of his cocky grin. “Then I’m doing this wrong.”

  Marc slipped his hands beneath my blazer. He wrapped me in his arms. He held me close, backed me to the unyielding sandstone. His body was strong and solid, and though I’d never admit it, it felt pretty damn good everywhere it pressed against mine.

  Marc kissed me again, harder this time. And hotter. His mouth was clever and encouraging and I began to wonder if I could ever get enough of it.

  Still, I should’ve shoved him away. I meant to shove him away. But my hands wouldn’t quite comply. They sought his chest, grabbed fistfuls of his shirt. My lips parted. Marc’s tongue touched mine. And that’s when guilt got the better of me.

  I turned my face from his. “I don’t…I don’t think of you this way.”

  “Yes, you do. You just let someone else stop you from acting on it.”

  Marc was right. And he was wrong. I was quite capable of making up my mind about delicious DEA agents without regard to handsome military cops. Still, he let me go. He leaned into the other jamb and the shrill trill of a cellphone stopped me before I could fill his ears with the facts.