by Kylie Brant
When Vickie rounded the corner into the cellar the woman there flinched away from the bright beam of light. “You got ten minutes to eat and drink.” Ripping the duct tape carelessly from her face, she warned, “If you start screaming again, you’ll go hungry.”
But the fight had streamed out of the woman. Awkwardly she reached out with her bound hands to bring the bottled water to her lips and gulped greedily. After a few moments, she lowered the bottle. “What are you going to do with him? He needs food and drink, too. You can’t just…”
“Shut the fuck up and eat. You’ve got eight more minutes.”
“But he…”
“…is not your problem. Guess you’re not hungry.” Vickie kicked the bag of fast food away with one foot and set down the light to pick up the roll of duct tape at her feet. Roughly she wound a length of tape around the female’s head again and over her mouth. Maybe she had Aunt Mary on the mind but this woman was starting to sound just like the old bitch had. Constantly telling her what to do. “Bet you’ll be ready to eat tomorrow.”
Ignoring the muffled sounds the woman was making, Vickie picked up the Maglite again and picked her way through the debris-strewn stone floor toward her other victim. Taking the knife from her pocket she bent toward the figure, smiling as he frantically rolled as far away as his bonds would allow. She sliced through the tape securing his ankles. “You and me are taking a little trip, pal.” Grabbing him by the shirt, she stuck her face close to his. “You do something stupid and I slit your throat and leave you here for the spiders to eat.” Hauling him to his feet, she nudged him toward the cellar steps.
Snapping off the flashlight, she left it on the top step, then moved into the bright sunlight, squinting. She pulled her victim to a stop until she could be sure there was no one in sight. The place was deserted. The entrances to the fields were further down the road, and the windbreak planted decades earlier still provided an effective screen.
She’d have to return to shut the cellar doors and refasten the padlock she’d bought for the rusted hasp. But first she needed to control the victim. She dug in her pocket for the fob with her keys and pressed the button that had the trunk lid rising. Giving the victim a push that sent him sprawling against the bumper, she ordered, “Get in.”
* * * *
“I told you on the phone earlier, we’re very careful with our guest information.” The manager of Saxony Suites brushed back his limp blond hair and pursed his too full lips. “But if you want to just leave a picture, I’ll try to make sure that my employees see it. I don’t want you to waste your time.”
Cam’s temper was dangerously frayed. ‘Waste of time’ was an exact descriptor for the hours spent so far chasing down this lead. They had only checked out five of the thirteen motels on the list, even with the help of the two uniforms Rodriguez had grudgingly assigned, after extorting Cam’s fifty-yard line Hawkeye tickets for the biggest game of the fall season. His mood had started out surly and had progressively worsened.
This was the only motel where it had been an employee making the report. But the others had to be checked out, as well. Even if it had been a guest calling the tip line, it was possible workers there would recognize Baxter’s picture. It was a tedious job.
There was management to go through and employees to round up. Although a few had found the photo and sketches Agent Jenna Turner had done depicting Baxter familiar, none could be certain whether they recognized her from the motel or from TV.
The result was far more ‘maybes’ than he’d feared, but nothing solid to go on. Cam’s patience was thinning accordingly.
“You have an employee by the name of Alison Jaye, right?” The woman had called the tip line two weeks ago, but the responding officer had been unable to contact her. “Is she working today?”
With a long-suffering sigh the manager led them back to his cramped office and plucked a schedule book from a teetering stack on his desk. Flipping to find today’s date, he ran his finger down an employee list. “Yes. She’s here. Alison runs the housekeeping unit so you’ll find her in her office or on a floor, checking on the cleaning progress.”
“Call her.” Tommy Franks’ tone brooked no opposition.
“I’ll be glad to direct you to her…”
Reaching across the desk, Cam picked up the receiver of the phone and handed it to the man. “Call her.”
Lips pressed together the man obeyed although his voice, when he spoke to the woman was peeved. Once he’d hung up Cam said, “Now I want to talk to those employees you have on duty. We’ll use your office. Bring them here in shifts.”
The manager’s face flushed. “As I said earlier, that’s not necessary. I can show them the picture myself.”
“Every motel in the area was faxed a picture of the suspect three weeks ago. Did you show it to your employees then?” Cam paused, watched the man squirm. “Exactly. Start calling your people in.”
Moments after the manager left the room a young woman appeared in the doorway, looked around the room. “I’m Alison Jaye. I see you got rid of Attila for the moment. We’d better make this quick.”
The two agents exchanged a look as the slight woman moved swiftly into the office. Young, vivacious with a wealth of light brown hair and eyes that looked permanently amused, the woman was the manager’s polar opposite.
“Attila?” Cam asked.
“The day manager. Donald Huncombe. Attila the Hun. Believe me, work with him a day and you’ll get the analogy.”
“I think we got a taste. DCI Agents Franks and Prescott.” Cam made the introductions. “You made a phone call a couple weeks ago to our tip hotline regarding a possible sighting of this woman.” He held up a picture of Vickie Baxter. Unlike Huncombe, she stepped forward and took the photo, studied it carefully.
“Yes, that’s the woman I saw. Room one-oh-eight. Four of my maids called in sick that day. Four. Day from hell. So I was pitching in, helping clean the rooms.” She handed back the picture and rounded the desk to sink in the manager’s chair. “Sorry. Don’t want to be rude but I never get a minute to sit on this job. So.” Her gaze was bright, bouncing from Cam to Tommy and back again. “No offense, but you took your time following up.”
“I believe an officer contacted you a couple times, but was unable to reach you.”
She frowned at Cam, tapped her fingers on the desk. “Really? I’m usually…” Her face cleared. “I was in and out for a while. Took some days off here and there because—this will come as no surprise to anyone but Attila—I’m interviewing for different jobs. Also my cell is currently residing at the bottom of the Saylorville Reservoir in a freak tubing incident and I just got it replaced. So my fault.” She made a face. “Anyway, there isn’t much more to tell you. I saw her the day I called you. I cleaned room one-oh-eight, spoke to this woman briefly and went on my way. It was only that one time. But at dinner that night I saw the news and thought, hey, long shot, but the pic they were showing looked a lot like her.”
“What did she say when you spoke to her?” Cam wanted to know.
Alison screwed up her brow. “I’m not going to remember the exact words, but something to the effect that she wanted no housekeeping services. At all. Said the room wasn’t to be touched and she’d call for towels when she needed them.” She shrugged. “We make note of special requests on the master schedule and act accordingly. That one stood out because hey, makes less work, you know?”
Interest flickered. “Is the woman still here?”
Alison hid a yawn behind one balled up fist. “Sorry. Double shift. Another reason to love Attila. I have no idea about reservations. That’s not my gig. All I know is I still have the request on my schedule. If she’s checked out, no one’s told me. I use a software program that keeps track of everything. Each time the room is cleaned and by whom, special requests. Staff is supposed to keep track of any and all requests they fill. They don’t always, but they’re supposed to. Helps me improve customer satisfaction if I can be sure reques
ts are fulfilled in a timely manner, and what sort of requests we receive most frequently. Not to mention tracking employee work production.”
“A software program.” A spurt of adrenaline kickstarted in his veins. “So you could check the last time a call came in from room three-oh-four asking for towel service?”
“Maybe. If it was documented the way it was supposed to be, yeah, I could.”
“I need that information.”
Huncombe’s voice could be heard in the hallway and she leaped from his chair, jostling the desk as she did so. Eyes wide, she watched the stack of file folders and books begin to sway. “Oh shit.” She made a wild grab, in vain. As if in slow motion the pile toppled to the floor.
The manager picked that exact moment to walk in the door, then stopped, mouth open when he saw the mess. He aimed a narrowed look at the woman. “Alison! Are you responsible for this?”
Cam stepped between them. “Sorry. I must have brushed the pile as I went by.”
Alison sailed to the door as Cam crouched next to Huncombe to help gather up the mess. She paused in the doorway, blew them a kiss and scurried away. Cam felt a twinge of amusement. A sense of humor was probably a must working with the man.
“It’s fine, I can get this.” The manager stood, his arms bulging with folders. “I’ve summoned the bellhops first. If you could be quick, I’d like them back on the job as soon as possible.”
Franks headed out the door, leaving Cam to deal with the manager. “I need the name of the guest in room one-oh-eight on this date.” He glanced down at his notes and recited the date of Jaye’s call to the tip line. “How long did the guest stay, was she alone, payment information…”
Huncombe was shaking his head, the folders and books hugged tight to his chest. “We protect our guests’ privacy. You’ll need a warrant for that.”
“That won’t be a problem.” He was already digging into his pocket for his cell phone, having already decided that Gonzalez could expedite the task better than he could. It went without saying the process would take longer than he wanted. Judges didn’t exactly sit by their phones waiting to respond. “We’ll continue this conversation on the third floor.”
“What?” Huncombe dumped the mess on his desk and rushed after Cam as he headed out the door. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Yeah, it is. I may not be able to get into one-oh-eight until the warrant comes through, but no one else will be allowed in either.”
* * * *
Michael Frasier was on his second overpriced beer and already pissed off. This whole rape fantasy ad he’d answered was starting to be a pain in the ass. First was the list of questions he’d had to answer about his background. Then the demand for medical records proving he was STD free. He’d almost said fuck it then, but the cash for the doctor visit had been messengered over to his place as promised. He could have taken the money to the casino and forgotten the whole thing, but he couldn’t forget it. Dammit, the more he’d heard about this deal the sweeter it had sounded. An entire night playing out his own rape fantasies with an anonymous willing woman? There wasn’t a guy with a dick who’d walk away from that kind of deal.
Which was why he was sitting outside Legends on Court Street, an area of town that boasted scarce parking, trendy restaurants, pricey drinks and frequented by people who tended to stare at a guy with prison tats on his knuckles sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the terrace.
He pegged the woman as the one he was waiting for as soon as she stepped through the door. She wore a big floppy black hat, sundress and huge shades. Something about her suggested she wasn’t entirely comfortable in the dress and heels she wore. She scanned the outdoor patio area for a couple seconds before heading toward him.
Frasier looked her over as she approached. Bigger than he liked, but not overweight. He’d never gone for the cows, even at closing time. Just because he’d been in prison didn’t mean he couldn’t have standards. She had decent-sized tits and from what he could make out her ass would definitely do. He felt himself begin to harden. Maybe this hadn’t been a complete waste of his time after all.
The woman sat down and they were silent for a moment while he felt her looking him over from behind the shades. When she spoke her voice was brisk. “Do you have the test results? And your ID?”
He pulled the rolled up envelope from his back jeans pocket and tossed it over to her. Then yanked out his wallet and flipped it open to his driver’s license, sliding it across the table to her. His earlier annoyance began to return. He’d already given the woman on the phone his name and address and he’d bet money a background check had been run. This was worse than applying for a damn job to get his parole officer off his back.
He finished his beer while the woman looked at his lab results. But she surprised him when she reached into her purse and withdrew a white envelope very much like the one he’d handed her and gave it to him. “My friend’s lab results. Safety first.”
He stared at her, not opening the envelope. “Your friend’s?”
The woman shook her head at the approaching waitress and the server veered off course, leaving them to their solitude in the corner. “It’s sort of a bucket list for a few of us. Each chooses a man to make one friend’s ah…sexual fantasy come true. You’ll do for her. I think you’ll do just fine.” She nodded to the envelope he still hadn’t opened. “Inside you’ll also find her name, home and business addresses, and a list of what she’s into sexually. Feel free to spice things up with your own ideas, the rougher the better. My friend has a hard time finding men who aren’t afraid to do whatever it takes to satisfy her.”
“Maybe she hasn’t looked in the right places.”
“Oh, I think we can agree on that.” She gave a silent laugh. “Your approach is up to you. She wants it realistic so either you snatch her off the street or you find a way to enter her business or townhouse.” The woman fingered the trio of bright red bracelets on one wrist. “She’s got a boyfriend she’s been staying with recently and a security system at home so keep that in mind. The money included is for any…toys you might want to bring along. I stuck in a business card for where you can buy that stuff.”
Obviously finished, she rose and stuffed the papers he’d given her into her large purse. “The timing is up to you, but if you wait too long I’ll figure you’re not following through and make the arrangements with someone else.” She smirked. “There are several guys interested, as you can imagine.”
“Oh, I’m interested.” And not totally disappointed that the target of this little role play wasn’t the woman in front of him. She didn’t look like the type to submit easily.
“Good.” Something about the smile she gave him had the hair rising on Frasier’s nape. “I want my friend…to get everything she deserves. Don’t disappoint us.” With that she turned and made her way through the collection of patio tables and chairs on the terrace.
He didn’t bother to watch her go. Tearing open the envelope she’d left behind he gave a cursory glance to what looked like lab results attesting the patient was disease free. Then he shook out the other items the woman had mentioned. His brows rose when he saw the hundred-dollar bill inside and the business card for the Pleasure Emporium. He’d heard of the place but had never been inside. Not much call for props when most of his hookups were whores or women too drunk to even recall it the next day.
There was a folded note inside with a list of instructions. Because he’d never been fond of rules he skipped over most, after noting the ‘safe word’ was squeaky. Frasier snorted. Women and their games. But his ire faded when he read the description of what his target was looking for. Jesus, she must be a twisted little piece. No wonder she couldn’t get what she wanted from most guys.
Fortunately, Michael Frasier was not most guys. He could fulfill every wish on this list all night long, and he wouldn’t need the help of medication either. He was also imaginative enough to throw in a few other acts that might teach her a t
hing or two.
He shifted uncomfortably. Just thinking about it had his cock straining against his jeans. There was one more item in the envelope. He shook it out and held it up, squinting at it in the fading light. Printed on eight by eleven paper, it was a digital picture of a petite blond taken as she walked down a street. Better than a photo, he judged because it showed her whole body. A blond. On the short side, but with enough curves to make him anxious to strip her out of the skirt and heels she wore to get down to business. His gaze fell to the name at the bottom of the picture.