Ash in the Blood

by Lyn Forester

  Unconcerned about the height, Reagen skates near the edge of the roof, glances over the protective wall, and circles back around. She disappears from his line of sight as she circles around the stairwell house.

  “There’s a ladder over here.” A thump comes from the wall to his left.

  “It goes higher?” He tells himself his voice didn’t break on the question.

  “Come look.” Another thud, this one from the ceiling.

  He steps out on the roof, keeps a hand on the wall, and circles the stair house until he locates the ladder. The rungs are freezing beneath his hands. He focuses on the numbing sensation instead of the distance between his feet and solid ground.

  A deep, steadying breath pulls in the smell of burnt metal and oil. The next step up brings his eyes level with the smaller roof space, and he sees Reagen crouched over a dark lump. She side steps around the mass, crouched low, and her feet kick up eddies of ash.

  “See anything that can help?”

  She glances at him, still clinging to the ladder, and shakes her head. “I would bet my disc-bike this is the source of the camera outage. But it looks like it self-destructed, complete meltdown. It’s fused to the roof. Even if we could move it, I doubt there’s enough left to get anything from it. The fire would have destroyed any evidence left by the person who planted it here.”

  She scoops a handful of gravel from the roof, lets it sift through her fingers. Her hand turns gray with ash. With a frown, she pulls a plastic envelope from inside her jacket and scoops up another handful, dumping the debris inside. She stands and tucks the evidence bag inside her coat.

  “You always carry evidence bags?”

  “Usually.” She nudges the metal lump with her toe; it doesn’t budge. “Someone went through a lot of effort to cover up what happened to Clark after he left the delicatessen.”

  “Then we should talk to the last person who saw him alive.” Grip tight on the rungs, he begins the descent back to safety. “To the whorehouse!”

  BLUEBERRY MUFFIN

  REAGEN

  “This isn’t what I had in mind.” Drake glances around the narrow hallway, hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “The whorehouse is closed. Now hush.” Tony’s Delicatessen cuts corners in yet another area of security. Mechanical locks on their apartments. Lucky me, I can open these, too.

  I’m rusty, though, and don’t have my picks. The hairpins I’m improvising with came from the communal bathroom down the hall. They’d been in a green tote with mint soap, a hairbrush filled with chocolate brown strands, and a sign that read Property of Peppermint Patty—Do Not Touch.

  The last tumbler slides up with a click, and I twist my tension pick left. The lock plug turns, as it should, but the door doesn’t open.

  “Sure you know how to do this?” Drake’s breath wafts the hair over my ear, tickling.

  “Shut up. I got this.” With a sigh, I pull out the hairpin I bent into an L-shape, reposition it on the other side of the tumbler, and apply light pressure. I slide the straight pin to the back of the lock then slowly drag it forward. The tumblers move up, one, two, three, four, five. A twist to the right, and the lock plug rotates one-eighty. I turn the knob, and the door swings inward.

  “Ha!” I spring to my feet. Victory dance time.

  “Took you long enough.” Drake’s hand lands between my shoulder blades and shoves me into the apartment. “Looks like you’re right. She’s not here.”

  “Of course I’m right.” The thin walls make it easy to hear if someone’s inside. I feel sorry for Lemon Chiffon; I can hear her neighbor mumbling in her sleep through the open doorway.

  The room reflects the quality of the hallway, small and poorly maintained. A single studio with a sink and hot plate shoved into the corner next to a closet, the only visible storage. Fifteen-by-fifteen square feet, max, with just enough floor space for a two-seater couch and a roll-up futon.

  “Is this it?” As Drake paces in behind me, the studio becomes smaller.

  “Looks like it.” The faint smell of lemon and vanilla fills the space, with undertones of mold. In the corner, next to the sink, a black swath of bacteria creeps up the wall. Smears of faded gray show failed attempts to wipe away the growth.

  “Not much to search through.” Drake moves to the back where the futon rests, rolled in front of the closet.

  I move to the couch, flip through a couple out-of-date fashion magazines. In a few places, the corners are clipped, with red circles to mark specific outfits of interest. Faint traces of other marker colors are visible, as if the catalogues have passed through multiple hands. Printed issues are expensive. They can be viewed online for free, but I don’t see a desk-port. Maybe the girls pooled their credits to order them.

  Something soft and heavy falls against my leg, and I turn, almost tripping over the unrolled futon. Drake stands at the top, hands gripping the edges.

  “No bedding.” He frowns at the stain-marked mattress. Unrolled, it rises a scant six inches off the ground. Not much cushion between a body and a hard floor.

  “Could be in the wash.”

  He leans over and opens the closet, revealing barren shelves. “Yeah, today might be laundry day.”

  I hop over the futon into the open two-foot space in front of the kitchenette. The odor of mold gets stronger. It would be a pervasive thing, sinking into the woman’s lungs. A cough would develop, a fever if it went on long enough. I crouch and open the cupboard beneath the sink to show empty shelves, a lone packet of energy paste wedged in the back.

  “She could be out grocery shopping.” Drake sounds doubtful, though, and I have to agree.

  “What are you doing in here?” a strident voice demands from the doorway.

  I stand, unhurried, and close the cabinet. A woman stands in the hallway, arms akimbo and purple nightgown swirling around her upper thighs. Her hair, up in rollers, has a dark indigo tint.

  I hop over the futon, and when I get closer, the scent of blueberries fills my nose. Friday night’s black menu special, Blueberry Muffin.

  Her hands drop from her hips as I near, her eyes widening in alarm. She takes a step back, gaze flicking over my shoulder.

  “I’m Investigator Thorpe.” I pull out my I.I. badge and extend it for her to see. Her shoulders relax as she confirms my identity. “This is my partner, Junior Esten.”

  “Hey,” Drake grunts from the rear wall as he rolls up the futon.

  “Are you here about Jenny?” She looks back into the room, wide blue eyes flitting around the space. Jenny must be Lemon Chiffon’s real name.

  “Yes, we need to speak to her. Do you know where we can find her?”

  The woman bursts into tears and flings herself at me. I stand, arms at my sides, unsure what to do while she soaks my front. Her head doesn’t even come to my shoulder.

  Drake comes to the rescue, gentle hands pulling Blueberry Muffin off of me and into his far more accepting embrace. She takes the transfer without protest, small fists bunching in his shirt.

  I close the door as he walks backward five short steps to the couch and settles them onto it.

  Awkward, with nowhere left to sit, I lean against the sink counter and wait for the crying to stop.

  ~

  It takes a while, longer than it should. I think she drew it out, to have a reason to cling to Drake. When she devolves into sniffles and hiccups, he settles her back against the arm of the couch.

  “Tell us what happened.” He captures her hand in his, thumb smoothing over her knuckles in comfort.

  “She’s been hinting she got an offer to move up a level. A way to leave all this behind.” Blueberry Muffin waves a hand at the room. “But she didn’t tell us what she was doing. She started buying used fashion magazines. She let me have a couple. The stuff in them is expensive.”

  “Did she say what level she’ll be moving to?” I glance at the catalogues, which are over a year out-of-date and low quality for anyone above Level 6. But they’d be high fashi
on here.

  “She told Tiramisu Level 11. It pissed off some of the girls, and they called her a liar. Tiramisu threatened to report her to Madam if she didn’t stop telling stories.”

  “Do you think she was lying?” Drake asks, voice soothing, his attention focused on her like they’re alone in the room.

  “No.” Blueberry Muffin’s shoulders go back as she straightens. “She showed me the credit stick she got in advance. We were pals, and she said she’d get me a job once she settled into her new place. Even offered to let me stay with her until I got an apartment of my own.”

  “But she didn’t tell you what the job was?” The odor of mold gets to me, and I move away to stand behind Drake.

  “No, she said it was part of the contract, but once she settled in, she’d get me a contract, too.” The woman sniffles, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her robe. “But then, Wednesday night, right in the middle of her shift, she sent out a blast message she was leaving and wouldn’t be back, and none of us have heard a word since. And her stuff is gone.”

  Blueberry Muffin’s wide eyes, red rimmed with tears still clinging to the lashes, lose focus. She looks lost and confused. I fight a twinge of sympathy. In this line of work, I know Lemon Chiffon most likely never planned to help her.

  “She might be settling in and just hasn’t had time to contact you yet,” Drake soothes, but his eyes waver. He doesn’t believe what his own words.

  “No, you don’t understand,” Blueberry Muffin cries. She pitches forward to bury her face back in Drake’s chest. Her voice comes muffled from the soggy space beneath his chin. “I don’t think she left. Something’s happened to her, and no one believes me.”

  “You said Level 11?” Drake wraps an arm around her to cuddle her close. A hand smooths across her back in comfort. He glances back at me, and I shrug in response. We already figured out Lemon Chiffon is linked to our case.

  “Yes, and now you’re here, so I know I’m right!” Her arms wind up to circle his neck as her body presses closer to him.

  “Why do you think she didn’t leave?” I ask, and she jumps, looking over Drake’s shoulder at me. I make a note to use Drake’s attractiveness whenever possible. He has a magical allure that people can’t resist. No idea how it works, but it could come in handy.

  Blueberry Muffin pulls away, her cheeks staining red with embarrassment. She folds her hands in her lap to avoid further Drake temptation.

  “We signed contracts with Tony’s Delicatessen at the same time, so we bonded as the new girls. We didn’t really know what we were getting into.” Again, her eyes travel around the room, settling on the rolled futon. “It was hard, at first. We were both new to the work, and the training started right away. We spent a lot of nights together, after. Just to not be alone.”

  “You could have left.”

  “We signed a three-month probation contract, and we had nowhere else to go.” She picks at the hem of her robe, tries to smooth it over her knees. A failed effort, the robe a good four inches too short. “We used to talk about our future, how we’d get ahead in this business. We started putting credits aside for our own shop, where we’d be the madams. We’d treat our employees better.”

  “Sometimes people change,” I say, and Drake throws a glare over his shoulder.

  “Not Jenny,” Blueberry Muffin insists, her hands twisting in the hem of her bathrobe, the material wrinkling in her grip. “She added to our shared account last week. And now she’s gone, and the credits are still there. If she was going to bail, she’d have taken her share of the credits out.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t need the credits anymore.” Someone needs to play the hard ass here, and Drake’s got cuddle puff well in hand.

  “Then why take her stuff with her?” She springs from the couch, arms waving around the room. “What she owned, it wasn’t worth much. Why pack everything here if she could have just left it?”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense.” Drake soothes, cups her elbow, and draws her back to sit. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “No.” She blots at her damp face with the sleeve of her robe. “She was real close lipped. The contract stipulated she couldn’t talk about her new employer.”

  “What about the credit stick?” I move to crouch next to Drake. It puts me on a lower level, which I hate, but makes me smaller, less threatening. I need her to focus.

  “What about it?” She glances at me, and I catch her gaze, hold it. Hesitant, I reach out and put a light hand over hers, feel the smoothness of her skin where the hair’s been removed, the grease of lotion. I shift my fingers until they graze her wrist. Her heartbeat flutters beneath my touch.

  “When did she get the credit stick?”

  “Two weeks ago, I think. That’s when she showed it to me. She invited me over to read the new magazines.” She starts to glance down, and I sway, drawing her attention back.

  “What did it look like? The credit stick?”

  “It was silver, I think. Smaller than my thumb.”

  “Any markings on it?”

  Her face scrunches in thought. “I think it had a blue line on one side. No, two lines. They matched my hair.”

  The hand I’m not holding rises to pat her head and settles on a curler. She freezes, gaze skittering to Drake as if only just realizing how she must appear. He gives her a smile, the sexy one that makes people want to throw their underwear at him. I apply light pressure to her wrist, redirecting her attention before she’s drawn into his attraction vortex.

  “Did her pattern change? Did she disappear at odd times?”

  “No, she kept to her same schedule. We didn’t always work the same nights, but Madam keeps tabs on us to make sure we’re not working off-book. When we go out, it’s a buddy system, and the driver takes us.”

  “Then how did she find the new job?”

  “It had to have been one of her clients. It happens sometimes.” She leans toward me, voice dropping. “A couple girls have had their contracts paid off by customers who want to make them their mistresses. Madam charges double for the labor loss, but it’s a good way to get out if you can catch the right person’s interest.”

  “Have you ever been approached?” Her heartbeat remains steady beneath my fingertips.

  “Once.” Her shoulders droop. “He was a sweet man, but he never came back. I don’t think he could afford to buy me out.”

  “Did you notice any unusual clients paying special attention to Jenny?”

  “She was a few peoples’ favorite. She originally wanted to be an actress, and she knew how to pretend. But the only one who could afford her, she didn’t want. He liked to…” Her pulse spikes beneath my fingertips, distressed, as her hand flutters around her throat, fingers massaging her windpipe. “He was rough. Madam banned him from the shop. But that was months ago.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Older. He had a limp sometimes, and he carried a cane. He was real expensive looking, with silver hair. Tall.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “No. Madam’s firm about anonymity.” She stumbles over the last word, as if she’s heard it multiple times and had to practice saying it. “It’s how she draws in the big, upper-level clients.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Drake struggle to hide a smile. Madam should pay for better security if she values her customers’ privacy so much.

  I release her to reach into my pocket and pull out my palm-port. A couple taps and I have Clark’s photo on screen. I show it to Blueberry Muffin. “Do you recognize this man?”

  She takes the device and holds it close to her face, teeth nibbling at her lip in concentration. After a moment, she shakes her head. “No, but we only see the clients who order us. Otherwise, we wait up here until we get called.”

  “Thank you for looking.” I take the palm-port back, slide it back into my pocket. The grease of her lotion clings to my skin, and I wipe it against my thigh before standing. “We’ll let you know if
we find her.”

  “You’ll look for her?” She rises from the couch, hands clasped in front of her chest. Her eyes, wide and hopeful, gaze up at me. “I don’t have much, but I’ll pay you from my half of the savings account.”

  I want to talk to Lemon Chiffon to see if she knows what happened to Clark. But it looks more and more like her fate and his are tied and, if we find her, it won’t be good. Either she was lured into something that got her killed, or she knew what she took part in, and she’ll be going to jail.

  Neither option will make Blueberry Muffin happy. But staring into those big blue eyes, surrounded by damp lashes, I can’t bring myself to break her.

  “Keep your credits. We’ll let you know if we find her.”

  She lunges forward, pressing her soft body into mine. “Thank you so much!”

  ~

  “You’re a softy on the inside, aren’t you?” Drake says from a couple steps behind me.

  “Shut up.” I don’t need to hear this from him. The employee apartments above Tony’s have an access door separate from the main shop that exits into the back alley. Narrow and poorly lit, the stairway has an unpleasant smell of fruit and bleach cleaner. I want out of it, right now.

  “You know Lemon Chiffon’s dead.” He keeps his voice low as we reach the ground floor. “You gave her hope.”

  “She might be alive.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell her?” I push open the heavy door to step into the alley.

  “I was the comforting shoulder in there. You were the hard ass.” Drake’s palm-port rings, the tones muffled by his coat. He pauses in the doorway to dig it out. Ringing bounces around the stairwell, and he stabs a thumb at the screen to silence it. After a brief look, he puts it away.

  “Same number as last time?” I ask.