Mimicry of Banshees

by G. K. Parks

  “I don’t see how you win every time,” I complained, even though I could have easily beaten him if I wanted to, but there was a possibility that was just my stubborn, competitive side talking.

  “I don’t always win,” he said quietly. His comment left me intrigued, and I felt there might be a story there. “We’ve all been bested once or twice.”

  “When you lose, if you lose, do you pay the player back for the game?” Maybe a fellow mancala lover thought he had been cheated and was looking for revenge.

  “Yep, full refund and bragging rights.” He tilted his head to the side, apprehensively. It’d be best to escape before whatever was leading him to be wary turned into an actual thought.

  “See ya around, kid.” I waited in my car for a few minutes in case anyone else showed up. But he watched my exit, so I couldn’t stay too long.

  As I put my car in reverse, two teenagers approached the bench where he was sitting. I didn’t get a good look at them, and there was no realistic excuse to backtrack. Maybe they were his friends from school, and he wouldn’t be alone the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, I attempted to dress elegantly but still appear casual and headed for the Guillots’ house. It was Thursday night, and I agreed to meet with Luc, Vivi, and Thomas for dinner. Maybe Vivi could shed some light on the intricacies of Mrs. Smidel.

  Stopping by the liquor store, I bought a mid-priced bottle of red wine since one should always arrive with a gift for the host. I didn’t know why or how certain rules of etiquette got stuck in my head, but it probably wasn’t a bad thing that some aspects of my life were refined. Or at least I had enough sense to pretend to be refined.

  I pulled up to the Guillots’ estate. It was large and intimidating, even though it was only two or three levels, but it seemed to go on for miles in either direction. Why in the world three people needed such a large house was beyond me, but it was none of my business. I stood outside, staring at the ceramic fountain and holding my pathetic gift as I waited for someone to answer the door.

  “Ma’am,” a maid opened the door, “may I take your purse and coat?” I handed over the items, and Vivi appeared in the foyer to greet me.

  “Alexis, how wonderful to see you again.” She kissed both my cheeks, and I gave her the bottle of wine. “Thank you so much. How are you? I was delighted to hear we were having company for dinner,” she practically gushed. Considering the fact I only met the woman a handful of times, Luc’s assessment of her loneliness seemed accurate.

  “I’m very well, thank you. How are you? Your home is lovely.” She uttered cordial responses, ushering me into the living room and pouring a glass of wine.

  “Thomas, Luc,” she called, “Alexis is here.” A teenage boy, probably fourteen or fifteen, slunk down the steps. “Where’s your father?” she asked in French. I pretended not to notice as I sat primly on the couch, scared to death of spilling or breaking anything. Luc was in the middle of a business call with the Paris office, concerning some type of management issue. “Men.” She rolled her eyes, and we spent the next twenty minutes catching up and making small talk until she asked the real reason for my visit.

  “Do you know Lynette Smidel?” I inquired.

  “Lynette, oui.” Maybe if my name was something French sounding, I would have enough money to afford an estate and maids. “She’s absolutely lovely. We’re on the PTA together, but I must plead guilty.” My brow furrowed, confused by her words. “She was in a bind, and I suggested you could solve the problems she’s having with Roger.”

  “I appreciate all the work I can get,” I said, much to her relief. “But I haven’t found anything wrong. Roger seems like a great kid, a bit of a loner but sweet and smart. Anything you can tell me about either Lynette or Roger might be helpful.” She nodded and nudged Thomas with the tip of her shoe.

  “Ms. Parker, I’ve seen Roger at school.” His English was less accented than his mother’s, probably because he had been speaking it since he was four or five. Europe tended to favor teaching multiple languages, unlike the United States. “He is two grades ahead of me, so I don’t know him very well. But he’s often teased. He’s a dork, and his friends are outcasts.” She gave him a sharp look, and he sunk into the couch.

  “I might have caught on to that.” I winked, hoping he wouldn’t get in trouble for his assessment. “Has anyone ever beat him up or made his life unpleasant?”

  “No. No one says anything to him. It’s more like they say it about him.” Well, it was high school. This was to be expected.

  “Thank you for the help, Thomas.” I turned to Vivi. “Is there anything I should know about Lynette? Does she seem stable? Do you know any details concerning the death of her husband?” My conversation was starting to sound more like an interrogation than friendly chatter, and I made the conscious effort to turn off the ingrained federal agent instinct.

  “He died of a disease. Something rare I never heard of before. She’s been keeping busy with little projects in the school and PTA. She’s worked on every single fundraiser since I started helping at Highland Prep.”

  Luc entered the living room and poured himself a drink, smiling brightly. “Alexis, so glad you could make it.” I thanked him for his generous invitation, and not long after, the maid announced supper was ready. We ate mostly in silence, but I uttered as many compliments as possible. “How are things with James?”

  “Um.” I tried not to appear as flummoxed as I felt.

  “The model on his yacht,” he clarified.

  “Oh,” I recovered somewhat, “like I said, Mr. Martin’s not responsible for any of it. I’m assisting the police. They have a few leads, but nothing significant has surfaced yet.” He nodded solemnly, and Vivi opened her mouth with a question. But before she could say a word, my cell phone rang. “How incredibly rude of me,” I apologized, excusing myself from the table. “I hate to do this, but I need to take this call.”

  Once I was in another room, I answered. “Any news on Alvarez?” I asked Heathcliff.

  “Still nothing. Moretti’s assigned more guys to the case. The longer we go without answers, the harder it is to dodge the press and find the scumbag.”

  “Do you want me to knock down some doors, Detective?” I teased since I didn’t know Heathcliff to beat around the bush. Something was up.

  “We’ve come up with an idea, but you’re not going to be happy about it. Do you have time to meet me at the precinct?” I shut my eyes. How discourteous would it be if I ran out the door right now? Etiquette would not be pleased with such action.

  “Can you give me an hour?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t make any snide remarks. Whatever he wanted, I wasn’t going to like it. I went back into the dining room, trying to look ashamed.

  “Is everything all right?” Luc asked. I suspected they heard my end of the conversation.

  “Speak of the devil,” I replied. “I hate to eat and run, but I have to leave for the precinct in a few minutes.”

  “In that case, we shall put dessert on the table.” Vivi signaled the maid to clear the plates.

  “I am so sorry about this,” I said sincerely as the most delectable cheesecake was placed on the table before me, and I resisted the urge to inhale it or ask for a to-go box. “I always imagined working in the private sector would lead to more stable hours.” Vivi made a noise and looked pointedly at Luc.

  “Stability and reasonable hours don’t exist anywhere,” he offered. “Even in business, eight to four is never actually eight to four. I’ve been working long hours too. First, because of my new position at the company, and then filling in for James as he recovered from surgery, and tomorrow, he’s out of the office, so it’ll be another long day. But I can’t complain,” he looked unyieldingly at his wife, “it’s all part of the job.”

  After dessert, I said good-bye to Thomas, who looked relieved to be able to slink back upstairs. Luc disappeared into another room to conference call for work, and Vivi insis
ted on showing me out.

  “It was wonderful to see you, Alexis. Don’t be a stranger. We’ll have to do this again soon.”

  “That sounds great.” I collected my belongings and opened the front door.

  “Lynette’s a lovely woman. I hope you can help her.” She smiled warmly.

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised.

  Fifteen

  Leaving the Guillots, I went straight to the police station. Immediately, upon entering, I noticed Heathcliff, O’Connell, Thompson, and Moretti all huddled around the corkboard.

  “What? You needed a coach to call the plays?” I quipped as my heels clacked loudly against the tile floor. I probably should have changed before coming to the precinct in a red dress and unreasonably high heels.

  “Damn, Parker,” Thompson commented, “did you dress up just to demonstrate your willingness to…”

  Before he could finish his statement, Heathcliff kicked him under the desk and gave him a dangerous look. I raised an eyebrow and waited for someone to explain what was going on. Either Thompson was planning to make a lewd comment or something strange was about to happen.

  “You look nice,” O’Connell complimented. Moretti went into his office, probably trying to distance himself from the three chuckleheads. “I’m sorry we ruined your evening. Were you out with anyone special?” I gauged his question, trying to determine if he was implying something. As far as I knew, he was the only person who had any idea about my history with Martin.

  “Okay, what the fuck is going on?” I asked. Knowing looks were exchanged, but no one said a word. “Fine. I was gathering info on something else I’m working, but instead, I drop everything to come down here. No inappropriate comments,” I snarled at Thompson. “And no hot dates with anyone special,” I growled at O’Connell. “Detective Heathcliff, what the hell is so important for me to be here tonight?”

  “Let’s go in Moretti’s office to talk.” He threw angry looks at the other two detectives before escorting me into Moretti’s office. “Are you trying to piss her off?” I heard him whisper to them. I rolled my eyes, and Moretti shook his head.

  “Y’know, the reason we have to hire consultants is because of the brain trust we got working here,” Moretti said, exasperated.

  “Okay,” Heathcliff was back to being his normal stoic self, “I know this started out as a bad joke, but we’re not making any headway in finding Alvarez or getting enough hard evidence. We want to send someone inside to infiltrate Tate’s agency. She has an obvious opening left by Caterina and is hosting an open call on Monday.” Today was not the day to show up at the precinct in a dress.

  “You can’t be serious. I’m still waiting for the punch line.” I rubbed my forehead, hoping this was a bad dream.

  “You signed a waiver.” Moretti produced the pile of paperwork I agreed to. “But you’re a consultant, so I can’t order you to do anything. You don’t have to work this.”

  “I’m knocking on thirty’s door, and I’m not a giraffe for god’s sake. I’m 5’6 and not model thin.”

  “You’re close to model thin. Hell, you’re one missed meal away from model thin,” Heathcliff offered, and I gaped at him. “You could probably pass for twenty-four or twenty-five. It’s a little on the older side, but you won’t be auditioning for runway. Maybe we can sell you as print ads or those girls that stand next to cars and boats.”

  “Showcase,” Moretti offered.

  I was horrified. This must be what it was like to enter the Twilight Zone. “Boys,” I tried a different tactic, “I’m damaged goods. I have more scars than I care to count.” I uncrossed my legs and moved the hem of my skirt up an inch to reveal the jagged scar on my thigh. The wraparound pink lines on my wrists and the white remnants of electrical burns on my chest were obvious enough on their own without having to point them out.

  “Makeup or airbrushing can take care of that.” Heathcliff had all the answers. He and the Three Stooges must have practiced the conversation, so they’d be prepared for anything I could throw at them.

  “You said you wanted to track down the killer after our James Martin blunder,” Moretti cajoled. “If you agree and give us the go ahead, we’ll send you and a few of our female officers to audition at Tate’s agency on Monday. We’ll establish your cover story, complete with background and previous experience. You just have to show up and strut your stuff. It’s our best chance at a solid lead. The more people we send, the more likely one of you will be able to infiltrate Tate’s inner circle.”

  “Looks like I’m jogging home tonight,” I muttered sarcastically. “And fair warning, I get incredibly bitchy when I’m hungry, so you might want to keep your Kevlar on at all times.” Moretti chuckled and called the techs to start creating a profile.

  “You mean to tell me this is non-bitchy Parker I’ve been dealing with for the last few days,” Heathcliff teased as we left Moretti’s office. “God, I’m already scared.”

  “Careful, Detective,” I jokingly warned, “you’re right on the edge of clever banter. I’d hate to see you cross over to the dark side.”

  * * *

  The next day, I put on a pair of jeans, sneakers, a button-up white linen blouse, my shoulder holster, and a leather jacket. Subconsciously, I was doing my best to scream out law enforcement instead of model. I wasn’t particularly fond of undercover work since it relied too heavily on the unknown and not enough on tried and true investigations, but no one ever spoke openly to law enforcement. This was why undercover assignments were so important and why Moretti was using this tactic as a last ditch effort to get answers to Caterina’s murder. It wouldn’t have been as bad, except I didn’t like being gawked at while dressed in skimpy outfits, preferring instead to blend in to the background rather than being the center of attention.

  “Parker,” Heathcliff handed me a file as soon as I walked through the door, “here’s your alias. Make sure you have every bit of this memorized by Monday, the day of the interview.”

  “Can’t we spend today and the weekend locating Alvarez and finding Skolnick’s assailant so this,” I held up the folder, “won’t even be an issue.”

  “I like the way you think.” He just crossed over to the dark side. “Feel free to enlighten me with your omniscient abilities.” I remained silent. “Until that happens,” he continued, “go downstairs. The tech department has set up a photo shoot near the locker rooms. We need headshots, comp cards, and realistic previous experiences done for everyone, so we’ve hired some professional makeup people and wardrobe guys.”

  “Smile pretty for the camera,” O’Connell called, and I gave him my smoldering look before turning back to Heathcliff, who nodded to the stairway.

  “Walk with me, Nick.” My voice was commanding, and a chorus of ‘oohs’ echoed through the squad room. O’Connell obediently followed, and once we were out of earshot and within the privacy permitted between the two sets of double doors, I stopped. “I thought you weren’t allowed to work this case. What the hell is going on?”

  “Martin was cleared. Even if he turns around and gives us the murder weapon, the DA won’t touch him. It’s kosher. No ethical quandaries to deal with. Plus,” he made sure no one was coming, “the longer this goes on, the less likely we are to find Skolnick’s killer. Everyone in major crimes and homicide is working this right now. Three words, joint task force.”

  “High profile case,” I concluded. “That’s why I have to shake my ass for some photographer.”

  “You’re supposed to be a model, not a stripper. Ass shaking isn’t required.” I resisted the urge to sigh. “Hey,” he glanced around again, “were you with Martin last night?”

  “No. I was working something.”

  “Well, you looked hot for just working. No offense.” He tried to redeem himself. “And for the record, I’m not saying I thought you looked hot. I was only practicing my observational skills and stating the obvious, or my wife would murder me.”

  “Oink,” I joked, squaring my shoulder
s and preparing to march into the torture chamber of flash photography. “By the way, if I get this gig, I wasn’t kidding. You’re going undercover as my flamboyant stylist, so give some serious thought to dyeing your hair neon pink.” I grinned evilly and walked away.

  The rest of the morning was spent with my blouse half to completely unbuttoned as the photographer took a dozen or so shots. Luckily, they didn’t make me change clothes for every take. Some clown with the title of makeup artist painted me up, and I was forced to exchange my shoulder holster and sneakers for stilettos and other fashionable accessories.

  After a couple dozen photos, I was permitted to leave. As I stood in front of the sink, washing off the pounds of gunk they applied to my skin and scars, I noticed a few of the female officers doing the exact same thing.

  “Alex Parker,” I introduced myself, “consultant.” I got a round of head nods and a few returned introductions. “I take it we’re all stuck in the same boat comes Monday.”

  “Oh yeah.” Two women settled at the neighboring sink. “I’m Miranda Costas, and this is Shelly Taylor. You must be the ringer they brought in.” The women laughed, amused by their assessment.

  “Don’t even joke. So have any of you been briefed yet?”

  “I’m in vice,” Taylor responded, “so they’re letting us use the wardrobe, hoping something will make an impression.”

  “Shit,” Costas remarked, “we make a ton of impressions. Just ask the dozens of johns we brought in last weekend.”

  “The goal is to flood Tate’s office early in order to prevent any actual aspiring models from auditioning.” Taylor said ‘aspiring models’ with such loathing that I was positive she was my kindred spirit. “That way, one of us will be hired to fill the vic’s spot.” She examined my appearance. “There’s a pool on who it’s gonna be. My money’s on you, girl.” And Costas agreed too vehemently for my liking.