by G. K. Parks
I parked a few blocks from his apartment building, wishing I had gotten more information, like the make or model of his vehicle. His apartment was in one of the less gentrified areas of the city. The building was dimly lit, dank, and a little eerie. Of course, this was my imagination getting the best of me. The hallway was empty, but the muffled sounds of people arguing and a television blaring could be heard in the background. I knocked on his door, instinctively reaching into my jacket and placing the heel of my hand on the butt of my gun. Old habits die hard.
“Ray,” I called, “it’s Tammy from down the hall. I got some of your mail by mistake.” No response.
I watched the shadow underneath the door to make sure there was no change in the light patterns. Then I waited a few minutes and tried again. Glancing down the hallway, I reached into my purse and pulled out my lock picks. Even though I was consulting with the police, I wasn’t a cop, so reasonable cause wasn’t a necessity.
Carefully, I worked the picks into the lock, making sure not to leave any obvious tool marks or other signs of a break-in. The lock popped open, and I stowed my picks. The hallway remained clear, so I stepped inside.
“Ray,” I called again. If he was home, I could always lie and say the door was open, but the apartment was empty.
Putting on a pair of gloves, I quietly checked each room. There was no sign of Alvarez. The place was a mess, unmade bed, clothing strewn about, dirty dishes in the sink. There was no indication he left without planning to return. On his dresser was an envelope with cash, his watch, and some expensive looking jewelry. He wouldn’t have left without the money. Obviously, wherever he was, he was coming back.
I let myself out of his apartment and relocked the door. My next stop would be Patty’s bar, his regular job. Maybe someone there would know where he went. Checking the time, I wondered if it would be open yet. If it was the typical Irish pub, they should be serving lunch right about now. That idea was overwhelmingly appealing, and I realized my diet was doomed. Thankfully, I wasn’t really a model.
I was half a block from my car when someone fell into step behind me. I made the conscious effort to continue walking at the same pace so as not to tip off my tail. My need for a plan was assisted by the alleyway ahead, and I ducked into it, unclipping my nine millimeter from its holster. But I kept the gun against my thigh, just in case I was wrong. My tail, a man about six foot one and a hundred and eighty pounds, turned into the alley after me, and I tensed.
“Police,” he identified himself, pulling a chain from around his neck and lifting his badge from under his shirt. “Ma’am, I need to–” He noticed my gun and pulled his. “Drop the weapon,” he commanded. His stance wasn’t very good. His elbow was raised too high, and his hands were unsteady. His footing was off too. I raised my non-weapon hand and slowly knelt down, placing my gun on the ground before standing back up.
“Easy there, sport,” I said soothingly. “I’m Alexis Parker. I’m a consultant for the police department.” The guy looked uncertain. He seemed skittish, but he managed to steel his nerves long enough to reach down and collect my weapon. I must be much more frightening and intimidating than I ever imagined, and I liked it, as long as it didn’t get me shot. “I’m going to reach into my purse and show you my license and permit. Don’t shoot,” I said it slowly but jokingly.
Luckily, it made the officer realize he had yet to holster his own weapon. No wonder these mooks couldn’t locate Alvarez. They were still too green to even have proper procedure memorized. I handed him my credentials and waited as he radioed for confirmation.
“Sorry about this, ma’am,” he apologized, handing back my wallet. “We were told to keep an eye out for anyone suspicious.”
“Have you seen anyone suspicious besides me?” I took my offered gun, checked the safety, and reholstered it.
“It’s been quiet for the past couple of days.”
“Okay, keep up the good work, Officer.” The sarcasm in my tone was faint, and by the wide grin that erupted on his face, it had been completely lost on him. I rolled my eyes and walked back to my car. That little incident warranted a corned beef sandwich from Patty’s since it’d be a shame if a whole grain bar turned out to be my last meal.
I drove to the pub and found an excellent parking space right out front. Parallel parking, I fed the meter before going inside. The room was brightly lit to make it appear more afternoon-friendly and give the alcoholics a nice place to drink where they wouldn’t feel any self-loathing for being piss drunk at noon. To be fair, not everyone in a pub on a Saturday afternoon was a drunk. There were quite a few families sitting at the larger tables and booths, enjoying a relaxing weekend.
I found a spot at the corner of the bar, so I could monitor the entire room, and asked the bartender for a menu. I ordered a corned beef sandwich with boiled potatoes on the side and a pint. They wouldn’t think I was a cop if I was drinking at noon with the rest of the lot at the bar. As always, pub food was delicious, but there went any chance of eating dinner, I thought sadly. Normally, I wasn’t this much of a foodie, but knowing I wasn’t supposed to have it made me absolutely ravenous. It was a good thing I wasn’t an addict; I’d end up dead on my first day out of rehab.
Ordering a second pint, I curiously examined the walls. There were a few photos from various events pinned behind the bar, and when the bartender returned with my refill, I pointed to one of the pictures. “Who’s that guy?” I asked, playing at some game I was making up as I went along.
“Ray,” she responded. I was grateful the bartender was female, so I could play the slut card easier. “He works here.”
“Damn,” I whistled, “I wouldn’t get much work done if he was here.” She wiped the counter while I dithered on. “I think I’ve seen him before. He works nights, right? I haven’t been here in a while, but it might have been last week, maybe the week before. Time has a habit of slipping away.” I could multitask and play the out-too-often-drinking card simultaneously with the looking-to-get-laid card.
“Probably last week.” She seemed more comfortable talking to me than the old men sitting on the other side of the bar who had been hitting on her every chance they got. “Ray’s got another job bartending special events and parties, so he hasn’t been here lately.”
I made a tsk sound. “What a shame. I may be shallow, but I like my bars to have fine men and good beer.” She giggled.
“He’s supposed to work Monday, ten to close. I’m sure he’d love for you to stop by.” She went to refill a pitcher, and I laid a twenty on the counter and left. Maybe I ought to consider raising my consulting fee.
* * *
At the precinct, O’Connell and Thompson were working on something at their desks. Heathcliff wasn’t in, and Moretti’s office was dark. I stood alone, assessing the board. I wrote a note, ‘Alvarez scheduled at Patty’s: Monday 10PM until close’, and pinned it to the cork, checking to see if anything changed.
“What are you doing?” Thompson asked.
“Spending my Saturday locating our suspect,” I retorted. O’Connell finished whatever he was doing and spun around in his chair. With two sets of eyes focused on me, I either needed to make a run for it or give them an update. “I went by Alvarez’s place. From the looks of things, I’d say he’s still in town. He left too much behind to have taken off. So I dropped by Patty’s, and one of the other bartenders said he hasn’t been around much because he’s been working private parties, but he’ll be in Monday night.”
“What’d you do, torture people for this information?” Thompson looked skeptical.
“No. I ordered a few and asked some friendly questions. It’s nice when you don’t have to play by the rules and follow protocol all the time.”
“Is that why Officer Wade radioed dispatch about some chick that pulled a gun on him?” O’Connell asked.
“Newcomers these days need to be better trained,” I argued. “He follows me into a dark alley, scares the shit out of me, and then I have to remind hi
m to holster his own weapon.” I sighed for effect. “I bet it was the first time he ever aimed his piece. His hands were shaking so badly I was afraid the tremor would be enough force to cause his weapon to discharge.” I was playing up the entire situation as a distraction tactic in case either of the detectives wanted to ask why I was in Alvarez’s apartment building for an extended amount of time.
“You should write that down on a comment card,” O’Connell suggested.
“First, you should make a complaint about the lack of comment cards,” Thompson interjected.
“The two of you should take your act on the road. Get a tour bus and go city to city with your routine.” I was feeling snarky since a little gratitude for the tip would have been nicer than the sass I was getting. “Did anyone get my message about Sanderson?” I asked, shifting gears.
“No calls to Lola’s number,” O’Connell replied. “How did your evening go?” I gave him a brief overview of Sanderson’s indifference. Even though Martin wasn’t able to pull any strings for us, he tried. “Heathcliff’s off the rest of the day after Spencer’s interview turned out to be a bust. Thompson and I are working a separate homicide, so unless you plan to solve the case or apprehend Alvarez, you can have the day off too. Just try not to scare any more of our recent recruits. Although the hiring freeze has been lifted, we still can’t afford to lose men.”
“Fine. If something turns up, let me know.”
* * *
The rest of the weekend was spent at the park or at home, and no one called with any additional information on either the Skolnick case or the Smidel case. It was Sunday evening, and apparently, there hadn’t been any calls to Lola’s phone. Furthermore, Alvarez hadn’t been apprehended, and no additional leads had been discovered. Tomorrow morning, the attempt to infiltrate Tate’s agency would go into play, and if that failed, then the authorities would have to devise another plan. But on the bright side, I didn’t spot Roger or either of the leather-clad assholes at the park, and I’d logged over a dozen miles on the trails since Saturday afternoon. Maybe it wouldn’t completely counteract the fries, burgers, corned beef, and beer I had consumed, but at least I could say I tried.
Just as my consultant role began to seem pointless, Moretti phoned with information concerning the impending undercover operation. The fact that the lieutenant took the time to call made me realize this was our last chance to get answers. If all nine of us were rejected, it would be difficult to get enough evidence or cooperation to break the case. Whoever killed Skolnick had done a great job to cover their tracks and cast aspersions. Luckily, the police wouldn’t reconsider Martin a suspect, but public opinion might differ. The ABC law firm might just have to deal with a civil suit, and the repercussions could be detrimental to Martin’s company and his well-being. So we needed to get to the bottom of this.
Monday morning, I got up two hours before the scheduled briefing in order to do my hair and put on an astronomical amount of makeup. Wearing the same outfit I wore to Sanderson’s, I hoped Tate would be more impressed by Lola than Rick was. At the precinct, I picked up a more formal version of Lola Peters’ résumé, photo spread, comp card, and the fabricated catalog ads. On my way out, Heathcliff handed me the cell phone that matched Lola’s contact information and wished me luck. I was going to need it.
Arriving twenty minutes early to the open call at the Tate Modeling Agency, I didn’t expect to find a flock of tall, blonde, and sickly thin women taking up all the seats in the reception area. I gave my résumé and information to the secretary sitting behind the desk and wandered through the mess of silicone and stilettos. Miranda Costas was sitting on the arm of a couch, looking incredibly out of place with a short pink miniskirt and cropped top. She apparently raided the vice closet, and Taylor was on the other side of the room, similarly dressed and looking uncomfortable. At least when I was rejected, most of my dignity would remain intact.
I leaned against the wall with my hand on my hip, recalling all of Martin’s suggestions. I needed to do something outlandish. Glancing around the room for inspiration, I noticed a few of the blonde bimbos tossing dirty looks my way. There was a very small part of my psyche that loved the ego boost.
Spotting a wireless camera stuck to the ceiling just above a large bookcase, I ran through the reasons for it to be there. Maybe it was for security or to monitor the animals while they were in the wild and not on their best behavior. Either way, it gave me an idea.
Sauntering to the bookcase, I stood a decent distance away to ensure I was caught on camera and dug through my purse until I found a compact. I put the compact on one of the shelves and pretended to double-check my appearance. Next, I readjusted my sweater, as Martin had done Friday night, pulling the v down so it barely concealed my bra, and then I classily readjusted my cleavage, smiled at the camera, and blew a kiss. What the hell, it was definitely outlandish. I sashayed back to the wall and waited.
Someone came out of the closed hallway next to the reception desk and asked the secretary something. Papers were shuffled around, and the next thing I knew, I was summoned to the back for an interview. As I hurried past, I caught a glimpse of Costas, and she stared with utter fascination and awe. Lola Peters was a beguiling creature to witness.
Twenty-one
“Ms. Peters?” Tate asked, staring at her computer screen and not bothering to look up.
“Yes.” I stood awkwardly as the receptionist shut the door. “It’s such a privilege to meet the Yolanda Tate. You’ve always been such an inspiration to me.” Before this case, I never heard of her, but my flattering words drew her attention. She stood up, tearing her eyes from the monitor and examining every aspect of me.
“Well, of course. That’s how it is for all of my girls,” she stated matter-of-factly, striding toward me with an unwavering gaze. No detail of my physique would go by unnoticed. “You could stand to lose another five pounds, maybe ten.” She continued her evaluation. “At least your posture is confident, not that you have any reason to be so sure of yourself. You’re not quite what I’m looking for.” She scowled. “What caused those two scars on your chest?”
“Burns,” I replied. The question caught me off-guard, and since I wasn’t prepared, I answered truthfully. She narrowed her eyes at the discoloration as if it was a personal affront to her. Join the club.
“That’s preferable to a botched boob job. I assume you’re all natural since you’re barely average.” She was still making her assessment, and I tried to exude as much calm confidence as I could muster, even though I was rapidly beginning to feel uneasy with her unyielding stare and negative commentary. “Twenty-four.” She circled like a shark that smelled blood in the water. “Older than the girls I normally hire, but you have great skin, no signs of sun damage or wrinkles. I’m sure you moisturize.” Every compliment was masked in an insult or vice versa. “Do you use drugs?”
“Never,” I responded, facing forward as if I were trying to infiltrate the Marine Corps.
She stopped circling and stood towering over me. She was probably five foot ten, but she was wearing stilettos too. So she was a good four or five inches taller. Reaching out, she brushed a wave of my hair back and tilted my head to the side, looking for something. Maybe signs of a facelift or graying at my roots.
“You’re older, shorter, and heavier than I would like.” She stepped back but continued her inspection. “I noticed your stunt in the waiting area. Clearly, you’re confident and tenacious.” We stood silently in the midst of our own little standoff, waiting to see who would break the silence first. “I like that.”
“Thank you.” I had no idea how things were going or if this was considered normal for modeling interviews.
“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything for you, yet.” And the silence returned. After she completed her evaluation, she spoke again. “If I were to give you a chance, at least I wouldn’t have the hassle of dealing with a representative since you have no agent. However,” she returned to her desk, “Rick
was kind enough to send an e-mail strongly encouraging me to give you a second look.” I was surprised by this fact but held my face in a neutral position.
“He’s not representing me,” I added for affirmation to her previous statement.
“You’re lucky he isn’t.” She made eye contact briefly, and her words seemed ominous. I filed that thought away. “Is this your comp card and most recent photo spread?” She indicated my portfolio which was on her desk.
“Yes.” I returned to my clipped speech since she was a woman who liked succinctness. She flipped through the pictures so swiftly I doubted she even had time to process them.
“I’ll tell you what, Lola, I’ll keep you in mind for the next two weeks. If any work comes up that requires someone of your particular body type and features, I’ll see what you can do. If not, at least you’ll be able to say you had the opportunity to be considered by the great Yolanda Tate.” This bitch really thought she was something.
“Oh, Mrs. Tate, thank you so much,” I cooed, faking excitement with every fiber of my being.
“Please,” she gestured to the door, “see yourself out. And tell Peggy to send the next girl in.” I exited her office, strode down the hall, relayed the message, and headed outside. I had no earthly idea if my interview was a success or just another dead end. Confused as hell, I got into my car and returned to the precinct.
* * *
“How’d it go?” Heathcliff asked the moment I stepped foot in the squad room. “Are you starting a new career?”
“It was brutal.” I exhaled, taking a seat. “I swear it was akin to being slapped in the face after being complimented.”
“Did you slap back?” He sounded worried.