Mimicry of Banshees

by G. K. Parks

  “Me too. I just wish it’d be over before tomorrow night.” Maybe some of Martin’s initial paranoia rubbed off on me, and I was acting irrationally. But until the murderer was apprehended, I didn’t want him schmoozing with any potential suspects. Too bad no one ever took my advice seriously.

  Twenty-eight

  I was sifting through my closet again. It was a memorial of sorts, so black was the most appropriate color choice. It was also slimming, stylish, and one of the predominant colors I owned. I found my classy little black dress and tried it on. It was a basic spaghetti-strap number which fell at an angle around mid-thigh. The only downside was I needed to imitate a makeup artist to cover up the nasty scar on my left leg which became visible whenever I sat down.

  Two hours later, I was ready to go. I had enough makeup caked on to make clowns envious, but I could pass for twenty-four to the slightly inebriated. My hair was curled and clipped, allowing the long brown locks to cascade down my back. The insanely high heels I selected made my legs look long and might convince the same inebriated person I was tall enough to be a short model.

  Packing an extra set of clothing, tennis shoes, and toiletries into a duffel bag, I wanted the option to change and wash up once the evening was concluded. With any luck, a few arrests might be made or enough evidence would surface to serve a few warrants. This meant there was a good chance I’d end up back at the precinct, working through the night, and I didn’t want to do that in a skimpy dress and heels. The guys already teased me enough about being a model.

  Stowing the bag in the trunk of my car, I drove to the police station, planning to have a taxi take me to the party. It might appear suspicious if a model wannabe arrived in a homely subcompact, especially since it was an open bar. But in the meantime, I had a briefing to go to.

  Moretti ran through the basics. Jacobs, Thompson, and O’Connell would be positioned inside. They were lucky enough to be given earpieces and radios, so anything I had to report would go through one of them. Heathcliff and Moretti were going to be parked outside in a nondescript surveillance van. The nondescript part always made me chuckle since it was in and of itself a description.

  The goal was to evaluate the guests for suspicious behavior or activities and hopefully uncover something useful. Realistically, it was an experiment in fishing, and James Martin might just be the bait. With any luck, between Bruiser and O’Connell, the fish wouldn’t get the opportunity to harm the worm.

  “Everyone clear on what’s going on?” Moretti asked, and there was a round of nods and affirmatives. “A back-up team will be on standby in case anything goes haywire.” He looked at me when he said this. “However, since Jake Spencer and Ray Alvarez are still in custody, neither of them had the opportunity to clue in our other suspects, so no one should realize anything is off. Good luck, guys.”

  “I’ll see you there,” O’Connell called, climbing into his personal vehicle. I watched him pull away and saw Thompson and Jacobs get into the same car, forming the bond of the cater-waiter.

  “You look nice,” Heathcliff complimented, checking the equipment in the van. “Do you have an actual game plan?”

  “Wing it and hope no one dies.”

  He stopped what he was doing. “Are you still pissed?”

  “Not so much.” It wouldn’t do any good to hold a grudge. “I just hate being stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

  “We didn’t know it’d play out this way,” he offered. “Nine times out of ten, your corporate boss wouldn’t be involved with your law enforcement gig. It’s just a fluke, but remember, we’re in the business of catching criminals. Prioritize accordingly.”

  “Story of my life.” I snorted and used Lola’s phone to dial the cab company. “I guess I’ll walk a block and grab a taxi. Do you think Lola’s gonna be safe in this neighborhood?”

  “She’ll be fine. Alexis Parker’s watching her back.” He winked and shut the van doors. Game on.

  * * *

  Lola arrived on time to the party. As I walked into the banquet hall, I was immediately greeted by the large-scale, blown-up photo of Caterina Skolnick covering the front wall in the foyer. It was from one of her most successful modeling campaigns, and the eight foot enhancement reminded me of the 1958 poster for Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman. I stood mesmerized by Skolnick’s beauty and the sheer size of the image.

  “Ms. Peters, I see you made it.” Tate’s voice permeated the air with icicles as she circled me. “Classic choice. I approve.”

  “Thank you.” I tried not to sound annoyed.

  “Well, don’t just stand there like an outsider. Let’s get you networking.” She led me inside and briefly introduced me to various partygoers as we made our way to the back of the room.

  O’Connell was behind the bar, doing his best Cocktail impression as he poured a martini into a glass for an older gentleman. I wasn’t sure where Thompson or Jacobs was, and I had yet to locate Martin. He was generally very punctual, but it was a Thursday night. Weeknights were a workaholic’s wet dream.

  “Girls,” Tate said it with such force she could have been a ballet teacher calling the dancers to the barre, “Val, Monique, Bettina, Carmen, Seline, this is Lola. I’m still deciding if she’s cut out for this lifestyle.” Her tone didn’t sound convinced or enthusiastic. “Introduce her around if you get a chance.”

  The group of barely twenty-somethings was all ridiculously tall. They wore trendy dresses with short skirts, low-cut tops, and stiletto heels. If we threw the lot into the pool, there were a few that would have no fear of drowning due to the floatation devices strapped to their chests. It was painfully obvious I didn’t fit in with this crowd, but for some reason, I was invited. With any luck, tonight would be the last time I’d have to blend in.

  “Hi.” I smiled, recognizing Valerie Yves and Monique Webber from the surveillance feed, but the others I couldn’t place.

  They all silently judged as they sized me up, and then they seemed to reach a collective conclusion. Maybe they shared a single, unified brain, and Tate was their queen. Talk about hive mentality.

  “Kinda short and athletic looking, maybe you could get some workout ads for sports equipment,” one of the women offered. “Monique, why don’t you take her to make the rounds?”

  “Whatever.” Monique wasn’t happy being nominated, and the other four quickly dispersed. Was cattiness a qualification for modeling? Maybe my friendliness would ruin my cover story.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make my own introductions.” It wouldn’t be easy getting information from an unwilling participant. “I wouldn’t want to be stuck with some newbie either.”

  “Who do you know in this industry?” she asked, leading us in an indeterminate direction.

  “My uncle works for some CEO, Martin something or something Martin. I don’t know,” I shrugged, “but he put a word in with Rick Sanderson, and then he put a word in with Mrs. Tate.”

  “You know Ricky?” She instantly warmed at the mention of Sanderson. “Isn’t he just the sweetest thing?”

  “An absolute doll. I only met him the one time, but he’s such a great guy.” I forced the disgusting, disturbing images out of my mind.

  “He’s been my agent for years. I worked a lot of jobs solo, like catalog ads and stuff, but a few months ago, he got me on at Tate’s. It’s been one callback after another. I think, between the two of them, they must know everyone.”

  “Awesome.” That was a twenty-four year old thing to say.

  Monique introduced me to a couple of marketing and advertising people we passed. Mostly, they nodded and stared, but no one offered either of us a job or their business card. Maybe that’s not how things were done. She didn’t find any of this strange, but she seemed a little airheaded and naïve.

  “Did you know Caterina Skolnick?” I asked as we neared the larger-than-life photo.

  “No,” she looked up at the picture, “we were both at Tate’s, but our work schedules never overlapped. Maybe I pa
ssed her in the hallways once or twice when we got new headshots or press pictures made, but that was about it. We never really connected.”

  “Wasn’t she dating that guy?” I paused. “What’s his name? The photographer. Super cute, um…”

  “Jake,” she offered. “You might want to stay away from Jake. He dates a lot of the girls. Well, like all of us.”

  “Oh.” That caught me by surprise, and I wasn’t sure how to play it off. “Did you and he ever?”

  “Three times.” She thought back, grinning at the memory. “There is something incredibly irresistible about him, but he’s trouble.” She was back in gossip mode. “I hear he can be a real heartbreaker, but it’s totally cool if you’re just looking for a hook-up.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I spotted Valerie Yves going into the ladies room. “Be right back. I want to touch up my lip gloss.”

  Taking a spot in front of the sink, I washed my hands and pretended to assess my appearance in the mirror. Yves emerged from the stall as I was drying my hands with paper towel. She scowled and sidled up to the adjacent sink.

  “You look out of your element,” she commented, scrutinizing my appearance. “Parties aren’t your thing?”

  “Not this early in the evening,” I supplied.

  “Want a hit?” she asked, opening her purse and pulling out a small vial containing your garden variety cocaine. Apparently, nothing about me screamed out law enforcement. Mission accomplished.

  “Not this early in the evening.” I laughed.

  She shrugged and dug her manicured fingernail into the vile and snorted. “Suit yourself.” She wiped her nose and checked her appearance. “Lolita?”

  “Lola,” I corrected.

  “Right,” she nodded slightly, “I guess it doesn’t matter. You won’t be around much. No offense, hun, but you’re not what they want. Hell, I’m not what they want either. You either have to be blonde and blue eyed or something foreign and exotic. We’re neither.” She was jaded, not that I blamed her.

  “Do you have an outside agent?”

  She scoffed at my suggestion. “Tried things out with Rick the Dick, but that was a total bust. He offers to get my name out there, wants to show the world who I am, and instead, I’m still working these fucking cocktail parties, trying to find advertisers who want to market my face or body for their products.” Someone was angry.

  “Rick Sanderson?”

  “Yeah, what other Rick the Dicks are there?” Her tone was scornful.

  “Well, maybe Mrs. Tate can find better opportunities for us.” Hopefully, lumping myself into the same category would solidify our bond and get her to open up. Obviously, she had a lot to say.

  “Don’t fool yourself.” There was nothing but disdain in her voice. “The only one of us she gave a shit about was her beloved Caterina, and now that she’s gone, the rest of this place is going to end up just as lifeless.”

  I pulled some mascara from my purse and reapplied to buy some time. Yves was making this job too easy. She had been jealous of Caterina, displeased with Tate, and angry at Sanderson. The anger was understandable given the internet video, and I considered broaching the subject but was afraid to push too hard this soon. I put the makeup away and raised an eyebrow, hoping she’d continue, but instead, she shoved the bathroom door open and walked out.

  After she left, I exited the ladies room and discovered my previous pal abandoned me. Oh well, being solo made it easier to snoop. Plus, I had gotten more in the last hour than I ever imagined. I headed toward the bar to see how things were going for the undercover cops. On my way, I spotted Bruiser standing near a potted plant, sipping something that looked like vodka but was probably water. I ‘accidentally’ bumped into him.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said loudly, brushing the water off his jacket. “Make sure he never leaves your sight, got it?” I whispered.

  “That’s fine. You have a lovely evening, miss.” He failed to conceal the amused smile. If Jones was here, Martin had to be close by.

  Determined not to let Martin’s unseen presence derail me, I continued to the bar when a voice stopped me. “Ms. Peters, so lovely to see you again,” Sanderson greeted as I turned, and he casually embraced me. “I put in a good word for you. I’m glad to see Yolanda listened.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Sanderson. I’m only here on a temporary basis, but it’s still a fantastic opportunity.”

  “How’s everyone treating you?” His eyes were continually traveling the length of my body, and I fought the urge to slap him and vomit.

  “Very well. I’ve been speaking to Monique Webber. She has the sweetest things to say about you.”

  “She’s such a dear.” His eyes moved upward, analyzing my hairstyle.

  “And Valerie Yves.” I threw out her name to gauge his reaction.

  “She’s a spitfire.” He looked a little uncomfortable. It was about damn time someone made him feel uncomfortable. “Look at you, at a party and without a drink. We need to rectify this situation immediately.” Or maybe he wanted to change topics immediately. “Barkeep,” he bellowed. O’Connell turned around, and I raised my eyebrows at him as if to say look who I found.

  “Yes, sir?” O’Connell asked. Surreptitiously, his eyes darted to the corner of the bar where Martin was sitting with his back to me.

  “A gin martini,” Sanderson ordered, before turning and looking expectantly at me. I looked at the bottles behind the bar. Drinking would be frowned upon while on the job, but not drinking would hurt my cover story. Well, I just had to take a sip, it wasn’t like I had to drink whatever concoction O’Connell made.

  “An IRA.” I smirked ever so slightly, and Nick narrowed his eyes. “Bailey’s and Irish Whiskey,” I clarified.

  “Girl knows how to drink,” Sanderson said in an admiring tone. O’Connell mixed the drink and threw a warning glance my way, so I wouldn’t do anything outrageous. “Oh.” Sanderson spotted Martin, who turned at the sound of my voice. I hoped it wasn’t that obvious to anyone else. “Let me introduce you to the man responsible for our initial introduction.”

  “Rick,” Martin stood, “it’s nice of you to come out in honor of Caterina. Everything that happened two weeks ago was devastating.”

  “I heard you got caught up in the investigation.” Sanderson seemed to have forgotten I was in the room, which suited me just fine. “Did the cops ever discover who attacked you?”

  “I haven’t heard anything.” Martin looked at me and smiled. “James Martin.” He extended his hand.

  “Where are my manners?” Sanderson chided. “This is Lola Peters. The girl you vouched for.” I took Martin’s offered hand, and he kissed my knuckles. My god, he was good at the playboy act.

  “Thank you, Mr. Martin,” I cooed. “I had no idea my uncle worked for such a well-connected man.” Martin was wearing a black suit with a black dress shirt, opened at the collar, without a tie or pocket square. He wore all black for the memorial.

  “I’ll let you two get better acquainted,” Sanderson said, disappearing into the throng of partygoers.

  “Please.” Martin indicated the barstool in the far corner. I sat down, glancing up to see if O’Connell had a minute, but there were ten guests in line, waiting for drinks. “You’re stunning, and certainly, the most beautiful woman here.”

  “Bullshit,” I whispered. “I’m just waiting to talk to the bartender.”

  Analyzing his appearance, he was dressed elegantly but somehow more dressed down than usual. His hair was still perfectly in place, but I didn’t see his expensive watch. I was making mental notes of how he differed tonight from the night two weeks ago as I took a sip of my drink for lack of anything better to do. Putting it down, I knew there would be no more of that since I was on the job.

  “So, Ms. Peters,” he was still playing his little game, “interesting drink choice.”

  “What are you drinking? I’ve heard the cosmos are awful,” I quipped, having issues staying in character when dealing with
him.

  “It’s beer.” He slid the glass forward for my approval. I picked it up and sniffed. “The bartender’s afraid I’m a lush.”

  “Well, he’s a professional. He’s probably just looking out for your best interest, Mr. Martin.” I tried to stay in character. Why did everyone decide to order a drink now when I wanted to talk to O’Connell? “Thank you for inadvertently providing me with this wonderful job opportunity.” I managed to choke the words out with a minimal amount of sarcasm, and he looked intrigued.

  “My pleasure.” There was an evil glint in his eye, and he knew I wouldn’t break cover. “I’m just wondering, Lola, what my chances are of picking up a girl like you in a place like this.”

  “I hate to disappoint you.” Considering the very real possibility the killer could be watching us at this exact moment, I scooted my barstool closer and put my hand on his bicep, leaning in so we wouldn’t be overheard. “But I’m working.”

  “That dress is working for me.” His words were smooth, seductive, and the classic lecherous commentary I had grown accustomed to. I laughed for show and gave him a challenging look.

  “In that case, feel free to bring your A-game,” I smiled coyly, “or whatever it is you do to meet models because the more casual you look, the better off we’ll all be.”

  Twenty-nine

  Martin stayed perched at the corner of the bar the entire evening. A few people would go over and speak to him every once in a while, but there were more important things to worry about. Since O’Connell and Bruiser were keeping an eye on Martin, I had the opportunity to gather more information. Unfortunately, everything helpful I discovered occurred within the first hour and a half. I encountered Yves and Webber a few times in the ladies room, but they had nothing useful to add to their previous comments. The other models avoided me like the plague. Apparently, short was a serious condition someone could catch.

  While I strategized on a new way to extract important information, I went back to the bar and took a seat next to Martin. “Back so soon, Lola,” he asked. I smiled and returned some of the flirtation, justifying it based solely upon the premise it’s what Lola would do. At least, it was what five models had done in the past, so who was I to break with tradition. The party was dying down, and people began to leave or disband into smaller groups situated on some couches or tables. “You know, I run my own company,” he began, and I snorted at the absolute absurdity. “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you. You see, there’s this amazing woman I know with gorgeous blue eyes, great smile, intelligent, witty, and fearless.” I blushed and hated it.