Mimicry of Banshees

by G. K. Parks

  “Bartender,” I yelled, looking for an escape, “I need a drink and don’t be stingy with the liquor this time.”

  A break from the flirtation was turning into a necessity. Plus, yelling at the bartender was a plausible cover, even though I wasn’t really drinking since I was working, but it was important for my level of intoxication to appear to be advancing. Honestly, I barely had half a drink the entire night.

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?” Martin purred in my ear.

  Turning, I caught sight of someone watching us, so I got off my barstool and made a spectacle of myself before sitting on his lap. “Just go with it,” I whispered, hoping he’d play along with my charade. He tensed but wrapped his arms around me. “We have an audience.” O’Connell leaned across the bar toward me. “Nine o’clock.”

  He shifted his gaze and grabbed a glass, pouring whatever he was holding into it. “Isn’t that Yves?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I remarked. “Is she still staring?”

  “Yep.” O’Connell put the drink in front of me.

  “All right,” I picked up the glass, trying my best to sell the drunk thing, “I’ll see what she wants.” I glanced at Martin, who was still holding me on his lap. “I gotta make this look good. Just don’t take it personally,” I warned, kissing him full on the mouth and getting clumsily off his lap. “I’ll be right back,” I said loudly. “Don’t go anywhere.” I stumbled on my way to Yves.

  She was pretty far gone. A few bumps of blow and tequila shots tend to have that effect. “Is that Sanderson?” she asked, pointing at Martin. “I swear Rick the Dick needs to have it cut off. Why’d you let him get all up in your business?”

  “That’s not Sanderson.” I dropped the intoxicated act slightly, caught by her confusion. “That’s James Martin.”

  “Huh.” She assessed the back of him. “From here, he looks just like Sanderson.”

  I spun around. Maybe the fine clothes and expensive haircut were similar, but they weren’t built the same. Martin was all toned, lean muscle, and Sanderson probably failed high school P.E. and hadn’t visited a gym since. I squinted. They were close to the same height and had similar hair color. Maybe when everything was clouded due to alcohol and drugs, they looked even more alike.

  “No shit.” I suddenly made the connection. “Do you want to meet him and see for yourself?” Reverting back to my slurred speech pattern, I grabbed Yves’s hand and dragged her to the bar. “See?” I giggled.

  “Damn,” she ogled Martin, “sorry, girl. I’ll let you get back to that fine piece of man.”

  I leaned over the bar in front of O’Connell. “We need to talk. Now,” I hissed.

  “Taking a break,” he told the line. “Hey, you,” he pointed to Jacobs who was passing by with a tray, “fill in behind the bar for a minute. I gotta take a leak.”

  “What’s going on?” Martin asked. He wrapped his arm around me, and I couldn’t tell if it was part of the act or if he was just being himself.

  “I have to talk to the bartender first,” I said, still not breaking cover. “Do me a favor, and stay out of trouble for a few minutes.” Walking off in the general direction of the restrooms and kitchen, I waited for O’Connell to follow.

  Two minutes later, we were in the kitchen, standing off to the side. The room was empty, but that could easily change at any second. “What the hell’s going on? You have that ah-ha look you get,” he whispered.

  “Martin and Sanderson were wearing the same suit that night. Just now, Yves thought I was with Sanderson. Caterina was obviously the target, but maybe Sanderson was the motive.”

  “I’ve seen the video. You really think someone would be jealous of Sanderson?” He raised a questioning eyebrow, but I didn’t waver. “I don’t see it, but that’s just me. Maybe you’re right, and it might lead to something. I’ll radio it in, and maybe we’ll find a new connection.” He looked genuinely interested. “You’re damn good at playing this whole thing up. If this were a movie, you’d get best actress,” a brief look of curiosity flashed across his face, “unless maybe it’s not entirely an act.”

  “Don’t start.” I went back to the bar.

  It was easier to talk to Martin when I could whisper in his ear and not be concerned about being overheard, so I sat on his lap and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “You smell nice.”

  “Shut up.” I was getting annoyed. “I think you were mistaken for Sanderson that night. I don’t know if it’s why you weren’t attacked or if that’s the reason Caterina was. You said it yourself; the two of you were wearing the same designer suits. Do you remember when you woke up which way you were facing?”

  “What?” He was confused.

  “Were you facedown, turned to the side, on your back?” This was a very strange way to ask questions, when I couldn’t assess his facial expressions, but his posture stiffened as he thought about it. Then again, maybe all interrogations should be conducted this way. It made it easier to read body language.

  “I was facedown. Facing the bench seats,” he clarified.

  “Do you think the assailant would have seen your face?”

  “How would I know? I don’t know. Probably not.”

  I was completely still, processing through the few fleeting thoughts. If this were a case of mistaken identities, then Sanderson couldn’t be the murderer, and we were down to three possibilities. Yves seemed angry at the world. She had a drug habit and possibly a drinking problem since addiction didn’t tend to fall into one nice, neat category, and at least a brief stint in the amateur adult entertainment industry. Yolanda Tate’s finances needed further sorting before we could determine if her monetary gains would have made killing her star model worthwhile, and I still didn’t have much to go on concerning Monique Webber. She struck me as a ditz, but obviously, she had an affinity for Ricky.

  “Hey,” he shook me from my reverie, “unless you’re planning to pretend to pass out, you probably should stop imitating a statue.”

  I stood up and sat on my own barstool. I was working the pieces backward in my mind. Drugs were given to Spencer to give to Alvarez to use on Caterina. How did Sanderson fit into any of that?

  “What time is it?” I asked, but without his watch, he didn’t know. “I’m going to run with something. If you leave before I get back,” I got off the stool and leaned against him, “make sure Marcal takes a circuitous route for the drive home. I’m probably just paranoid as always, but it couldn’t hurt.”

  I found each individual model from earlier and asked them about Jake Spencer. Monique’s words rang true since every girl had some scandalous tale to share, but I wanted to know more than just Spencer’s sexual prowess. Tread lightly, Parker, I reminded myself. Subtlety wasn’t typically my strong suit, but I was after something that required finesse. Did Spencer have any kinky habits? I hoped it would be a lead-in to questions about intoxication.

  A group of drunk, depressed models was easily pliable. By the time I questioned Seline, I had heard similar stories three other times. Spencer was no gentleman; he would gladly kiss and tell. Yves liked sex when she was stoned out of her mind, and bubbly Monique insisted on some threesomes. As far as rape fantasies were concerned, that had been Caterina’s personal preference. It was all an elaborate game Spencer and she would engage in at random parties. He’d seek her out, taking her to some remote location, and wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.

  While I personally found the rape fantasy concept deplorable on every imaginable level, it was a far too common preference. Once again, I was amazed at how people who had never been placed in actual, horrifying situations could think this was exciting and pleasurable. There was no rape in the game they played. It was two consenting adults engaging in amorous activities, the opposite of the definition of rape, but I pushed my resentment at people’s stupidity away for the moment.

  There were two new angles to consider. First, maybe the drugs were a new dimension to Caterina’s game. Hell, maybe even Martin was a new addi
tion to the game in a very sick and twisted way. Second, did someone else interrupt the game before Spencer had a chance to find and bang Caterina? Jealousy was the ultimate motive for passion killings. So who was the assailant jealous of? Caterina, Jake, or possibly even Rick? My head was starting to spin with all the new questions, and I wanted to interrogate Spencer for answers. If he’d admit to his own stupidity and name his drug connection, then we’d have a solid suspect with both motive and opportunity.

  It was late, and I was useless at this point. The information from the models had run dry, and I was out of theories and questions. The only thing left was to work out the finer points of what I ascertained and hope it would lead somewhere definitive.

  Back at the bar, Bettina was sitting beside Martin, getting a little too flirty. I sat in the empty seat on his other side and glanced at O’Connell for help. He poured vodka into a martini glass and knocked it over, spilling it all over her dress.

  “You fucking asshole,” she squealed, jumping up from her seat. “How dare you?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he replied, handing her a dish towel. “I don’t know how that happened.”

  “Ma’am,” she shrieked. “Ma’am!” She ran, practically in tears, to the ladies room. The few other people at the bar turned to watch the drama. And I thought I took issue with being called ma’am. Sheesh.

  “I’m such a clutz,” O’Connell offered as way of explanation, toweling off the bar, as the others went back to minding their own business.

  “Afraid I might take my attacker home?” Martin quipped.

  “Hey, I’m not the one spilling drinks,” I reasoned. “But I did tell you to stay out of trouble, and she looks like trouble.”

  “Total accident. It just slipped right out of my hands,” Nick deadpanned. Smirking, he caught the look on my face. “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

  “I’m done here. I’ve gotten all I can. When can we leave? I need to chat with Spencer. The crybaby might just have all the answers.” Our end of the bar was completely empty, and I was tired of pretending to be Lola. Alex Parker was ready to get back to work on the investigation.

  “We’re stuck through clean-up, but you can head out and give Moretti a call.” He glanced around the mostly empty banquet hall. “A lot of people already left. I’m sure the brass won’t have a problem if you do too.” He focused on Martin. “The two of you should leave together. It might reinforce your story if it looks like Lola’s going home with someone.” Martin stood and offered me his hand.

  “What, you’re not going to tip the bartender?” I asked. Obediently, he took a fifty from his wallet and put it in the tip glass. Fifties seemed to be the smallest denomination he was aware of.

  I winked at O’Connell as Martin put his arm around me, and we strolled to the exit. Bruiser appeared from the shadows and met us at the car. Martin held the door, ever the consummate gentleman, and I climbed into the backseat.

  “Have Marcal drive away but stay close. With any luck, I’ll be rendezvousing with the surveillance van.” I dialed Moretti. When he answered, I filled him in on the possible Sanderson mix-up, Caterina’s sexual fantasies, and every relevant piece of information I had gotten on each of our suspects.

  “Good job, Parker,” he sounded impressed. “We received confirmation on the IP address, and Heathcliff’s gone to pick up the warrant. A team is on the way to the marina to search Sanderson’s boat. It was his wireless network which supported the video upload. With the addition of exigent circumstances due to the vehicular nature of the crime scene, we’re impounding the boat and securing the area. Right now, we’re just waiting to move in.”

  “Do you guys need some help?” I wanted to get in on the search.

  “Were you drinking at the party?” He soured to my request.

  “Not nearly enough for it to register on any discernible scale.” I wasn’t saying no since O’Connell served actual liquor.

  “I’m not risking you fucking this up. If you want to be helpful, get a full statement from James Martin since you’re sitting in his town car and then write up your report. I want all the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed. Bring it in first thing tomorrow morning, and if Lola’s job is done, you can assist on Spencer’s interrogation.”

  “But–” I was prepared to argue.

  “Go home. Do the paperwork. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He disconnected, and I angrily snapped my phone closed, grumbling to myself.

  “Good news?” Martin asked sarcastically.

  “I’m stuck filling out paperwork while Heathcliff goes on a treasure hunt.” An amused look crossed his face, further annoying me. “In the meantime, you can give me your official statement, and I have to write my report.” I made a face. “Do you mind dropping me at the precinct first?”

  “Sure.”

  Thirty

  Per Moretti’s orders, I stayed away from the search and seizure of Sanderson’s boat. I also avoided going inside the precinct since Moretti specifically said to go home and do the paperwork. It was irritating being sidelined after all the information I discovered, so I was going out of my way to follow his orders to the letter, hoping it would annoy him just as much. More than likely, he couldn’t care less when he got my report as long as he got it, but it made me feel better to think I had the upper hand.

  Martin kindly offered to provide his statement, if I felt like meeting him at his place. After the way Lola acted this evening, I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the aftermath, but I went anyway. When I arrived, Marcal buzzed me into the garage, and I retrieved my duffel from the trunk, hoping to change back into me before we started on the reports.

  “I’m in for the night,” Martin said to Bruiser and Marcal. “You guys can take off.” Bruiser looked to me for approval, and I nodded. Once they cleared the room and the garage door opened and closed, Martin asked, “Why is my bodyguard looking to you for verification of his orders?”

  “We’ve reached an arrangement over the last two weeks.” I smiled at his perplexed look but returned to work mode after noting the time. “I’m going to change back into Alex Parker before we begin.”

  “Pity,” he smirked, his eyes dancing, “I was under the impression Lola was actually interested in me.”

  I turned my back to him and pulled my hair to the side. “Can you unzip me?” He didn’t say a word, but his fingers lingered for a moment before starting the zipper so I would be able to reach it. “Thanks.” I headed for the guestroom. “By the way, Lola’s completely out of your league.”

  With my face scrubbed, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, I reemerged to find Martin sitting on the sofa in his living room. He smiled. “Still beautiful.”

  “Let’s not,” I said softly. “I’m sorry about tonight. I was practically molesting you in order to sell my cover. Anyway,” I picked up the notepad and pen, “we should get started on this. I’m sure you have an early morning.”

  “Eh. Not that early.”

  Almost an hour later, after some cajoling, questioning, and memory jogging, he had written out a full statement, covering everything that occurred this evening. We rehashed the night of his attack, and I made sure he went into detail about his interactions with the other models, Jake Spencer, and Rick Sanderson. The biggest piece of relevant information was the similarity in his attire compared to Sanderson’s.

  “I think that covers it.” I reread the statement and double-checked his signature and date.

  “There should be a way to make police reports more fun,” he quipped.

  “Tell me about it. Do you mind if I write my report here so I can drop it by the precinct on my way home?” My annoyance with Moretti faded. After all, the lieutenant had a point, and I didn’t need to act like a diva. That was Lola’s job.

  “Help yourself to my office and computer.” He indicated the room down the hallway. “Feel free to stay as long as you like, but I’m going to bed. Can you let yourself out and reset the alarm?”

  “Sa
me code?”

  “Yes,” he affirmed. “Watching you work tonight was pretty spectacular.” I gave him a look, assuming he meant the way I pawed at him. “I’m serious. I’ve never seen you do any undercover work, except downplaying being my bodyguard. It makes sense why Mark wants you back.”

  “Good night.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. It felt like some dynamic between us was about to change, but I couldn’t figure out why.

  “Night, Alex.” He climbed the stairs. “If Lola reappears and wants to join me, send her up.”

  “You wish,” I remarked good-naturedly.

  I retreated into his home office and began typing my report. My thoughts were jumbled, so I wrote it as a narrative, giving the information in the order in which I received it. I stared at the screen, rereading my own words and trying to make sense of everything. If I could find the end to this trail of breadcrumbs, I’d be able to follow it back to the beginning. After rearranging my report into a more logical order, I decided it would suffice.

  Hitting print, I rubbed my eyes. Maybe if I dropped the reports off tonight, I wouldn’t have to show up quite so early in the morning. Although, that would only be beneficial if I managed to halt the nonstop picking and evaluating of every single piece of information as it crossed my mind, and I actually fell asleep. Fat chance that was going to happen.

  I was signing the last page when I heard a noise in the kitchen. My heart leapt into my chest, and I forced the memories of attackers past out of my mind. Cautiously, I went into the kitchen to assess the situation.