by Anne Frasier
“Guess I’ll find out.” Audrey flounced from the room.
CHAPTER 9
Christ, Elise.”
“What do you think? Too demure?”
Elise and David stood in their shared office. The only other witness to her outfit was Jay Thomas, who waited near the closed door watching the interaction with something that struck Elise as feigned disinterest. But there was one thing she was quickly learning about Jay Thomas Paul: he was always listening and watching.
“Those weren’t the words that came to mind,” David said.
Elise had decided against the tacky-hooker look and opted for somewhat tasteful but still sexy. Hopefully. Black high heels, bare legs, a floral dress that might have been considered sweet if not for a neckline that exposed more of her breasts than anybody other than her gynecologist had seen in ages, and a hemline so short, the dress could almost pass for a long top. Her hair hung loose and shiny; her bangs arranged above darkened brows. With Audrey’s help, makeup had been expertly applied, and when Elise looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. It was no surprise her own partner had done a double take.
Maybe she’d gone too far, but it had bothered her that nobody thought she could pull it off.
Couldn’t blame them. She’d doubted it too. She’d never felt sexy and had never been one to turn heads, although upon occasion she’d been told she simply didn’t notice the turning heads. Maybe that was true, especially in light of Avery’s revelation.
In high school, she’d been consciously and subconsciously infatuated with all things root doctor. Because of that, she’d learned a spell she’d used to catch a boy—a boy who later married her. Maybe a shrink would say that was where her relationship problems originated, and that might very well be true. She couldn’t say whether the spell really worked or if it had simply been a coincidence, but deep down it was now ingrained in her subconscious that the only way to attract a guy was for the attraction to come from somewhere else. A mojo. A love spell, like the follow-me-boy she’d used so long ago.
She wasn’t a profiler, but in dealing with criminals, she’d learned that most of the behavior they exhibited began in childhood. She was no different. And now, with David gawking at her as if she’d suddenly turned into this sexual being instead of Elise the cop . . . well, it could almost go to her head.
Almost.
She went through the gaudy gold bag she’d picked up at Goodwill. Mace, handcuffs, her badge, gun, cigarettes, and red lipstick. Everything a girl needed. “Let’s go.”
Their destination was Jefferson Street, where the first victim had been known to hang out. Unmarked car. David at the wheel, Jay Thomas Paul in the backseat. Elise had decided a wire wasn’t necessary. She had her phone and a gun, and David would stick close. This wasn’t a sting operation; she was just after information. The last thing she wanted was to alienate the very people who might help them crack the case.
David pulled to the curb. She slid out, shut the door, then leaned in the open window.
She’d chosen one of the bleaker areas of Savannah, of which there were many. Where even the streets and buildings were sad and uncared for, littered with trash and graffiti, the weedy sidewalks claustrophobically narrow, butting up against windowless buildings of questionable purpose.
“Thanks, darlin’.” She gave David a smile and an accidental view of deep cleavage. “Don’t be a stranger.”
She read his expression, could see he still wanted to stop her. She saw him clamp down on his response, give up, give in. “I’ll be close.”
She played along in case anybody was within hearing. “You’re too damn sweet for your own good.”
“I can be more than sweet.”
“I’m sure you can. Next time.” She straightened away from the car and he drove off, but she knew he’d circle around and come back to park at a safe distance.
A woman stepped from the shadows. Blond, limp hair with dark roots. Short denim skirt and black ankle boots. Hard to tell her age. She looked forty, but could have been twenty. Prostitution and drugs aged people.
“This is my corner,” she barked in a smoker’s voice. “Find another spot.”
“I had to leave my street,” Elise said. “Two girls were killed, so I’m looking for a new place. Something safer. I can move on, but I saw you out here and thought it might be better not to work alone.”
The woman’s tough attitude and hostility faded. “I heard about them girls,” she said, with fear in her voice. “People are saying it’s a serial killer.”
“That’s what I heard too.”
“Nobody cares. The mayor don’t care and the cops don’t care.” The woman waved her arms in frustration. “I’m sick of this town. I just want to make enough money to get out. Maybe go to LA; I don’t know.”
Elise pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one at the prostitute, who took it. Elise lit her own, then passed the lighter. As she exhaled, she released an inner sigh—the cigarette tasted good. She remembered this feeling, and she hoped to hell a few drags didn’t start something. She hadn’t had a smoke in a year, and it had been several years since she’d been serious about it.
She took another deep drag. Damn. “Did you know them? Either of the girls?” she asked.
“Layla Jean. The first one, but not good. Like we didn’t hang out or compare notes or anything, but I seen her around, talked to her sometimes. Just shoot the shit.”
“Ever see anything suspicious?” Elise asked. “Like anything that just made you feel like something wasn’t right?”
The woman laughed. “Honey, I see a lot of weird things. Girls like me are weird magnets.”
“You know what I mean. That sixth sense that kicks in.”
“What are you?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “A cop?”
“Would that matter?”
Hesitant to be pulled into conversation with a possible officer, the woman grudgingly said, “We all got a sixth sense. All of us in this business. You gotta have it to survive. You learn pretty fast which cars to skip. You open that door and you look at the potential client and in a split second you make a decision. That one girl who was killed? The first one? I’m pretty sure she was a pro. I saw her cuss people out and flip ’em off. She was tough. She knew her stuff. So to have two girls fall for somebody—that’s scary. Makes you think he doesn’t come across as a creep.”
Since the woman had already pegged her as a fake, Elise didn’t try to play the part of a hooker. She talked to her the way she’d talk to anybody. “The worst killers are incredible actors,” Elise said. “They convince people of their trustworthiness.” Elise didn’t add that it was the serial killer MO. “Killers can be extremely charming. You need to remember that.”
“You are a cop, right?”
Elise took another drag. “How could I be a cop? You said the cops didn’t care.”
“Cop.” Spit out with conviction. The woman moved closer. She looked over her shoulder, then back at Elise, seemingly prepared to share information, when the exchange was interrupted by a potential customer. A long black car crept up the street, then stopped. The back window dropped silently, and a man looked at them from the deep recesses of the backseat. Suit. Dark skin, immaculately groomed, about Elise’s age.
The woman inhaled sharply, whispered to Elise, “That’s Tyrell King. Layla Jean went with him the night she was murdered. He comes here a lot. Drug dealer. Pays with whatever you’re lookin’ for. Got some good stuff, that’s for sure. He’s the guy we all want. Nice body, clean, polite, doesn’t go for anything too kinky. Sometimes all he’s after is a blow job.”
“You,” Tyrell said. “Blondie. C’mere.”
The prostitute hung back and grabbed Elise’s arm.
“I said, c’mere.”
Elise shook off the woman’s hand and approached the car, stepping into a circle of lamplight. “She ain’t feeling so hot.”
The guy stared at her. “How ’bout you? You feeling okay?”
<
br /> Elise took a drag from her cigarette and rested an elbow on her crossed arm. “I feel great.”
The door opened.
She was poised to get inside when he stopped her. “No smoking.”
“You live a clean lifestyle?”
He smiled. “Very clean.”
She flicked the cigarette away and ducked into the car, closing the door behind her.
“Wanna drink?” Tyrell asked moments later. He was reclining in the seat, feet braced on the floor, one arm stretched toward Elise, the other holding a mixed drink. He smiled, and in the light of a nearby building she could see the diamond in his front tooth.
“I don’t drink when I’m working.”
He laughed. “Working’s the best time to drink.”
He drained his glass, then passed the empty over the front seat to the driver—an enormous, bald black man. Everything about him said bodyguard rather than chauffeur.
Tyrell settled back in his seat and eyed Elise up and down. Then finally he said, “I want a blow job.”
That was when Elise reached into her bag and pulled out her badge. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
He read her name and laughed. “Goddamn, if it isn’t Elise Mansfield. I thought you looked familiar. I read about you in the paper.”
Mansfield. Nobody had called her by her maiden name in years.
“We went to high school together,” he explained.
She stared at him, trying to imagine this cocky, handsome guy in her school.
Seeing that she couldn’t place him, he decided to jog her memory. “English. Mr. Monroe’s class. I went by Harold Freeman then.”
“Oh my God.” Little wormy guy who wouldn’t shut up. “You were always in trouble.”
“Things don’t change, do they?”
“Well, I never figured you for—” She stopped to measure her next words, unwilling to offend someone who might be beneficial to the investigation. “What do you consider yourself, exactly?”
“A businessman. An entrepreneur. And I never figured you for a cop.”
It was odd running into someone who saw her any other way.
“You married Sandburg,” he said. “Could you have found a whiter whitey? Like you were trying to get away from all that hoodoo stuff your daddy saddled you with. So right out of high school you marry the whitest guy around. I figured you’d have three kids, drive an SUV, and go to soccer games. That’s what I figured.” He pressed deeper into the seat, continuing to size her up. “But my, my, my. Should have voted you most likely to get hot.”
“You were the class clown.” He’d made her laugh. Elise was a serious person. Too serious, but it suddenly occurred to her that she had a thing for guys who made her laugh.
“Not that you weren’t attractive. Not sayin’ that. But you weren’t sexy. But now . . .” He pursed his lips and shook his head.
Yep, she’d overdone it. “This is a costume,” she pointed out.
He let out something close to a giggle, his hand fisted against his mouth. “I don’t care what it is. It’s not the clothes I’m findin’ interesting.”
They talked about classes and teachers and crazy things that had happened—things they both recalled differently. Finally Tyrell said, “Are you sure we can’t continue with our little rendezvous?” He glanced down at his lap, then back at her.
She chose to ignore his question, and instead introduced one of her own. “Would you be willing to come downtown to answer some questions?”
His face lost all friendliness, and the interior of the car took on a chill. “No.”
“I heard the first victim was someone you knew,” Elise said, pulling back on the threat of downtown. She wouldn’t get anything out of Tyrell if she pushed him too hard. “I heard you picked her up the night she was killed. Is that true?”
He nodded. “I did see her that night. Like early. I gotta get my beauty sleep. I’m in bed by eleven.”
“So when would you say you and she . . . hung out?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m betting the samples we took from her mouth and stomach would match your DNA.”
Her words had the expected effect. “About ten o’clock,” he said. “She gave me a blow job, I paid her, and she left.”
“Paid her with crack cocaine? Because according to the autopsy report, she had coke and meth in her system.”
“Does it matter how she was paid? I thought this was about murder, not drugs.”
“I’m trying to let you know that we have enough to lock you up.” But not enough to hold him long. She didn’t tell him that. “And I’m trying to let you know that I’m willing to forget about that if you help us.” She produced her card and handed it to him. “Here’s my number.”
He checked it out, smiled to himself, and tucked the card inside his jacket.
“This is serious, you know,” she said. Tyrell had been polite to her. She got the sense that he respected women, all things considered. “Girls are being killed in the most brutal way. You don’t want that, do you?”
“Hell no.”
“So if you hear anything or see anything, call me.” She directed her voice toward the driver. “Pull over, please.”
Their speed didn’t change.
“Pull over,” Tyrell said, repeating Elise’s command. This time the big guy responded and stopped the car. Elise opened her door and stepped out. “Call me night or day,” she said.
“You like the symphony?” Tyrell asked. “I got season tickets. Good seats. I’ll wear a suit and tie.” He nodded at some thought in his head. “I look really fine when I get slicked up. And you could do your hair and wear some kind of red strapless dress. We’d make a good-looking pair.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“For old time’s sake?”
“Not gonna happen.”
He gave her a smile. “I’m not used to being turned down.”
“I’ll bet you aren’t.”
“What the hell was that all about?” David asked once she was back in the surveillance car with him and they were driving in the direction of the police station. “From my front-row seat, that appeared awfully chummy.”
“Old school buddy. Used to go by the name of Harold Freeman, but he reinvented himself as Tyrell King. We reminisced a little. He asked me to the symphony.”
From the backseat came the sound of Jay Thomas’s scratching pen. Once again she’d forgotten about him.
“My God, this town is weird.” David drove on in silence, then seemed to have an alarming thought. “Are you going?”
CHAPTER 10
Caroline Chesterfield adjusted her backpack and headed down the dimly lit street in the direction of home, her legs aching from standing on concrete for five hours. Such was the life of a waitress. Such was the life of an estranged child. But at least the scent of jasmine brought her a soft sense of comfort, and the dark and quiet were welcoming after the noise and overstimulation of the bar.
She considered herself a good girl, although other people had a different opinion. Her father, for instance. But she was no slouch. She’d been accepted to Harvard. Harvard! Wasn’t that enough? she asked herself as she crossed the dark street. Wasn’t that as good as actually going? An acceptance letter from freakin’ Harvard?
“He’s holding you back,” her mother had told her, talking about Caroline’s boyfriend. “You can be anybody, do anything. Why stay in Savannah? Why go to SCAD when you could go to Harvard?” In her mother’s soft Southern voice, the word “SCAD”—as the art school was known both in and outside of Savannah—somehow managed to convey just the right amount of polite disdain.
Her parents had never taken Caroline’s interest in art and music seriously, always treating it like a hobby. Oh, isn’t that cute? The verbal equivalent of a pat on the head. They wanted her to be a doctor or a lawyer or whatever other prestigious occupation could be pulled from their butts.
Her daddy had been no more understanding than her mo
mma. “We won’t support you in this,” he said the day Caroline confronted him with her decision to turn down the Harvard offer. They’d stood in his office in city hall. Flags in the corner, a photo of her on the wall behind his desk. “And by not support you, I don’t just mean emotionally,” her father had gone on to say. “I mean financially. If you attend Harvard, we’ll give you a nice stipend. All you have to do is concentrate on your studies. If you don’t go to Harvard, you’ll get nothing. Nothing.”
She’d recoiled in shock, his cold and unemotional tone impacting her more than the message itself. No discussion. No understanding. Handed to her like one of his mandates. But her mother’s involvement, or lack of involvement, was worse. No sympathy there either. Just silence. The good wife, backing her husband’s decision, no matter what.
So here she was, waiting tables five nights a week at the Chameleon in one of the shadier areas of Savannah, sharing a cramped apartment with two other students, going to school during the day, the boyfriend long gone. Her mother had been right about that. Once the plug was pulled on Caroline’s money, he’d vanished.
Had she made a mistake?
She’d never admit it to her father, but she might have gone to Harvard if not for her boyfriend. And it pained and shamed her to know she’d stayed in Savannah for a guy. A loser. But none of that really mattered anymore; the biggest issue was the way her parents had treated her. Like a disposable child. The very people who should have loved her had acted like strangers, like business people she didn’t even know. And now a year had passed since she’d talked to either of them. She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever see them again.
At the next street corner, light from a bulb high on a pole radiated outward, encompassing the intersection. The scene was blurry, and with annoyance—and, yes, self-pity—Caroline realized she was crying. She stopped to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Hey.”
Startled, she turned.
A guy. In a car, the passenger window down as he craned his neck to look up at her, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “You okay?”