Sexile

by Lisa Lawrence

  I finished explaining what I needed and asked, “Can it be done?’

  “If it’s on a computer, it can be done. But if it can be done, it won’t be by me.’

  “Jirooooh,’ I whined.

  I heard a long groan from London. “I can hook you up with a bloke who lives for this kind of shit. But I have to tell you, love, that if you do this—’

  “They’ll what? Launch a manhunt for me? Charge me with something else completely bogus? Someone went to a lot of trouble to ruin my name and drop a big steaming pile of law enforcement on me. First step is to confront their lies.’

  “Teresa, it’s insane,’ he said calmly.

  “No, it’s brilliant!’ I insisted. “Look, they’ve labeled me a terrorist. So they’ll use the Counter-Terrorism team at Forensic Services, right? And they, according to the police department’s own Web site, handle evidence from retrieval right up to analysis. They do it all. They’re unique.’

  “I follow the logic,’ he said irritably. “You’re expecting they’ll dump it all in one big place. Okay, say my mate hacks in. What do you hope to gain?’

  “You’re the one who keeps reminding me everything’s digital,’ I argued. “I bet you anything their crime scene photos will be jpegs or PDFs. I want to see them.’

  Jiro failed to see the beauty of my grand plan. “You’re doing all this to see photos of this guy, this Luis—’

  “Luis Antunes, right.’

  “This Luis Antunes battered and bruised.’

  “Exactly.’

  “I don’t get it.’

  “You don’t have to,’ I assured him. “With luck, those photos will clear me.’

  “Won’t you have to come home to use ‘em?’

  “The job’s only half done with the photos,’ I said. “It’s not enough to prove I didn’t do it. I better serve up who did kill Luis Antunes and why.’

  “How are you going to do that ?‘

  “I don’t know. I need to mull that one over.’

  I was famous for my mulling. Let me mull, I told friends during a crisis. Which was my code for I’d probably be making it up as I went along. This situation really required it.

  I gave Jiro a new e-mail address to send along the goods, and then he rang off. He wanted to get back to class in the dojo. It was kumite night, and Jiro loves sparring. I asked him once why I never saw him hit the wooden post, the maki-wara, and he grinned and said, “Oh, I like to hit bodies.’

  God, I missed my friends. I thought of Helena—wondered how she was coping. My fault.

  Sitting on the Eurostar speeding its way to Paris, I put the Botswana passport away for safekeeping and pulled out my “new’ British one. For now, I was Susan Braithewaite, two years shaved off my actual age, and my birthday moved to August. I lived in Shepherd’s Bush, my job neatly handwritten in the space provided as library technician (as if). I wondered just how long I would have to be Susan Braithewaite.

  What really made me stare was that the name written down as my emergency contact didn’t exist, completely made up. There would be no emergency contact. If I needed something done at home, I could call Jiro or Fitz, possibly Helena if she survived the ordeal they were putting her through. But if something happened to me out here in the void, I was on my own. After I got out of Europe—and I did have to get out of Europe—no one could run to the rescue of little Teresa Knight, because Teresa was off the map.

  I had never felt so alone in my life.

  ♦

  Paris. Romantic. Poetic. Artistic. Seine place, Seine story. But not for me, not this time. No big deal. I’ve done the touristy things, the shopping trips, the gastronomic pilgrimages, and I was really here to mark time before I fled to a new hiding spot.

  Dupuis had booked me a one-week stay at an apartment-hotel where I was sure to be invisible: Clichy-sous-Bois, one of the most infamous of the banlieues, the suburbs of Paris. It was a district where North Africans, immigrants from other parts of the world, and the poorest of the French working class managed to find a place to live. Big ugly Sixties blocks turned into flats turned into tenements. The awning markets with produce and wares, halal meat shops, avenues and boulevards that looked like parts of Hackney or Lewisham, only instead of English mixed with the Arabic you had French.

  The riots had been bad here a couple of years ago, and all the burning cars and bottle-throwing against the helmeted police with their shields had stirred up again during the presidential elections.

  My room was all right, clean and functional without an ounce of charm. There was a bed, thankfully my own bath this time, and a dark wood wardrobe that you seem to get in every French hotel room of two stars or less. Basic terrestrial French TV, and I ended up after a quick dinner out the first night watching House dubbed in French. Surreal. Well, it was surreal watching House in English anyway, with star Hugh Laurie from my own childhood stomping grounds of Oxford doing his American accent. Fitz and I once had a joke of a game, listing our favorite TV stars we’d like to sleep with, and I shocked Fitz by saying I wanted a three-way with the blond Aussie guy on the show and Omar Epps, who plays the black doctor.

  A happier moment. Before someone took my life away.

  Halfway through the episode, my mind said: Violet. I wondered if she had ever watched the show. With the way her mind worked and how she loved science, I knew she would have loved it.

  I summoned her to me in my imagination. Large brown eyes with exquisite, generous eyelashes set in a long face, hair in elaborate cornrows, still all of nineteen with baby fat around her belly and hips. I remembered the way she used to suck my nipples, coming up to kiss me, our tongues so perfectly in tune with each other as they coiled.

  She was in lace tonight in my head, so beautiful, eyes shining, and we were on a hilltop in summer looking up at the stars, somewhere very far away from the inner grotty streets of London, though she’d never seen London in her life. We were away from the dirge of garbage trucks making pickups beyond my window. She was miraculously, mercifully here with me, her sweet fingers dipping into my vagina, already wet and granting her entry, and I heard the words she said to me when we slept together the first time. If you’re loud, bite me when you come, bite me here. On the breast. I cupped my own breast and played with my clitoris, and I could almost smell park grass, the scent of her. The image melded with the girl who fisted me in the apartment in St. John’s Wood, her hand now, yes, Violet’s hand …

  Then she was wearing a strap-on like Kim had used with me, but it was so much better with her holding me tight, the black dildo plunging into me, and the images blurred again, and Luis was penetrating me. I could feel that his cock was a hard living organ, Helê nude and beautiful with her mouth open in wonder just before her mouth ducked down to suck my clitoris. But I banished the picture, a reminder of my current troubles, and my old lover, Violet, returned. The old familiar guilt welled up, but I needed the comfort of her affection far more. And I knew she had loved me.

  Outside the room’s window, on the lonely Paris street below, I heard Alicia Keys’s new single playing loudly on the stereo of an idling car. Alicia was singing how no one could get in the way of what she felt, no one. The tune sounded confident and yet somehow so very sad, a tragic hymn. Or was it just me? Because I once believed the sentiment of those lyrics? Violet… I had no right to feel confident about anything anymore.

  Don’t cry, baby. See the stars?

  I felt the brush of her dangling breasts as she thrust the dildo into me, I felt her kiss me and stroke my cheek again and again in long, soothing strokes, my hands on her generous but tight ass. Twin pillows of full lips were on my cheek, my hand holding her breast, playing with her nipple, and the dildo was all the way in again as she kissed me, her tongue warm and soft and exploring. I felt the points of her shoulder blades, two hemispheres of buttock, and I even imagined the delicate lace and the rougher texture of the dildo strap. But most of all, I imagined her features set in a lovely oval, the adoration in those trust
ing eyes. I miss you so much …

  Like a tape rewinding, my mind brought the two of us back to me undressing her, a new fantasy started. We were in my flat, Violet sitting against a wall, as I had sat for those swinging scenes, her beautiful shapely legs stretched out, and I tickled her exquisite bare foot to make her giggle and then lifted one full breast out from its lacy folds, exposing her, massaging her breast on display, kneading it and watching her mouth open, her small white teeth bite down on her bottom lip. She was completely real to me in my imagination, and I could see her dark erect nipple, I could feel the warmth of her thigh under my fingertips, and I saw the glistening of lubrication on her pussy lips. She was here and wanting me, because she had always wanted me, we belonged together, and if I concentrated hard enough I could make her come, I would hear her …

  A fire was burning, and I heard someone behind me use the poker to stir it. Strangers were watching us. It was our time to perform on the soft-swinging circuit, and I imagined myself stripping naked in front of these people, Violet encouraging me. I became so wet at the thought. I imagined myself mounting her, now her in the dildo harness again, my pussy on show with the black dick filling me, hugging my girl tight. Making love to her and letting the world know we were together, something that only a few close friends ever learned. I let her fuck me with the dildo, and I could taste her breast (bite me here), smell her perfume, hear her tell me not to cry because she was impossibly wiser in this fantasy, knowing everything, understanding everything, still loving me.

  I shook with my orgasm in that lonely, shabby little hotel room, and then I felt the fall. I was still alone. I had always been alone. She had never been here, and she would never be with me in that park. I made a loud wet sniff and rubbed my eyes, thinking: My friends will never meet you, darling. Ever. They’ll never know how good you were for me. And I realized what a sham my relationship with Kim had truly been, because I had never told her about the cases, all about what was involved in what I do, and I knew that instead of confiding in a partner, needing his or her sympathy, I wanted someone who understood this life from the inside. No explanations necessary. I couldn’t have had that with Violet, but for her, I would have given up the travel, the insanity, for domestic bliss with my sweet young stargazer.

  Look at what this life has cost you.

  Look at where you are.

  The room felt so small. When I sat up and checked the window, I could hardly see a damn thing. The song was over, the car’s driver pulling out from the curb after getting take out. I couldn’t see the stars at all, only smears of grime.

  ♦

  Dupuis and Alain had left a message with the hotel desk, letting me know they had safely made it out of the UK after me, and before returning to Geneva they were at a friend’s in Neuilly, in case I needed them. I was certain now I would. I had one last favor to ask of them before I left France.

  Meanwhile, Jiro was true to his word. His contact (and I wondered honestly if it weren’t Jiro himself) dumped the Forensic Service’s Counter-Terrorism unit’s entire case file into my e-mail account. As a matter of fact, one e-mail came with a PDF of the written police report, and a second e-mail had what I really wanted, the crime scene photos. I guessed Jiro, or his contact, wasn’t taking any chances. Better for their own security that they break the stuff up and send it from two different e-mail addresses.

  The photos were the key.

  I downloaded everything to the laptop, and then I took a deep breath before opening the pictures. Hard seeing Luis like this—this man who had become a friend, who with his wife had shared something special with me. I owed it to him to catch his killer as much as I owed it to myself to clear my name.

  Go to work, Teresa.

  I studied the photos carefully. You’re probably telling yourself, hey, she’s not a medical examiner—what does she know? And you’re right. I’m not. Fortunately, I didn’t have to be. Experience and common sense were needed here. The fall from that hotel balcony had severed Luis’s spinal cord and smashed the back of his skull, but it wasn’t enough to obscure or alter the injuries from his beating. Those were where the truth lay.

  Luis had several bruises to his face. There was one just under the nose (the “sweet spot’ as karate practitioners sometimes call it, because you punch there, and not only does it hurt like hell, you can’t roll your head with the blow at all). He also had a rather odd bruise, shaped in a weird ellipse, which covered much of the temple area up to his right eyebrow. No way the heel, knuckles, or palm of a hand could make that blow—no part could leave that mark, so the killer either used a tool or the edge of his foot.

  But if he had used his foot, he must have been floating Matrix-style in the air when he struck Luis, the bruise impression was so bizarre. What wild technique had the killer used for that ?

  Lucky for me, there were also two defined sets of knuckle impressions from punches to Luis’s chest. I’ll get to those. Be patient.

  Luis had two broken ribs from kicks to his side, and the report said his spleen had been ruptured before he was tossed off the balcony.

  But the clinchers for the theory I was slowly developing were his hands. Luis’s hands were perfectly normal. Not a scratch on them, no knuckle abrasions, no cuts.

  The photos took me part of the way to exonerating myself, but I needed to rope in another expert. This is why I wasn’t yet finished with Dupuis.

  He was a man who understood forgeries, which meant he understood art supplies, which meant he also knew people who did sculpture. What I needed was a friend of his who could make plaster casts.

  For the first time in days, I began to feel better about my future and getting my life back, and I rang the dojo that evening to thank the resourceful Monsieur Tanaka. Jiro’s voice sounded strange on the line.

  “What’s the matter?’ I asked him. “Are you in trouble? Did the cops find out you did it?’

  “No, no, I’m fine, Teresa, that’s the thing, I didn’t do it, well, I mean my mate didn’t do it—not all of it.’

  I told him I didn’t understand.

  “We could only crack one part of the database. We sent you the police report to keep you happy until we could figure out the rest. Teresa…We didn’t send you any crime scene photos!’

  ♦

  It would take a couple of days for the plaster casts to be finished, and Dupuis promised they would be delivered to my hotel in Clichy-sous-Bois by someone we could trust.

  In the meantime, I went to an Internet café and replied to my mysterious helper. There were ways, I was sure, the photos could have been placed in Jiro’s hands with him never knowing he was helped. But I think my benefactor wanted me to notice him. And I had a pretty good idea who it was.

  I wrote: THANKS. ARE YOU OK? HOW DID YOU GET THEM? No sooner had I hit “Send’ than the computer offered a chirpy bell, inviting me to use the Windows Live Messenger. No on-line display picture, certainly no webcam image. My ally called himself Sibar Sexy.

  He did it, no doubt, not only to tip me off to who he was, but to wind me up a little. Jeez, Simon, you never change, I thought.

  Simon Highsmith. We had once made love during the Sibar festival in the Nuba Mountains of Sudan. The word Sibar was sufficiently obscure that unless you knew that part of Africa you’d never guess the reference. He was already answering my questions:

  I’M FINE, NOT THE PRIORITY. NEVER MIND HOW GOT IT, YOU NEED IT.

  Fair enough. I’m sure he had his own friend who handled tech stuff the way I consulted Jiro.

  IN MAJOR, MAJOR SHIT, YES?

  This, too, was a reference to a time we once had together. Simon had playfully asked me if I would rescue him if he were in trouble, as in “major, major shit.’ I never gave him a serious response, but the truth was that I knew I would come running, just as he would for me. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand the peculiar bond between us—not lovers that last, always friends out of touch, but strangers that can and will fight side by side. Maybe he understood
it better. I had asked over a breakfast ages ago: Why should I come racing to the rescue?

  And he had replied: You think about it.

  Maybe because in the end, we both fight for the same things, and one of them was Africa. Well, I was nowhere near Africa now, but he was still in my corner.

  I typed back: YES. IN MAJOR, MAJOR SHIT. THINK H BETRAYED ME.

  After a few seconds (and God only knew where he was), his reply came back: WHICH H? Which H? There was another one besides Hodd?

  My fingers were scrambling over the keys. WHICH H DO YOU KNOW?

  Another long pause in which the tiny lettering across the bottom of the window told me: “Sibar Sexy is writing a message.’ I hate those prompts because inevitably the message coming your way after the long pause is some brief, anticlimactic reply. And it was:

  NOT SAFE TO SAY THIS VENUE.

  That also bothered me. It suggested two things: that Simon wasn’t as “fine’ as he claimed, since he couldn’t send information openly, and there might be another player in this game I didn’t know about. But then again, I had no way of knowing how familiar Simon was with the case. He obviously was aware I’d been framed, since he sent along material to exonerate me, but—

  Another message. THIS IS BIGGER THAN SAMBA.

  That was clear enough. He knew the trail led to Brazil, and probably guessed it was where I would go. But the ramifications went beyond a porn merchant and a couple of big-league gangsters in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro. If I asked, he’d probably write that it wasn’t safe to discuss them here either.

  To hell with it, I asked anyway. HOW BIG?

  I pictured him somewhere, brushing a comma of his blond hair away from his forehead, always his preliminary gesture before he put his hand on his chin, his ice-chip blue eyes staring at the screen, figuring out the safest way to tell me something. Simon liked to play mysterious at times, but that was when he was at cross-purposes to my solving a case, and lately we had worked together well, our cards on the table. He didn’t play games when it counted. He knew the major shit I was in, and since he’d gone underground, far away from his old spy clients, I was fairly sure he was in trouble himself.