“Not at all.”
“It was ruled a suicide. Russian roulette. She was found in her own home, completely naked on her bed with a mid-century American revolver at her side. The detail might seem superficial, but it’s not a common configuration. I thought it might at least be worth a look.”
“You’re right. If this Johanna Clement was involved in the same business as Priscilla, her case might help.” Kelly’s mind was suddenly clear. “Thanks, Martin. You should still talk to Dunne. I’m off for now—for medical reasons,” she said, stretching the truth.
“Anytime, detective.”
Kelly grabbed her laptop, opened a secure browser, and typed Johanna Clement’s name into the search engine. She found herself reading an article written by none other than Nigel Brickmat. It was a short piece published in a free London weekly. Mostly it recounted what the medical examiner had just told Kelly, except that it implied that Johanna was employed as a high-class escort.
Kelly walked into the bedroom, wincing with pain as she took a deep breath, and found the jacket she had been wearing on the day she arrived in London. In the pocket was the card Nigel Brickmat had given her.
Back on the couch, she took a long sip of brandy and tapped in the number. The phone rang twice, then went to voice mail. “Bastard,” Kelly muttered under her breath just before the beep.
“Hi, Nigel,” she said in the friendliest tone she could muster. “It’s Kelly Moore. I wonder if you’d be interested in meeting me for coffee. Get to know each other a little better. Strictly off the record. Maybe tomorrow afternoon? Let me know.”
Just as well…
A wave of exhaustion crashed over her. She’d talk with the reporter tomorrow and follow up with Rodgers. For now, she’d earned a rest.
39
Jenny Hooks splashed cool water over her burning eyes and pale face. She braced her hands on either side of the sink in the bathroom as water circled down into the drain.
She scrubbed her face with a flannel, then stroked deep purple eye shadow over her swollen lids before staring at her reflection. Shadows ringed her eyes and cheeks. Anxiety had caused lines, and her pores looked like craters. Why do I even bother?
She dropped the makeup into her bag and flipped off the light switch on her way out. She wasn’t sure where to go, since a hotel was too obvious, too easy to track, and she couldn’t drag any of her friends into the morass she found herself in. With no one to trust, she considered her options: She could walk into her own death just like Roane, or right into a jail cell like Avery.
She stopped and looked over at the bed.
How did I let Priscilla get so far under my skin? Jenny never had a hard time getting the men or women that piqued her interest to sleep with her. Something about swinging both ways seemed to crank men’s sex drive up to eleven, and had a way of drawing out women’s interest in the taboo-tinged pleasure of it all.
Pris had been no different in that department. The rich blonde girl had been just Jenny’s type. Priscilla was intrigued when Jenny leaned in to kiss her the first time. A drama department party, a few drinks later, and she was naked in Jenny’s bed, writhing under her tongue. Within a week, Jenny had recruited Pris into the webcam scheme. At first the two of them performed together. But soon, Jenny stepped out, and Pris was on her own.
That’s where the similarities to all the other girls ended. Priscilla didn’t hop out the front door and back into some boyfriend’s arms as soon as the night was over, calling only when she got bored; not that Jenny would have said no to the occasional booty call. Priscilla wasn’t shy about their sex, either. Sure, the girl was a total snob to people she didn’t know, but she also had a sweet innocence that Jenny loved.
There were many nights that Pris just fell asleep after their fun, curled up against Jenny’s side while she read. Even though Jenny knew they wouldn’t have a lasting relationship, the action still did something to her every time. Jenny looked away from her bed feeling like someone pushed a blade into her heart. It was a stupid idea to give Pris that gun. Losing her had hurt more than Jenny could have imagined.
Jenny didn’t know that much about the operation, but it was enough, she did know, for her life to be in danger. She picked up her phone and called the one person who always seemed to have a connection.
“Hey, it’s Jenny.”
“What’s going on?”
“I need to disappear for a while. You know somewhere?”
“Yeah. Let me make some calls. I’ll text you the address.”
“You’re a life saver.”
“You can thank me later.”
The faint sound of footsteps on the stairs drew Jenny’s attention. She ended the call and froze. As the sound got closer, she reached for a steak knife on the kitchen counter. She held her breath until she heard the sound of a door opening on the floor below and then exhaled loudly. She had to get out of there.
40
He watched Jenny’s retreating shadow on the screen as she left the building and moved down the street. The hood pulled up was a nice touch, but no one could escape his ever-present eyes. It was more than just good fortune, he knew, that she had called him to ask for an escape route. She trusted him, understood that he could help her, the way that he helped them all. They never knew until it was too late.
Grabbing the stiletto off the wall and the phone from his desk, excitement pumped through his every vein. He turned the phone on and, with a quick flick of his thumb, the feeds that lined the wall suddenly appeared on the small screen; a short swipe was all it took be all-seeing. He sheathed the blade along the inside of his black leather jacket and collected his thoughts. He was in no hurry; he knew exactly where to find her.
In less than an hour, he walked out of the station at White Hart Lane and stared at the wreckage of the old Tottenham football stadium. Its desolate moonscape of crushed concrete and girders lay in heaps. He could hear the ghosts of tens of thousands of people, thrilled to watch and cheer and never act. He would not be just watching tonight.
Up the high street and around a corner, the flat warehouse sat at the edge of a parking lot. He checked his phone and saw that Jenny was inside, sitting on the concrete floor. His movement slowed to a confident creeping as he eased through the rear door.
In the center of the open floor, Jenny sat in a lotus position facing the front of the building, her bag at her side. Her forehead was pushed into her palms as she looked down at her lap. Something on the ground gleamed in the light of the votive candle she’d lit to help her relax.
His steps were silent, his mind sharp and focused. He didn’t see the pebble that bounced off his boot and rolled lightly across the floor.
In a fraction of a second, Jenny stood facing him, the steak knife in her hand.
“Oh,” she exhaled. “It’s you.” Recognition flickered across her face in the half-light. “I wasn’t expecting…. You almost gave me a heart attack.”
She got up and walked over to him, still holding the knife. Her uneven steps echoed off the metal walls and shadows danced from the small candle. The air smelled of motor oil and mildew and sandalwood.
Jenny stopped a few feet away from him.
“I see you brought your lighting rig.” He pointed at the candle behind her.
In the instant that she turned her head to look, he pounced.
With a grunt, he slammed into Jenny’s back. They rolled to the right as she growled, waving the knife wildly; a primal wail escaped her lips. He moved back as her arm swung the knife behind her. The blade sliced through the air. He dodged it, jumping up.
Jenny scrambled to her feet. Shining eyes glared at him, the knife held out before her, her hand remarkably steady. He loved this moment—where all the force of life and terror pulsed between them. He knew she would soon crumble.
The rage on her face gave way to an expression of violent understanding.
“You…” She shuddered. “It was you who set up Priscilla. Who killed Roane.” Jenny’s voi
ce trembled with disgust and rage. Her eyes darted to the side, searching for a way out. She gripped the knife as if it was the only thing between her and death.
“Bastard!” She lunged at him, swinging the knife downward in an arc.
He slipped back, avoiding her strike, then his hand shot out, landing a fist hard and heavy to the side of her head. Jenny surprised him when she reeled and spun and the blade sliced through the arm of his jacket.
A faint burning sensation told him that she’d caught some skin; the look in her eyes told him she felt more confident.
“I’ll fucking kill you, you sick son of a bitch!” She launched at him again with a scream.
He grabbed her wrist, twisted it to the side, and slammed her to the ground.
The side of her face bounced on the concrete, and the kitchen knife skittered across the oil-stained floor.
He pushed his knee into her lower back while wrenching her arm back against her shoulder blade.
“You’re the one who gave her the gun, Jenny.” He pushed her arm farther up for emphasis.
Jenny yelped in pain. “Piss off!”
He pulled the stiletto out from the sheath in his jacket.
Jenny began to gasp for air as he moved his knee higher up her back. Her legs kicked at him, but she couldn’t break free.
He reveled in the moment. The pure joy of her futile struggle. It was making him hard.
In one fast motion, he drew his hand back and down. She shrieked as the blade sank into the soft flesh of her thigh. Soon, he knew, she would start begging.
“I’m so happy that you came to this dark place.” He pulled the blade out and twisted quickly around to stab into the back of her other leg. A quick glance assured him that he had missed her main arteries. It would be a slow, painful death. “No one will hear your screams here.”
Tears rolled down Jenny’s face as she gasped for air and writhed beneath him. “Sick prick! It was you—you killed her!”
He shook his head and leaned back a little. He pushed the tip of the blade behind her right knee.
He smiled, shaking his head. “I did nothing to her.”
With a grunt, he pushed the stiletto down hard, hitting bone and tearing an agonized cry from her lungs. Her hot blood sprayed onto his skin, sending a shudder through his body. He reached down to collect her blood in his hand, to hold it, anointing himself with her pain.
His gaze landed on her shoulder tattoo of the severed head, now visible as her shirt stretched down beneath his weight.
“Poetic,” he said, awed with pleasure as he punctured the skin at her shoulder blade, momentarily lifting his weight from her back so that she could gulp in air; feel the pain of the wound.
Jenny’s voice broke as she struggled under him. “Stop…” Her face was draining of color. The floor was slick with her blood. “Please… Please stop.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“As you wish.”
In one seamless motion, he plunged the blade into the left side of her back, all the way down to the hilt, piercing her heart. When he felt the stiletto hit the hard concrete on the other side of Jenny’s body, he pulled the knife back several inches and thrust it upward.
Her pleas died with a single gasp.
Her mouth turned wet and dark fluid pulsed down the side of her face. He leaned down, smelling her blood and fear and sweat. Jenny convulsed beneath his body as he pressed himself hard against her, feeling on fire in his communion. He released himself into the void of Jenny’s spent life and wept with relief.
41
Kelly stepped inside the pub and walked over to Brickmat’s table. It was still early in the day. Weak light from the tiny window above the door shone down on his glass. He was flipping through a narrow notebook, filled with an illegible scrawl, wearing an impeccable linen jacket with a checked shirt, open at the collar to expose the curve of his collarbone. He looked up, and sensing her eyes on him, gave a quick embarrassed smile. A distinct look of relief passed over his face.
“Mind if I join you?” Kelly asked.
He shook his head. “No, please… It’s good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve had better weeks.”
“I hope you don’t mind my setting up here. I’m on deadline for this magazine piece. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Kelly put down her bag, walked over to the bar, and looked up at the menu written in chalk on the wall above. She ordered a toasted cheese sandwich, as it was pretty much the only recognizable thing on the list, a pint of pale ale, and a glass of water which she gulped down while waiting for her beer.
“Such a pleasant surprise to get your invitation,” Brickmat said as Kelly sat down with her food and ale. His words were genuine, but Kelly detected amusement in his voice. She looked into his eyes and had a brief moment of recognition. Something familiar, like she’d known him in a different context. She sensed that he felt it too.
“Well, I figured that if we are going to continue to work together, we might as well get to know each other a little better,” Kelly said. She was feeling warm from the beer, with just enough lightness to let her guard down and really appreciate his handsome face.
Brickmat leaned across the table. She could smell his shaving soap and the faint salty bite of sweat.
“I heard that you’re off the case, Detective Moore. Does that mean this is a date?”
Kelly leaned in closer. “No,” she whispered slowly.
Brickmat grinned, taking it in stride. “Well then I guess it’s an interview. Let’s start with your background: tough detective, probably mid-thirties, from New York. Investigates violent crime. You’re well-connected. What else? Did you grow up in the city?”
“Writing a profile for the Sunday Times?”
“Hardly,” Brickmat said. “Call it professional curiosity.”
A hint of a smile raised the corner of Kelly’s lips.
“Yes and no. Mostly, I lived way out at the edge of Brooklyn. Technically New York City, just a subway ride away, but culturally about a million miles from Manhattan.” She swallowed the middle of the word, making it sound like “Manatten.” “Narrow, semi-attached houses, driveways, anemic trees. When the wind was blowing in, you could smell the ocean on the salt marsh and the city dump just behind it.”
“A good place for a kid to run around and explore, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, my sister and I used to get into plenty of trouble.” Kelly heard herself say the words. She’d let her guard down again.
“Your sister?” Brickmat said, looking at her intently.
A floating feeling rose up from her torso into her limbs.
Kelly took a bite of her sandwich and willed herself back into focus. “And now that this interview is over, I have a question for you, Nigel. Completely off the record. There’s a case from a few years ago that you covered. A suicide. The details share some similarities with Priscilla Ames’. The woman’s name was Johanna Clement.”
He squinted. “I remember the story,” he said. “Though not very clearly.”
“Maybe I can jog your memory. She was found in her apartment, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to her head. She was naked, on her own bed.”
Brickmat fixed his dark eyes on Kelly’s. She could see his intelligence. He was a good reporter. She wondered if he knew about Cass.
“What else can you tell me about her, Nigel? I know how it is with reporters, just like cops; you’ve got sources, you’ve got hunches. You can’t always use all the information you’ve got.”
Brickmat sat back in his chair. “I’d have to look through my notes to be sure, but I remember there was evidence that she had been a sex worker. Upper-class, high-end stuff. I dug around, but couldn’t come up with any names that I could verify, so my editor wouldn’t run a follow-up story.”
“But you did have some names.”
“Yes. But that’s privileged information, Detective.”
“Kelly. Please, call me Kelly. I’m not a
sking you to give up any sources, Nigel. You know that. I’m just looking for a lead, trying to crack this nut so that an innocent girl doesn’t spend years in confinement.”
“You really think that Avery Moss is innocent? Well, Kelly. As I said, I’d have to look at my notes. I’ll check into it and see if I have anything that might help.”
“Thanks,” Kelly said, taking the last bite of her grilled cheese sandwich and chasing it down with the end of her beer. “I’d offer to help you get a leg up on this story when we break it, but it seems like you’ve already got all the information you need.”
“I have my ways.”
“A word to the wise, Nigel. Professional Standards are on it. Pretty soon, your access will be gone, and you’ll be just another dude in the press pool.”
42
Dunne was at his desk going through the notes on the Priscilla Ames and Roane Davies cases: forensic evidence, interviews with neighbors, the transcripts of Avery Moss and Jenny Hooks’ interrogations; piles of words that led him to the edge of understanding, but refused to reveal the truth. Little more than a week had passed, and the trail was growing cold. Avery Moss had been officially charged with killing Priscilla Ames, and the pressure from upstairs to find evidence linking her to Roane Davies’ murder continued, but there was nothing of substance.
The initial burst of media interest was dying down already, the news cycle moving on to an MP’s sexual scandal, a boat of refugees that had capsized in the Mediterranean, a grisly car crash in the North. Even Nigel Brickmat seemed disinterested.
The two leads that held any promise had ground to a standstill. Jenny Hooks, who surely knew more about Priscilla’s web-porn activities and the gun, was missing. She could be anywhere in London, or beyond. Meanwhile, the investigation into Priscilla’s activity on the web was going frustratingly slowly. Joshi’s contact hadn’t come up with anything yet, and the Met’s own digital investigation department was stretched thin. It could be weeks before they even got to his request for help.
This Dark Place: A Detective Kelly Moore Novel Page 13