Double Scotch

by Steven Henry

  “What's the escort service called?” Erin asked.

  “Classy Dames, Incorporated,” Brown said. “I shit you not.”

  “Who thinks up these names?”

  Brown shrugged. “Doesn't matter what they're called,” he said. “Main question is, who thinks calling it an escort service is fooling anyone?”

  “Damn,” Erin said. “Last time I went after a prostitution ring, my car got shot full of holes.”

  Brown grinned. “Maybe next time you'll remember to use protection.”

  “You're an asshole, Brown,” she said.

  “So they tell me,” he said. “I'll send you what we've got on these guys. Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Erin said, turning for the door. “Give Monica my best.”

  Back in Major Crimes, she found the rest of the squad still going through shipping records. Vic was on the phone. The call didn't appear to be going well; he'd field-stripped his sidearm and was cleaning the weapon with savage efficiency while he kept the phone wedged on his shoulder.

  “I'm on hold,” he announced. “Port Authority. Seventeen minutes and counting.”

  “What's it look like, O'Reilly?” Webb asked.

  “Can't say yet,” she replied. “Levine's running a tox-screen. She thinks maybe cyanide poisoning.”

  “Murder, suicide, or accident?” he asked.

  “Could be murder,” she said. “But not an accident. The body was posed.”

  “How so?”

  She described the scene. The others stopped their work to listen.

  “Freaky,” Jones said. “Maybe suicide. A little over thirty-five percent of female suicides are by hanging, but drugs are second most common, twenty-four point seven.”

  “I swear, you just make these numbers up,” Vic said.

  Jones gave him a look. “No, I just remember what I read. You know, reading? See, books have these little black marks on the pages. They're called letters, and together they make words...”

  “And those words spell 'kiss my ass,'” Vic growled. He spun his chair around to face the wall and kept waiting on the phone.

  “What's your gut say?” Webb asked Erin. “You think this was self-inflicted?”

  Erin had been thinking about it. “Levine didn't want to make a ruling,” she said. “The room wasn't disturbed. No signs of robbery or assault. The night lock was engaged. But...” she trailed off.

  “It didn't feel right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, we treat it like a homicide until we're sure,” he said. “See what Levine can tell you. And run down this Classy Dames service. If the girl was targeted, one of her johns might've called them.”

  “What've we got on the two that washed up?” she asked.

  “Not much. There's just too many ships. Anyone reports some missing crew, that'll be a start, but might not give us any answers. Sometimes guys jump ship when they hit port, just like in the old days. Can't wait to go on liberty.”

  “In the Royal Navy, they wouldn't pay their sailors when in port,” Jones chimed in. “They thought it would increase desertion rates.”

  “As opposed to guys deserting because they hadn't been paid,” Vic said over his shoulder.

  “We're in a holding pattern for now,” Webb said. “Neshenko's gonna liaise with Port Authority, get the word out, run pics of the victims to them. Maybe someone remembers something. Otherwise, we're waiting on lab work.”

  Erin sat down at her desk. She looked up Classy Dames, Incorporated, and got a phone number, along with a New Jersey address. “Great,” she muttered.

  “Problem?” Jones asked.

  “I have to go to Jersey.”

  “I know a joke about that,” Vic said. “You know why New Yorkers are depressed?”

  “Why?”

  “Because they know the light at the end of the tunnel is only New Jersey.”

  Webb snorted. “We don't need you here at the moment,” he said to her. “You want to try them in person, go ahead.”

  Erin stood up again. “Come on, Rolf,” she said. “Let's go talk to the escort service, which I'm sure is totally legitimate and absolutely not a front for prostitution.”

  “Careful, O'Reilly,” Webb said. “You keep that cynical attitude, you'll end up just like me by the time you're forty.”

  “Don't even joke about that,” she said.

  Erin took the Lincoln Tunnel across the Hudson into Weehawken. Her GPS led her to an address that, whatever the name of the company, didn't look classy. It was a plain brick storefront in a generic strip mall. A small sign in the door identified Classy Dames, Inc., but that was it. Clearly, they did their business over the phone and Internet.

  She scoped the place, looking for anything out of the ordinary. She'd been extra careful ever since the ambush that had nearly killed Vic on their last case. But nothing raised any red flags, so she parked, let Rolf out of his compartment, and headed in.

  She entered a plain lobby, with the only furniture a wood-veneer desk from the Seventies, a computer and phone on the desk, and a chair behind it. A middle-aged woman sat in the chair, wearing too much makeup and a telephone headset. Erin looked around the room. No one else was there. No other chairs, no magazines, no brochures, not even a potted plant. It was just about the most depressing office she'd ever seen.

  The woman glanced up at her. “You got an appointment?” she said in a thick, unpleasant Jersey accent. “Hey, no pets,” she went on, without waiting for an answer.

  “He's not a pet,” Erin said, flashing her shield. “NYPD. I'd like to ask you some questions.”

  The phone rang. The woman held up her hand. “Hold onto your panties,” she said and pushed a button on the phone. Her voice instantly changed, becoming a silky purr. “Hello there, sir.”

  Erin blinked. It didn't sound like the same woman. She was too startled to do anything for a moment.

  “Why yes, I'd be delighted to. Have you patronized our service in the past? Yes, I see that. Why hello, Mr. Goodrich, yes, I thought I recognized your voice. Yes, Pamela is still in our employ. I'm so pleased you hear you say that. Yes, your satisfaction is our top priority.”

  Erin wanted to step outside and find a bush to throw up into. Her previous experience working prostitution cases had worn away whatever glamour it might have once had. She listened mechanically as the secretary set up an appointment, without ever actually mentioning sex. She could always claim Classy Dames just provided attractive arm candy for businessmen to take out to dinner, or to the theater, or whatever. Everyone knew what was really going on, but that wasn't the point. No wonder Sergeant Brown was so cynical.

  Finally, the call ended. Erin stepped forward.

  Before she could say anything, the secretary started talking. No more smooth bedroom voice. She was back to pure, no-nonsense Jersey. “Listen, honey, in case you haven't noticed, you crossed outta New York when you went over the river. So whatever you think you got on us, you better have a Jersey cop and a warrant with you, or you can take your questions and shove 'em.”

  Erin was used to this sort of thing. “I think you're misunderstanding me, ma'am,” she said. “I don't have any interest in your business.”

  The woman looked a little surprised. “Then whatcha doin' here? Why don't you go back to the city so nice, they named it twice?”

  “I need to talk to you about Jennifer Paxton,” Erin said.

  The secretary was unimpressed. “Should I know her?”

  “You tell me,” Erin said.

  The other woman's face was totally blank.

  Time to try a different tactic. “We think someone may have targeted her,” she said.

  “This Paxton chick, she in trouble?” the secretary asked, her tone making it clear she didn't much care one way or the other.

  “Not anymore,” Erin said.

  “Then why you here?”

  “She's dead.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” the woman said. It hadn't registered.

  “W
hat people usually mean,” Erin said, giving it to her straight. “Not breathing. On a slab in the morgue. Dead.”

  “Oh,” the secretary said, and her tough-girl front cracked. “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah,” Erin agreed. “So, you obviously knew her. You have a boss you think I should talk to?”

  The secretary nodded. “Just a sec,” she said and punched a button on her phone. “Mr. Lorimer? I've got a cop out front, says Jenny's... Jenny's dead.” To Erin's surprise, it looked like the woman was having trouble getting the words out. She realized that Classy Dames wasn't being run by a street-corner pimp. In spite of the bland appearance of the office, this was a high-class call-girl operation. They weren't used to their girls getting killed. “No, we're not in trouble. Yeah, okay. I'll send her in.”

  The woman disconnected the call and pointed to the door in the back wall. “First one on the left,” she said, then hesitated. “Was... was she... did someone...?”

  “That's what we're trying to find out,” Erin said. “Did Jenny have any family that you know about?”

  The secretary shook her head. “I don't know. Jenny didn't talk about her home much. Ask Mr. Lorimer.”

  Erin went through the door, Rolf trotting beside her. The back rooms of the facility were more upscale. There were photos on the walls, mostly glamor shots of young women. On the left was an office, tastefully furnished, with a desk that looked to be real hardwood. A man in his forties, hair going a little gray at the edges, stood up and smiled at her.

  “Good day, Officer,” he said, extending his hand. “I'm Nate Lorimer.” He had a nice smile, showing off a set of straight, white teeth. His suit was expensive without being flashy. Not a bad-looking guy. Erin reflected that pimps came in all shapes and sizes.

  She kept her emotions under the surface and gave his hand a brief, firm shake. “Detective Erin O'Reilly, NYPD Major Crimes.”

  “Please, have a seat, Detective,” he said. “Can I offer you anything to drink? Coffee, tea? What's your pleasure?”

  “Coffee, please. Cream, no sugar.” He had a pot right there in his office, and she could smell it. It was an expensive brew, a lot better than the sludge that came out of the machine at the precinct.

  He poured her a cup, and took one for himself. Once they were settled in their chairs, he said, “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Do you have a Jennifer Paxton working for your company?” she asked, going straight in.

  “Yes,” he said. “Or, perhaps I should say, I did. Norma told me over the phone that something has happened to Miss Paxton.”

  “She was found dead in a hotel room in Manhattan this morning,” Erin said. “I'm investigating.”

  Lorimer's face gave nothing away. He merely looked politely distressed by the news. “I'm very sorry to hear that,” he said. “Jenny is... was... a lovely young woman. Outgoing, vivacious, one of our most popular girls. Any client who hired her was bound to ask for her again. I do hope nothing... untoward occurred. Since the police are involved, am I wrong to assume there is some concern regarding possible foul play?”

  “We're still determining that,” Erin said. “And you can help us narrow down the possibilities. What can you tell me about Jenny?”

  Lorimer rubbed his upper lip with one hand. “Well, for starters, her name is not Jennifer Paxton,” he said.

  Erin wasn't surprised. Hookers and actors were fond of stage names. “Do you know her real name?”

  “Janice Barnes,” Lorimer said.

  “Do you have family contact information?”

  He shook his head. “I'm afraid not. We do run background checks on our employees, of course. This is a high-class establishment. Our clients expect a well-educated young woman who is an accomplished conversationalist, able to function in the circles of high society. A college degree is appreciated.”

  Erin held up a hand. “Mr. Lorimer, I'm well aware of your business,” she said. “I'm not investigating Classy Dames, Incorporated. I'm just trying to find out who might have wanted to harm Miss Barnes. Was she working last night?”

  “One moment,” Lorimer said, tapping the keys on his computer. “Yes, she had an appointment last night.”

  Erin's heart leaped. “You have a name?”

  “John Anderson,” he said dryly.

  “So, not a real name.”

  “Probably not. It’s hardly unheard-of in this business.”

  “Do you have a recording of his call?”

  “He made the request through our website,” Lorimer said. “Shy customers aren't exactly uncommon. The appointment was for eight o'clock.”

  “Where?”

  “She was to go to Shakespeare Garden in Central Park,” he said. “Wearing a black dress and carrying a rose.”

  “That strike you as a little weird?” Erin asked.

  Lorimer gave her a look. “Detective, in my line of work, that doesn't even come close to weird.”

  “Right,” Erin said, sorry she'd asked. “How'd he pay?”

  “In advance, by credit card,” Lorimer said. “We require it. It's a confidential service, of course.”

  “I'll need that credit card info,” Erin said.

  “And I'll be happy to provide it,” Lorimer said. “As soon as I see a court order.” He smiled apologetically. “Confidential, as I said. We value our reputation for discretion.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “I'm afraid not.”

  She stood up and gave him one of her cards. “If you think of anything, please give me a call,” she said. “I think Miss Barnes might've been murdered. If that's the case, then the rest of your girls may be in danger, too.”

  “I'm surprised you care, Detective,” Lorimer said. “Most in your profession don't.”

  Erin paused in the doorway. “Mr. Lorimer,” she said, “I don't care what a murder victim did for a living, unless it tells me something that helps crack the case. I don't give a damn if she was a hooker, a stripper, or a nun. I'll still catch the son of a bitch who did it. Hell,” she finished, “I’d even take down someone who clipped you.”

  Chapter 4

  Erin called Webb from her car, explaining what she'd found out from Lorimer. “I didn't get a lot,” she finished. “I'll need a court order for the credit card.”

  “It'll be stolen, of course,” Webb said. “At the end of the month, some poor bastard's gonna have some explaining to do when his wife sees his bill.”

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Come on back. Regroup.”

  “Roger that.”

  Erin spent the rest of the day at the precinct, running down what she could on Janice Barnes. She didn't get much. Apparently Janice had moved to Jersey from Georgia. She'd had a few brushes with the law, but nothing serious. No felonies, no prostitution charges.

  It was depressing. The rest of the squad were feeling it, too. They were getting nowhere on the two gunshot victims. Vic hunched over his desk growling. Jones stared blankly at her computer screen, which hadn't changed in half an hour. And Webb spent his time muttering darkly about how much he missed Los Angeles and his time in the LAPD. It was a relief when the clock hit five.

  Erin stood up. “Guess I'll call it,” she said.

  “We'll shake this again tomorrow,” Jones said. “See what comes loose. Hey Erin, you want to go somewhere, catch a bite?”

  Erin wasn't in the mood for police company. “Rain check,” she said.

  “Have it your way,” Jones replied. “Don't drink yourself into a stupor, okay?”

  “Why not?” she tossed over her shoulder on the way to the stairs. “I'm Irish, aren't I?”

  It wasn't a completely terrible idea. She wanted a drink, bad. She drove home first, walked Rolf, and gave him his supper. Then she considered the places near her apartment and walked to the closest joint.

  She had a history with the Barley Corner. Its proprietor, Morton Carlyle, was the canniest, most polite member of the Irish Mob in New
York City. He'd known her father back when Sean O'Reilly had worked Patrol, and Erin had renewed the family's relationship earlier that year. Carlyle had been a suspect in a murder investigation, but he'd been cleared in the end. The real perp had tried to blow up Carlyle's pub, and through quick thinking and dumb luck, she'd managed to save the building. She'd also saved the lives of Carlyle, his best mate Corky, and a few others into the bargain. That meant, in Carlyle's book, that he owed her a favor, and that her money was no good at his bar.

  A free drink sounded awfully nice, so that was where she went. The Corner was always busy in the evenings, full of a crowd of mostly Irishmen, about half of them mob-connected. But even though they knew Erin was with the NYPD, or maybe because of it, they always made her feel welcome.

  She saw Carlyle right away, impeccably dressed, hair shining silver in the overhead lights. He was at his place of honor at the bar, arms resting on it, facing the room. He was watching a European soccer game on the big-screen TV. Erin knew he ran a sports book under the counter out of the bar. She might even be able to prove it, but what would be the point? He'd been a valuable resource in solving her last case, and underworld contacts were useful to a detective. Better to keep him where he was, and to stay on good terms with him.

  One man she didn't see in the place was Corky Corcoran. That was just as well. He'd been trying to charm her into bed with him ever since they'd met, and that was a headache she didn't need tonight. Erin went to the bar and flagged down the bartender.

  “Hey, Danny,” she said.

  “Evening, Erin,” he said with a grin. He was one of the guys she'd helped save from getting blown to pieces, so he had a soft spot for her. “What can I get you?”

  “Double scotch,” she said. “House brand.”

  “Straight up?”

  “On the rocks.” The day had gotten hot and the air conditioning in the precinct hadn't been able to keep up.

  He set the glass on the counter, dropped the ice cubes into it, and poured a double of Glen D whiskey. The ice cracked as the liquor cascaded over it. Erin took the glass, found a spot at the bar, and took a sip. It burned and chilled at the same time. She took a second to let the whiskey dissipate on her tongue. She felt it all the way through her nose and the roof of her mouth. It burned some of the fog out of her brain. She took another drink.