Grave Misgivings Page 4

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 18

  Croft seems to have been quite a busy bee and an expert in his profession. As TRUST intimated in her e-mail, some of the murders are particularly gruesome. From the descriptions of the kills, this eliminator was paid extra for having his victims suffer. And he’s been active all over. Seems as if he has had a hand in border wars in Africa, blood diamond trafficking, drug cartel wars in South America, and “taking care” of politicians in countries where running for office is hazardous to your health. In those countries sudden-death syndrome is a daily possibility. His last professional hit seems to have been a political rival who was stirring up trouble for the government in Colombia. While he does do torture if required, his specialty seems to be a quick kill then getting rid of the body through various means. No evidence left. A true White Death.

  Starting in 2008, after the kill in Colombia, he appears to have been incommunicado and unreachable for almost two years. There is no information on his whereabouts or activities. He surfaced again in February 2010 and several eliminations over the next few years in Mexico, Arizona, and Florida were attributed to him but never quite proven. The victims were not well-known or high-profile people. Some were wealthy, some were not. Seems as if my professional eliminator had come down a notch in whom he was hired to eliminate. From Soldier of Fortune to a simple murderer for hire is a demotion in the hit-man profession. Maybe it has something to do with those missing two years.

  I go to work on the card again and actually get some results. Now I can see a word that looks like b-a-t-h coming into view. Bath what though? A place for bathroom fixtures, a Bed, Bath, and Beyond type of store? I sigh and put the card on my desk to dry a bit. If I keep rubbing it the card may just flake apart. I order lunch in and wait for an e-mail from TRUST while I check through the Yellow Pages online for any business in the Washington, DC area that has the word bath in its name.

  At four o’clock I call my friend Melissa. Together we’re going to transform me into a high-priced call-girl. It’s going to be a long day into night. I’m working undercover for the limo service who requested a “female dick.”

  Chapter 4

  I STUMBLE INTO my brownstone wearing my “hooker” heels, five inches of killer stiletto that could easily be used as a weapon. After all, the word stiletto is Italian for a long, narrow-bladed dagger designed as a stabbing weapon. In the fourteen hundreds, assassins would conveniently hide the stiletto up their full-sleeved shirts and strike their victims without warning.

  My silver lamé dress barely covers my butt and the false eyelashes I am wearing make my eyes feel itchy. I survey myself in the mirror hanging over the fireplace. I look like a hooker who has had a hard night, no pun intended. My hair is teased and piled high on my head accenting the huge silver hoops on my earlobes. Tendrils of strategically placed hair frame my face. Fake acrylic nails applied by my Melissa are a startling shade of deep blood red and my make-up is what I call “call girl special”; heavy smoky-eyed sultry, deep red lip cream, and perfectly placed blush; way too much of everything. I think back to late afternoon and Melissa helping me make the transformation from PI to hooker.

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  “You look the part of the lady-of-the-evening,” Melissa says grabbing her handbag and jacket after she finishes. “Very professional.”

  “Thanks...I think. Aren’t you going to see me make my grand exit onto the street?”

  “I can’t. I’m going to a memorial for a friend who passed away last week and I don’t want to be late. Sorry, Cate.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Close friend?”

  Melissa looks at me and smiles sadly, “Very. He was a generous man and good to me.”

  I don’t ask any more questions. I sense that this man was one of her well-heeled “clients.” I don’t question her line of work. That’s part of our friendship. She air kisses me and goes out the door. I hear the click of her key fob unlocking her brand-new Jaguar.

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  It’s been a helluva night. I had to punch one insistent would-be client in the gut to get him away from me. Another whack-job, who grabbed me in a very personal area, got stabbed hard in the foot with one of my stilettos. Happy to say that both men decided I was not their type and looked elsewhere for their hapless victims.

  I did manage, however, to find out what the owner of the limo service wanted to know; his drivers are definitely on the take, ripping off high-on-the-latest-drug college boys and heavily intoxicated businessmen, over charging them the fare by three times what it normally would be. They also demand “a substantial tip” from the higher quality ladies of the evening who use the limo service to ferry them to their appointments around the city. I’m out seven hundred bucks, three-fifty a pop, for two rides from the Theatre District near Times Square to the Cipriani hotel downtown. You can be sure that that money will be included in my bill to the limo service owner.

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 20

  A little after two in the morning I take a cab back to my brownstone. Taped to the dashboard of the cab are pictures of Jesus surrounded by angels. There is a sign that says, “Jesus loves you. Believe in Him and you will be saved.”

  I sigh. The driver stoically faces forward the whole ride and looks sad for what I’m sure he thinks is my downfall from grace. I’m positive he thinks he is dropping me off for a late-night sexual encounter when he pulls up in front of my brownstone. I don’t care; I am tired and feel dirty.

  As I reach into my oversized bag to get money to pay and tip the driver, my hand brushes against my gun and I feel its reassuring weight. I wearily wonder if any real call girls carry a gun for protection. I’m betting that they do.

  “Hey, miss?” he calls hesitantly as I’m walking toward my steps. “I can drive you back to your own place, no charge. You don’t have to do this for a living, you know. It’s dangerous.”

  “That’s okay. This is my place. Thanks anyway.”

  But he seems intent on saving a fallen woman. “Seriously, miss, you can get an honest job. Maybe a waitress or cleaning lady? Something safe.”

  “I’ll think about making a life change,” I say as I walk back to the cab and give the driver an additional hefty tip for his concern.

  Inside I stand a bit shakily. How the hell do they do it? How do hookers walk in these heels all night? I wear heels for a night out but my night out usually consists of being dropped off in front of a restaurant or club and not doing much of any walking. I’m about to slip my shoes off when I hear a banging on my door.

  “Open up! NYPD!” The voice has a strong authority. Police? For what? Did the neighbors next door have one of their occasional yelling matches?

  “It’s late. What’s the problem, officer? I think you might want to check the brownstone next door,” I call through the door.

  “No, miss, this is the right address. We got a complaint from some guy you assaulted on Fifty-Third and Broadway. Says you stabbed him in his foot for no reason at all. He’s limping. Short, beefy guy? Remember him? He’s a cop from Philly. Followed you here in a private car. He’s filled out a complaint against you so you better open up now.”

  “What?!” I yell through the closed door. That little creep followed me? A cop? Shit! “No, he, whoever he is, grabbed me and I jammed the heel of my shoe into his foot so he’d let go. Listen,” I say as I open the door, “I’m a private detective. My name is Cate Harlow. I was undercover working a case for…” I stop cold when I see the two men in front of me. Damn, damn, damn! Standing on my doorstep are Will and a patrol cop, both of them barely able to conceal big, shit-eating grins.

  “Thanks, Danny,” says my ex. “I owe you one.”

  “Any time, detective, any time,” laughs the cop walking back to a patrol car I see parked across the street. “Pretty lady ya got there.”

  “You bastard!” I start to slam the door in Will’s face but his cop reflexes prevent it. He’s an expert at stopping suspects from slamming doors on him. He pushes it open and wal
ks in.

  “Christ, Will, did you think this was funny?”

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 21

  “No, baby, just doing my duty. Heard you did some damage to a Philly cop on vacation with his wife and kids. Bad girl, Cate, very bad girl.”

  “Really?” I’m pissed as hell right now. “His wife know he was looking for a hooker at the Cipriani Hotel and that his hand got caught going up my dress? I hope he’s in a lot of pain. Hell, I hope I crippled the bastard!”

  I look at Will. “What are you doing here, anyway? You’re off-duty tonight. How’d you find out about what happened down near the Cipriani?”

  “I got a call from another detective. He thought it was hilarious. By the way, he’s on your side; thinks Mr. Philly got exactly what he asked for. We’ll make sure the charges are ‘lost’. All we have to do is mention his wife. Believe me that complaint will not see the light of day, Cate.” He winks at me. “You’re pretty well-known around the precincts in New York City, babe. I get calls about you all the time. Usually I don’t pay much attention; I know you’re working a case. But when I hear you’re role-playing being a ‘working girl’, well, I have to come and see you.”

  The wink gets me every time. I want to kick him but I can’t stay mad. I so want to stay mad but it has been a long night and I need some love, comfort, and personal attention; all the hot things that my ex knows exactly how to give me. Not to mention that Will looks so damn good and he’s got that sexy smile I know all too well. Desire for Will struggles with my anger but the desire wins out. Damn!

  “So, what do you think?” I give in to desire and strike a sultry pose, hands on hips, chest forward. Will walks toward me and pulls me close to him pinning my hands behind my back. “How much do you charge, bad girl?”

  I pull away and walk backward toward the bedroom. Continuing the role-play, I say in my best sexy voice, “That depends on what you want, darlin’. Got the handcuffs?”

  Chapter 5

  TENNIS IS MY SALVATION. Up at five-thirty, I made it to the tennis courts by six-fifteen. There’s only one other person who’s there at that time. Her name is Ani Choi and she likes to hit the practice wall before going to her classes at NYU. We’ve partnered up for a quick game on the courts a few times and I have to say Ani is a formidable opponent. I have a better backhand but in all other moves she’s pretty much my equal. She sees me and smiles a welcome.

  “Hi Cate. Want a quick match? I have a class at nine so I’m free until eight-thirty.”

  “Sure. I need the exercise,” I say dropping my tennis bag and taking out my racket and the balls.

  Thwack! The rhythm of the ball against the rackets is a calming sound for me. I react automatically to the back and forth of the game. This allows me time to think about my cases. The card Jennifer gave me. The word that looks like bath. I wonder how many businesses there are in the Washington, DC area with that word in their logo? Thwack! I backhand the ball toward Ani making her really run for it. Thwack! We’re getting a good workout, Ani and I. Besides being good physical exercise, the back and forth running clears my brain.

  As I slam the ball hard with my racket I decide that there’s only one way to go about finding the mysterious woman with the business card. Myrtle and I are going to have to cold call every business in a certain radius around Washington, D.C. that has the word ‘bath’ in its name and describe the woman who gave Jennifer the card. It has been almost two years, though, and there are a lot of ifs to consider. If she’s still in the area, if she’s still working there, or if she has the business; hopefully I’ll find this mysterious woman and see if she knows how to contact the hit man.

  Ani and I play three sets and I am exhilarated by the high the exercise gives me.

  “Hey, great workout, Cate. How about Thursday? Nine o’clock okay?”

  Thursday is two days away. If my idea about finding the mystery woman pans out I may be in the Washington, D.C. area. Reluctantly I decline and tell her next week is better for me.

  “Sure, okay. Maybe next Tuesday, same time?”

  “Sounds good, Ani. See you then.”

  Going home to shower, I stop and get a bagel with Taylor Ham and cheese from a vendor. I figure I burned off enough calories to compensate for the ones in the bagel. I’m starving so I eat it on the way.

  Back at the door of my brownstone I put what’s left of the bagel in my mouth while I hunt for my keys. It’s a bad habit on my part. Will always tells me that I should have my keys out and ready. His theory, and it’s a sound one, is that while I’m trying to find my keys anyone could grab me and then force their way into my home. I hate to agree with him. It is a careless mistake for someone in my profession who’s supposed to be attuned to safety precautions.

  Inside I finish eating the bagel, grab a bottle of water from the ‘fridge and plan my day. It’s just after eight o’clock. I can be at my office by ten, get a list of businesses in the areas surrounding Washington, D.C. with the word bath in their titles, and begin my phone calls by eleven. If I’m lucky, it will take a half-day of concentrated work, if I’m not, maybe an additional day.

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 23

  Sighing I strip off my clothes and head to the bathroom for a cool shower and to wash my hair. Will hasn’t been over for three days, which means he’s busy as hell with his job and studying like crazy for the bar exam. It’s good that we haven’t seen each other for a few days; we’re great in bed, we can even be friends, but when we’re together too much, we tend to rub each other the wrong way, no sexual pun intended. Even the incredible sex isn’t enough to take the edge off certain ways we annoy each other. He’ll start complaining about my being domestically challenged; the place is cluttered and I do more take-out than actual cooking. Then I’ll say that just because I was born with a vagina doesn’t mean I’m genetically engineered to cook and clean. He’ll come back with some nasty response that any normal person should want to live in a neat home and eat good food. It usually ends with my throwing something at him and him walking out the door. Time apart is good for us.

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  I get lucky outside my office; there’s a space near the building and I park my Edge quickly. The day is warm, which I like; winter is not my happy season. I breathe in the odor of the New York streets, an interesting blend of car fumes, ethnic foods, and what I call City Perfume. It’s home.

  Myrtle is sitting at her desk when I open the door. She looks as if she hasn’t slept well but she greets me with, “How did the female dick job go?”

  “Great. I got the evidence the limo company owner needs. His guys are definitely gouging customers. The expenses are in the computer under Mercury Limo. Send the bill out as soon as you can. I met with him yesterday and the case is done.”

  “All right, will do.”

  This isn’t like Myrtle at all. She likes to talk and normally she is interested in my cases. We discuss them over coffee or lunch and she is always fascinated by what people do or say.

  “Myrtle,” I begin. “Look, it’s none of my business but I get the feeling something isn’t right. Are you…” I take a breath, “are you sick? Do you need to go to see a doctor for a check-up or something? What about Harry? Is he sick?”

  She doesn’t look up but answers me curtly. “I just had a check-up a month ago, Harry too. A little high blood pressure but other than that we’re both as healthy as wild stallions. Don’t be concerned for me.” Then, looking up, she says, “And you’re right, Catherine. It is none of your business.”

  I know when to keep my mouth closed. If, and when, she wants to tell me, I’ll be here. As the morning quickly goes by we work in peaceful, if non-communicative, association.

  My morning has an unexpected surprise. My thinking about Will must have jogged the universe and made him appear. He makes one of his infrequent stops at the office. Will comes in every once in a while if he’s near Catherine Harlow, Private Investigations and both Myrtle and I are usually glad to see him.

  Myrtle especiall
y likes Will and sometimes I think she and his mother Francesca are in cahoots to get us back together as a legally married couple. That, however, is not going to happen. We simply cannot be husband and wife. Ever.

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 24

  “Myrtle, how’s my special girl?” This is Will’s favorite greeting to Myrtle who laps it up like a kitten licking cream. Today, though she smiles at him and offers her cheek for his kiss as usual, I sense something is off.

  “Had to check out a witness to a possible shooting a few blocks from here so I figured I’d stop and see the office of my favorite private ‘D’.” He opens the small refrigerator to check for any of Harry’s famous homemade pastries and there’s nothing there but store-bought doughnuts.

  “Did you have a lot of clients come in or what?” he says referring to the slim pickings. “There are none of Harry’s pastries.”

  I notice the scowl on Myrtle’s face, put my finger to my lips, and shake my head at Will to let him know he shouldn’t ask any questions. Shrugging, he grabs a box of sugared crullers and goes to sit near my desk.

  “Will, can you come with me to check under the hood of my SUV? There’s, uh, like a funny sound when I start it up.”