Want to know how it all came to this? Find the earlier parts of this story: Here. Before I left, I changed out of my suit into something more appropriate to the circumstances, which is
Want to know how it all came to this? Find the earlier parts of this story: Here.
Before I left, I changed out of my suit into something more appropriate to the circumstances, which is to say, less appropriate. I’d grabbed a dress that looked most like a streetwalker trying to pass as a high-class escort. It had been a gift from an old ex. He hadn’t lasted long after the dress debacle, but in hindsight I’d gotten far more use out of the thing than I’d expected.
Not only was it tight enough in the right places to keep most men from really noticing my face, but for some reason, which I’d never bothered to learn, there was a small, zippered pocket hidden in the folds. Not big enough for a handgun, or even the average smartphone, but my little voice recorder tucked into it nicely. It probably wouldn’t hold up to serious frisking, but the groping that most men opted for wouldn’t find it.
Especially if they were only looking for weapons or phones.
That was the easy part of my ensemble. Transforming my face was an entirely different matter.
I had nothing against makeup in principle, I’d even been known to wear a little on occasion, but a disguise like this called for layers plastered on with a trowel. It took me almost an hour to craft the perfect look, then cover that over with a flashier one, and then cover that with something more in the middle. By the time I was done, my face felt hard and stiff, like a true mask.
The final touch was a pair of fake eyelashes. They weren’t good fake eyelashes, just cheap ones from the makeup aisle of a 24/7 pharmacy.
I gazed into the bathroom mirror. The face that stared back at me was a stranger’s, apart from the glint in my eyes. I lacked the sullen desperation and gauntness of a true streetwalker, but it was probably only something an actual streetwalker would notice. To the rest of the world, I was just another lost soul that fell through the cracks.
“Stay here, I’m going to check Silver’s apartment, see if he left any clues about where he went.” I called out to Lucky as I tucked the expandable baton into my purse. Some times a quieter approach works better. And other times someone just needs a good beating.
“Don’t take too—whoa.” His mouth gaped open as he turned to me.
“Not a word.” I glared at him “And don’t go getting any ideas.”
He threw up his arms apologetically. “You’re the expert.”
I hate sharing space with clients.
He still hadn’t picked his jaw up off the floor when I ducked out of the room, making sure the “do not disturb” sign stayed fastened to the handle.
Bob Silver’s building was too far to comfortably reach on foot, especially in heels, and I’d already spent more money on cabs than I liked. So I opted to risk taking my car. And it was probably a good idea to get my beat up old clunker, now with a broken taillight and cracked rear window—thanks to Rusty—out of the Lorenz Luxury Suites parking lot before the staff noticed it.
The neighborhood around Bob Silver’s building was probably the second worst in the city. Only behind mine. Trash littered the streets and sidewalks around the parking garage I pulled into. It wasn’t far from the laundromat or my actual destination.
A chill breeze swept through the concrete structure, and I wished my disguise had allowed for a coat, or just less exposed skin. Outside, the streets were practically deserted. Not even the homeless want to be caught in this neighborhood.
I made my way across the littered sidewalks, trying not to shiver, out of cold or disgust. The streetwalker I was pretending to be would have been used to both.
A man with a leer of blackened and missing teeth bumped into me despite the emptiness of the path. “Sorry.” He mumbled, though I knew he didn’t mean it.
“Watch where you’re going.” I checked my purse for signs of tampering, but it was still zipped closed. So he’d been looking for something else.
“Hey, how much for a—”
“More than you’ve got.” I winked at him while trying to keep from throwing up in my mouth. “Maybe next time.”
His leer widened as he walked away.
Pig. I shuddered as I turned back to my mission.
Up ahead was Bob Silver’s building. It was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Or a good bulldozer. The other nearby tenement buildings dwarfed the four-story complex.
A woman in a dress that made mine look downright respectable leaned against the brick wall smoking a cigarette, or something stronger. She glanced up at me with dead eyes as I approached. “You’re new.”
She might not have been any older than me, but drugs and hard living had taken a toll that no amount of makeup could cover. But she’d tried anyway.
“I’m here to see Bob.” I let my tone match the ice in hers.
“That two-timing bastard.” There was no anger in her voice as she puffed out a cloud of smoke. “He hasn’t called me up in days.”
I shrugged. “I’ll give him your regards.”
She huffed and muttered something about a “good smack,” but I couldn’t tell which type she meant.
The outer door of the building opened easily, letting out a stench of rotting food and urine. I gagged but forced myself inside.
And I thought my building was bad.
Bob Silver’s apartment was on the top floor, overlooking his little empire of filth. As I climbed the stairs, the stench only got worse. I noticed that a handful of the apartment doors had towels or linens shoved into the bottom crack.
Keeping out the smell? Or is there something more to hide?
I didn’t doubt that any number of the tenants might be criminals in Silver’s employ. Or ex-cons who couldn’t afford anywhere nicer.
The odor of rot finally overpowered the smell of urine as I reached the top floor. There were fewer doors down that hall. Apparently, Bob Silver liked his space. I put on the nicest smile I could muster under the circumstances and knocked on his door.
No answer.
“Bob?” I waited a beat. “Harold?”
Still nothing.
I guess it was a bit much to ask for him to just be curled up at home. I pulled some tools from my purse and went to work on the old lock.
But there was no need, the handle turned easily.
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled.
I clicked on the small recorder in my hidden pocket. Fully charged it could record nonstop for 48 hours. I couldn’t remember if I’d charged it up again after the last time, but it shouldn’t matter. I only needed a few minutes. I grabbed the gun from my purse.
Whatever I was about to walk into, I wanted to be prepared.
The stench wafted out as I swung the door open. I had to fight the urge to gag as I slipped into the apartment. The first room was some kind of office, with a large desk facing the door.
Harold Meyer sat behind it in the large leather chair. His clouded eyes were wide open. His tongue had swollen to fill his mouth, and his bloated corpse had turned the color of a deep bruise. Two bullet holes in his chest were accented by the rusty stains of dried blood on his dress shirt.
I made a quick check of the other rooms before trading out the gun for my phone. “Jim? It’s Angola. I think this just became your kind of case.”
To Be Continued…HERE