Carnal Vengeance (33 page)

He was certain she was lying about not knowing O'Day. Had she known Ziegler also? He doubted if murder in general made her that squeamish. Obviously, he was going to have to wait to get back before the answers could be unearthed, but he still had a strong feeling her connection to Donner was an important key. If only he could figure out what all the cast of characters had in common!

The feelers he sent out about Mick D'Angelo paid off that evening. While chewing on a juicy rib in a restaurant on Biscayne, a fairly attractive brunette sat down at his table. Her teased, shoulder-length hair, makeup, and attire were flashy without being obscene—just the right amount of blatant sexuality to operate successfully in the restaurant's busy cocktail lounge. From where he sat, he had seen her approach two different men at the bar, one of whom slid his hand over her buttocks while she negotiated with him. David acknowledged her with a nod as his teeth tugged a piece of meat off the bone.

"Buy me a drink?" Her eyes traced his face and dallied over his mouth and hands in a provocative manner. David motioned to a waitress and waited for the redhead to speak.

"My name's Cinnamon. I can't help but wonder what such a gorgeous man is doing all alone."

"Maybe I was looking for someone to keep me company." David dropped the picked bone onto his plate, tore open the wet-wipe, and meticulously cleaned each finger. His gaze traveled from her eyes, to her mouth, to the pointed nipples beneath her thin sweater.

She watched each movement, as practiced as her own, and let out a husky laugh. "Not bad. But tell me this, which one of us is workin' this table?"

He returned her easy smile. "I guess that all depends on who wants what from whom."

She leaned forward, retaining the expression and body language of her profession, but her voice altered from suggestive to serious. "I heard you've been lookin' for Mick D'Angelo. Word is you're heat of some kind."

"I'm not. But I'll pay for information about him. Are you selling?"

"Come with me and find out."

David's life lessons had been learned on the streets of a lower-class neighborhood. He automatically weighed his chances of getting what he wanted against the possibility of getting mugged.

Cinnamon reacted predictably to his hesitation. "Listen, I can't just sit here and bullshit with you. Either we leave here with you looking like you're about to get laid or I'm movin' on."

He let his instincts make the decision. Without answering, he rose, pulled out his wallet and placed several bills next to his plate.

Once outside, she suggested they take his car. Following her succinct directions for about fifteen minutes, David found himself in an almost vacant parking lot of a shopping mall.

"Nice location you've got here. Cinnamon. I assume you don't normally conduct business until all the kiddies have been taken home."

"Don't be an asshole. If you want to do somethin' besides talk, we can go to my place. But I'd bet a night's wages you ain't never paid for it in your life."

Holly's face flickered in his mind. "There's paying, and there's
paying."

She gave him another knowing smile. "No kiddin'. Okay, as of fifteen minutes ago, you went on my clock. It's two hundred an hour. Why don't you start by tellin' me who and what you are and why you're looking for Mick."

Something told him to play it straight with her. "I'm a reporter, doing a story on an acquaintance of D'Angelo's. I was hoping he could give me a little insight."

"Lots of luck. The only time his acquaintances make the news is when they get arrested, and even then, they're usually too small-time for anybody to cover their story."

"That's not what I heard. In fact, the one I'm interested in is quite well known—Jerry Frampton, publisher of
Jock
magazine."

She frowned in concentration. "Now that you mention it, I did hear somethin' a while back about him, but it's old gossip. I couldn't help you there and I'm not sure anybody else would either. But if you want a story on D'Angelo, I've got one so hot it could singe you just knowin' about it."

"Go on."

"You gotta promise to forget where you heard it. I mean, if I wanted to risk gettin' killed for openin' my mouth, I'd of gone to the police."

"I don't reveal my sources but if you're that worried about it, why tell me?"

Cinnamon studied her decoratively painted nails a moment before answering. "Because it's driving me crazy to keep it inside. And Nikki Farris was my friend."

"Was?"

"Yeah, was... as in no longer is alive to be anybody's friend. She was beaten to death and left in a garbage dumpster about a year ago. Word is she was tortured some, too, but that didn't make the local papers. They said there were no clues. What the hell do the police care if some hooker gets herself killed anyway? They figure it's one of the hazards of the trade."

"I gather you think Mick D'Angelo had something to do with your friend's murder."

"I don't just think. The night she was killed, she had a job with him. He was gonna make her a star. See, she really wanted to be an actress. I know, you've heard that one before. Well, in Nikki's case, she wanted it bad enough to do anything that might open a door for her. Porn flicks are Mick's main business. I'm not talking about X-rated stuff you can rent at your local video store. He doesn't touch anything that legitimate. His specialty is kinky porn—the kind you have to know somebody to get hold of, and it costs big bucks to even get a peek at it."

"Children?"

"And animals, torture, you name it. Besides Nikki wantin' to call herself an actress, she had a coke habit that hookin' alone couldn't pay for. The kind of stuff Mick produces pays well enough for some girls to go along with all kinds of shit. Nikki told me about one film they made where they faked a virgin sacrifice on a stone slab, phony blood and all. Another time she showed up at my apartment with a black eye and a swollen lip. She said one of the actors had gotten carried away with his role, and she hadn't ducked fast enough. I'm positive her death was a result of one of those films."

"You mean she might have been accidentally killed?"

"Maybe not so accidentally. Maybe D'Angelo did a real snuff film—not a mock-up."

David felt his pulse race with anticipation. This wasn't what he had set out to find, but it could be even better. "Have you heard of anything like that being for sale? I don't know that much about it, but I would assume it would be worth a small fortune if the owner wanted to part with it. Although I can't imagine anybody being stupid enough to hold on to a video of an actual murder."

"Mick's greed is a lot bigger than his brain. The grapevine says he's got a very special product—an original film, with a price tag that he could retire on."

"Shit." David uttered the one syllable while his mind raced over the possibilities. There was no question as to whether he would follow it up, only how to proceed. "Could you help establish me as a buyer?"

"Not directly, but you've already made it known around town that you're lookin' for Mick. You just haven't asked the right question to the right person. Tomorrow night go to the Peacock Lounge near the University of Miami. One of Mick's scouts hangs out there solicitin' talent from the co-eds. If you bring up Mick's name to one of the bartenders there, his scout'll find you. You can figure how to play it after that. Don't pretend to be anybody but who you are, though. Mick's probably already heard about you and checked your background by now."

"You think he'd buy the idea of a reporter looking to agent a lucrative deal for a politician?"

"Honey, I'd believe anything you told me when you bat those eyelashes of yours. Just don't be surprised if the scout propositions you as part of the deal."

"One more thing. Do you have a picture of Nikki Farris? If there is a film, and I do get to view it, I need to know who I'm looking for."

She took him by her apartment and gave him a photo of her and Nikki. Before leaving, he counted out one hundred dollars for her time.

"There's a little time left on the clock." She wet her lips and moved closer. "I'd hate to think you didn't get your money's worth."

He chucked her under the chin and grinned. "Aah, but then I couldn't say I'd never paid for it, could I?"

She shrugged her shoulders and headed for the door with her dignity intact. "It's your loss, honey. Okay, take me back to the restaurant. There's still plenty of good workin' hours left tonight."

The ability to improvise in almost any situation was one of the characteristics that made David such a good investigative reporter. He admitted to himself that he had no idea what he was doing—he had never put in any time on the crime desk—but it felt right, and he never fought those feelings when they came to him.

Since it would be a waste of time to go to the Peacock Lounge before dark, he decided to use the daylight hours on Wednesday to do some research before getting any further involved.

About a year back he had met a Miami reporter at a press conference. He had given the guy some guidance on protocol, shared a few war stories over drinks and later fixed him up with a friend of a friend. The friend was known to be very kind to lonely visitors. David doubted that the reporter would have forgotten either his companion or him. He was right.

By the time he and the reporter parted company, David had copies of the newspaper accounts of Nikki's murder, the police homicide report, Mick D'Angelo's criminal record, and a confirmation that Jerry Frampton had once posted bail for him. Of course David had to promise to keep his friend apprised of his investigation.

A few hours later, David elbowed his way up to the bar in the Peacock Lounge. As Cinnamon had predicted, a question about D'Angelo soon brought a man to David's side.

"Hey, sport. Hear you've been asking about a friend of mine. Mick doesn't come in here, but I might be seeing him later. I could give him a message."

David paused to give the man the once-over. He looked more like an accountant than a scout for a pornographer—very slight, at least sixty years old, with a gray crewcut and thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Only his tight-lipped mumbling and furtive glances hinted at his true line of work. David knew better than to appear too anxious. "I represent someone from Washington, D.C., someone who's familiar with Mr. D'Angelo's... products."

"I handle most of his business transactions around here. If you can be a little more specific about the category of the product your client is seeking, I'll see what I can do."

David shook his head no. "Sorry. I heard this particular product was available only through D'Angelo himself. I understand it's quite unique—the type of thing that might make an excellent gift to a foreign dignitary whose tastes are a bit... different. I'm willing to pay the fare to get a look at it."

The scout studied him for several seconds before coming to a positive conclusion. "I'll pass on your request. It may take a day or so. Where can he reach you if he's interested?"

David extracted his business card from his wallet, circled his cell phone number, wrote the name of the hotel and his room number on the back, and handed it to the man.

With nothing more to accomplish and looking forward to a full night's sleep for a change, David returned to his hotel. Sleep eluded him, however. He told himself it was the thrill of the chase that was keeping him awake. That, and trying to figure out where he would come up with an unknown quantity of cash to get a look at a movie that could turn out to be worthless.

He glared at the tent his erection was making in his sheet. Since when did working on a story do that to him? If anything, the excitement of a great lead usually had quite an opposite effect.

Usually.
As in, before Holly. How many times had those words come to mind in the last month when he found himself behaving peculiarly? He wasn't literally keeping count, but off the top of his head he would say a thousand was probably close.

For three days, he'd been fighting to keep her out of his thoughts. Obviously, his body wasn't paying the least bit of attention to his brain.

By the end of last weekend, he should have been ready to move on to fresh game. She had finally dropped all pretenses of indifference and had even initiated their lovemaking several times. He had also extracted her admission that she enjoyed everything they did together. Still, the little voice in his head nagged, there was something he was missing, something she withheld that kept taking him back to his first impression that she wanted more from him than stud service. And when she'd had the chance to confide in him and tell him why O'Day's name affected her, she'd lied.

She had asked if he would call while he was away. No begging or whining, as another woman might have. She only asked once, in a conversational tone that implied that it didn't really matter. But he knew she wanted that phone call, and he knew she sensed that such a call would be another admission of sorts from him. Calling her would be akin to giving in to her power over him. His ability to hold out in this one way had begun to feel like a lifeline to his carefree bachelor days.

As much as he hated to recognize what was happening to him, it was beginning to look like the mindless appendage between his legs had been joined by his heart, and he felt his brain slowly switching sides as well.