First Class Killing (36 page)

“I found Monica. You need to get back here, Alexandra.”

I felt for the keys and started the engine. “Is she with you? Will she talk?”

“Oh, she already is.”

“Anything good so far?”

“How about who killed Robin Sevitch?”

Chapter

40

I
T WAS STRANGE TO SEE
M
ONICA SITTING ON
Tristan’s couch, looking, if not scared, at least less self-possessed than the last two times I had seen her. The first time, she had been the one with the razor-blade smile swiping my date in Chicago. The last time, she had been the one with her clothes off and her sense of self-confidence firmly in place.

“Hello, Monica.”

“I’m only here because Tristan asked me. I trust him.”

Tristan stood behind the couch at her left shoulder. Over his left shoulder, resting on the mantel in the middle of his international trinkets, was the deadliest trinket of all, his .44 Special. I hadn’t expected Tristan to be Monica’s private bodyguard, although, as I thought about it, there was no way he would bring her out of hiding unless he intended to protect her as best he could. I thought that would be pretty well.

I sat down next to Monica. She looked good for someone in hiding, better than I felt. Tristan had given me the story on Monica in our long, overnight chat. She was from Paterson, New Jersey, and had tried for a career as a singer and dancer on Broadway. She’d given up almost immediately, because she didn’t like that part about being poor. She’d bought some breast implants and shifted her act to prostitution, where every night she could be someone new. With her lively brown eyes, long legs, and thick, dark hair, it was not hard to see her as an entertainer.

At this point, I didn’t have the mental capacity to do much besides ask her to start talking and see if I could follow along.

“Tell me,” I said, “everything that is going on. Start with Robin Sevitch.”

“Angel killed Robin. Tristan, can I smoke in here?”

“No, dear.”

He said it calmly, which led me to believe he had heard this already. I hadn’t, and I was appropriately unsettled, despite Monica’s blunt nonchalance. “Are you saying Angel had her killed?”

“No. She did it herself.” Monica shook out her arm to loosen her bracelets, a whole wristful that jangled like a bag of coins. “She told Robin she wanted to meet her to negotiate, because, you know, Robin wasn’t too cool with Angel taking over her business. She flew out there. They went for a walk. She picked up a brick somewhere along the way and beat her head with it until she was dead.”

My lips kept sticking together. They were pasty because my mouth was dry. My mouth was dry because I kept picturing Robin’s savaged face and thinking about how much time I had spent alone with her murderer.

“Were you there? Did you see this happen?”

“No. She told me.”

She ran her fingers through her long hair and crossed her legs. She seemed calm on the outside, but I also sensed that she could really use a smoke. “Then how do you know it’s not just a story?”

“Because she has the brick. Angel brought it back with her.” She glanced from me to Tristan and back. “It has her blood on it. That’s what she said, anyway.”

I looked at her closely. Could this be her own bit of performance art? What would be her reasons to lie? “You’ve seen this brick?”

“She showed it to me. It was last year sometime, not long after she did it. It was sometime in the summer, because that’s when we had our thing.”

“You and Angel had a relationship?”

She nodded. “I was at her cabin one night. We were having a bottle of wine, or maybe a few. She pulled it out and showed it to me. She told me what it was. It kind of scared me. I didn’t go up there after that, not alone, anyway.”

“Did you see where she keeps it?”

“In a desk drawer.”

What she was saying was horrifying on so many levels. I had been alone in that cabin with Angel and her murder brick, which Monica talked about as if it were some kind of gruesome paperweight. My brother had also been alone with her. I wrapped both arms around myself and squeezed. “Why would she keep a murder weapon in her house?”

“That’s just Angel. It’s like a souvenir. Also, I don’t think she wanted to leave it in Omaha. She watches
CSI
like everyone else.”

I looked at Tristan. “I need a drink,” was all he said, and headed for the kitchen.

“Angel was never mentioned in the Omaha investigation.”

“Of course not. She was covered.”

“Covered how?”

“She had a trick out there, someone to keep her name out of it. I don’t know who it was, but that’s why she picked Omaha to begin with.”

I thought about the senator. I thought about Jamie’s video. I thought about Monica’s blackmail scheme and some of the pieces started to float together. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning whoever it was, she had him in a dirty movie. All she had to do was send it to him along with a list of his private e-mail addresses, and he took care of it. That’s how she gets everything she wants. She uses her archive.”

I leaned forward on the couch, poised to absorb every word, but then Tristan came back with his serving tray of ice, glasses, and bottled sparkling water and stepped between us.

“Tristan, baby, do you have something stronger than fizzy water?”

“What would you like?”

“Do you have any beer?”

He disappeared again but came back quickly with an open longneck and handed it to his guest.

I took up my listening post again. “Monica, what is Angel’s archive?”

I had to wait as she took a long pull from the bottle and swallowed. “Her dirty movies.”

“Mov-
ies,
like more than one?”

“Like hundreds of them. She has a whole catalogue with an index to keep them straight. There are politicians and lawyers and cops and sports stars and entertainers and CEOs. She has something for everything she needs.”

I glanced again at Tristan. His eyes were wide. Each thing this woman said was more hair-raising than the last, although it would be hard to top the brick. “Where does she get these movies?”

“We make them for her. Everyone who goes to work for her gets a little digital camera and a laptop and a lesson on how to set up so you’re sure to get the trick’s face. If you screw it up, you just have to do it again, and you have to keep doing it until you get it right.”

“It’s all done in secret?”

“What do you think?”

“Do you record every date?”

“We record the first date with every trick.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Send them to Angel. That’s what the PCs are for.” And that was what the catalogue numbers were for in the lower right-hand corner of the video. I sat back to let it all settle in. It was Angel’s archive, not Monica’s, and it was a vast and powerful thing.

Tristan leaned over and dropped a few more cubes into his glass. “You were right about the senator,” he said.

“And so many others. It’s a blackmail factory. That’s her secret weapon. It’s not one guy; it’s all guys. Everyone in her archive is vulnerable to her. No wonder she’s so damn confident.” I looked at Monica. “But you were the one extorting Arthur Margolies, right?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Trying to.”

“Who is he to you?”

“He’s one of my clients, a gambler in Chicago. I should have just asked him for the money. He would have given it to me.”

“Did you swap dates with me in Chicago because you knew he was after you?”

“No. I didn’t know about that. I knew your date. Curt the Chiropractor, we call him. He pays off like a slot machine. The more you beat him, the more he pays, and I really need money right now.”

“Why do you need money?”

“Are you a moron or what? She’s afraid of what I know, and she wants to kill me, and I’m trying to leave the country.”

“Why now?”

“Uh, because I don’t want to die?”

“You said it was last summer when she showed you the brick. Why is she suddenly concerned that you’ll talk now?”

She drank down the last of her beer and fixed me in a withering gaze. “Because you’ve been sniffing around Robin’s murder. She told me that you told her that I told you about Robin.”

Tristan laughed. “What did you just say?”

Monica was focused on me. “Did you tell her that I told you she killed Robin?”

I reached out to put my glass on the coffee table, almost missed, then set it there solidly. This was starting to make sense in a twisted, Angel sort of way.

“So, it’s true.” Monica crossed her arms to match her crossed legs. “You did tell her. I can’t believe it. I asked you point blank on the phone, and you lied to me.”

“I did not lie to you. I had no idea what you were asking me. We’ve been looking into the Omaha murder because we knew Angel had a motive to kill Robin, and the investigation they did stinks. Now you’re telling me why. You’re saying someone in Omaha helped Angel stay out of it.”

“That’s true. Someone with a lot of juice.”

“Well, think about it. Whoever it was must have tipped her off about recent inquiries. I didn’t tell Angel anything about you. How could I? I didn’t know you knew all this.”

“Why have you been looking for me?”

“I wanted to find her Web guy, and I thought, since you were working with him on these blackmail schemes, you could lead me to him.”

“What schemes? Just the one with Arthur, and Sluggo and me, we weren’t exactly working together. Please…” She dismissed the idea as too distasteful to ponder.

“Then you do know Stewart Belkamp.”

“Sure. He came out to the cabin once. Thank God I didn’t have to fuck him. That’s the only good thing about this whole mess.”

“Why would you have to?”

“I needed a copy of my Artie video, and he didn’t want to give it to me. I had to promise him a freebie if it worked out and I got some money for it.”

Poor Stewart. He’d been left at the altar not once but twice. “I thought his identity was a big secret.”

“It is. I only knew because we had our thing. Angel let down her guard a little with me. I wish to hell she hadn’t. I am going to be so murdered.”

“Not if you go to the police.”

“Why would I do that? As long as she has her dirty movies, there’s no one who can touch her.”

I climbed off the couch to walk around. The couch had not made a good bed. It had been too soft to sleep on, and my back was sore. I ended up by the window. The sky was still overcast, looking a lot more like winter’s approach than it had the past few days. “Monica, what do these archives look like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are they electronic files? Are they on tape? Are they CD-Roms?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Stewart.”

“I plan to.” I turned to Tristan. “I need a gun.”

“Did you pass your test?”

“I failed it.”

“Then the answer is absolutely not.”

“Tristan—”

He moved instinctively to the .44 on his mantel, as if to protect it from me. Or me from it. “Are you planning on shooting Sluggo?”

“Of course not. But I want a way to threaten him.”

“Never take a gun where you don’t intend to use it. I won’t give you one. I’m sorry. Besides, what happens to me if you shoot someone with my gun? I’ll be in deep yogurt, and you’ll be in jail. If you want me to come with you, I’ll bring it. But I’m not giving you one.”

“You can’t come. You have to stay here with Monica.”

“While you do what?”

“Get the archive. The second I have it, I want her sitting in the police station telling her story. I don’t want Angel getting out of this.” I looked at Monica and thought about the two “amateurs with guns,” as Bo had called them. I was pretty sure Angel had sent them, which meant Monica needed protection. “In fact, I’m sending someone else over to stay here with you.” I went to the table, where Tristan’s note from that morning still sat. I used the pen he’d used, wrote out “Djuro Bulatovic,” and gave it to him. “This man will come and stay with you. Call him Bo.”

“How will I know it’s him?”

Monica chuckled. “Do what we do. Give him a code word.”

Tristan looked at me, and I shrugged at him. “Might as well go with what works.”

A mischievous spark showed in his eyes. “I know exactly what to use.”

Chapter

41

I
WAS ON FOOT, HEADED THROUGH THE NEIGHBORHOOD
and back to my car, when my cell phone rang. I was expecting Felix, hoping for Tristan, and would have taken almost anyone except the person whose name showed up on caller ID.

“Hello, Angel.”

“Well, doll, what did you think of the show?”

“I think you’re sick and in need of professional help. But mostly, I think you need to go to jail.”

“Your little brother is so the stud. Girl, he wore me out. We did it standing up, sitting down, in the shower, on the carpet, on the tile. We even did it in the bathroom sink.”

“I already know everything that happened. Don’t waste your time embellishing.” Still, having seen the one image of the two of them, it was hard not to conjure the others she described.

“Really? Why don’t you tell me sweet Jamie’s version, because we know he would never tell a lie.”

“You pursued him, you lied to him, you came into his hotel room, and the two of you fucked. One time.”

“One time or ten times, it makes no never mind when you’re cheating on your wife.”

“He also didn’t know you were a hooker.”

“Tell me why that matters, doll.”

“We both know he never would have touched you if he knew what you really are.”

“You’re hurting my feelings.”

The sound of a car horn made it hard to hear, mostly because it was loud and getting louder, not to mention unrelenting, which was when I realized it was attached to the Audi that was bearing down on me. I had wandered into the middle of Arlington Street at Beacon, one of the more treacherous pedestrian intersections in the city, which was saying a lot in Boston. I made a dash for the other side. If I were to be run over, it might as well be going forward.