Brazen Virtue (13 page)

“Yeah.”

“When we finish this, you could take a couple hours of personal time.”

“She’s not going to want to see me unless there’s something I can tell her.”

“Maybe we’ll have something.” Ben began checking numbers on the narrow side street. “When’s she going back to New York?”

“I don’t know.” And he’d done his best not to think of it. “A day or two, I guess.”

“You serious about the writer?”

“I haven’t had time to think about it.”

Ben swung the car over to the curb. “Better think fast.” He looked beyond Ed to the tiny little shop nestled in the middle of a half-dozen others. It might have been a
trendy boutique once, or a craft shop. Now it was Fantasy, Incorporated.

“Doesn’t look like a den of iniquity.”

“You’d know about that.” Absently, Ben licked glaze from his thumb. “For a business that’s chugging along at a steady profit, they don’t seem to be putting much into their image.”

“I watch
Miami Vice.”
Ed waited until two cars passed before opening his door to step out on the street.

“I wouldn’t guess they’d get many social visits from clients.”

Inside, the office was the size of an average bedroom, with no frills. The walls were painted white and the carpet was industrial grade. There were a couple of mismatched chairs that might have been picked up at a yard sale. Space was at a premium because the pair of desks stretched nearly wall-to-wall. Ben recognized them as Army issue, sturdy and unimpressive. But the computer was top of the line.

Behind one of the monitors, a woman stopped tapping keys as they entered. Her fall of brown hair was pulled back from a round, pretty face. Her suit jacket was draped behind her chair. Over a white silk blouse she wore a trio of gold chains. With a half smile for both men, she rose.

“Hello. May I help you?”

“We’d like to talk to the owner.” Ben pulled out his badge. “Police business.”

She held out a hand for Ben’s identification, studied it, then handed it back. “I’m the owner. What can I do for you?”

Ben pocketed his badge again. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been a tidy young woman who looked as though she’d just come from planning a field trip for Brownies. “We’d like to talk to you about one of your employees, Miss …”

“Mrs. Cawfield. Eileen Cawfield. This is about Kathleen Breezewood, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sit down, please, Detective Paris.” She glanced at Ed.

“Jackson.”

“Please, sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Ed answered before Ben could accept. “You know Kathleen Breezewood was murdered.”

“I read it in the paper. Horrible.” She sat behind the desk again and folded her hands on a neat pink blotter. “I only met her once, when she came in to interview, but I feel very close to all my employees. She was popular. In fact Desiree—I’m sorry, I’m afraid we get into the habit of thinking of them as their alter egos—Kathleen was one of my most popular. She had such a soothing voice. That’s very important in this business.”

“Did Kathleen complain about any of her callers?” Ed flipped over a page in his notebook. “Did anyone make her uneasy, threaten her?”

“No. Kathleen was very particular about the kind of calls she would take. She was a very conservative woman, and we respected that. We have one or two who handle the more … unusual fantasies. Excuse me,” she said as her phone rang.

“Fantasy, Incorporated.” With the efficiency of a veteran receptionist, she had a pen in hand. “Yes, of course. I’ll be happy to see if Louisa’s available. I’ll need the number of a major credit card. Yes? And the expiration date. Now the number where you can be reached. If Louisa isn’t available, do you have another preference? Yes, I’ll see to it. Thank you.”

After hanging up the phone, Eileen sent Ben and Ed an apologetic smile. “I’ll just be another minute. He’s a regular so it simplifies things.” She pushed a few buttons on her keyboard, then picked up her phone again. “Louisa? Yes, it’s Eileen. I’m fine, thanks. Mr. Dunnigan would like to talk to you. Yes, the usual number. You have it? That’s it.
You’re welcome. ’Bye now.” After replacing the receiver, she folded her hands again. “Sorry for the interruption.”

“You get many like that?” Ben asked. “Callbacks, regulars?”

“Oh yes. There are a lot of lonely people, sexually frustrated people. In today’s climate, there are more who prefer the safety and anonymity of a phone call over the risks of singles’ bars.” She settled back and crossed her legs under the desk. “We’re all aware of the rise in sexually transmitted diseases. The life-styles of the sixties and seventies have had to alter greatly in the latter half of the eighties. Fantasy calls are just one alternative.”

“Yeah.” Ed imagined she could take that routine on Donahue with some success. In fact, he didn’t disagree with her but was simply more interested in murder than in philosophy or mores. “Did Kathleen have a lot of regulars?”

“As I said, she was popular. Several clients have called for her in the last couple of days. They’ve been very disappointed when I told them she was no longer with us.”

“Has anyone not called her who should have?”

Eileen paused to think this through, then again turned to her computer and put it to work. “No. I’m aware you’d have to question anyone connected with Kathleen. But you see, the men who call here only know of Desiree. She was a voice, faceless, or we’ll say with whatever face they chose for her. We’re very careful here, for legal reasons as well as professional ones. The women have no last names, they aren’t permitted to give out their private home telephone numbers to any of the clients or to see them, ever. Anonymity is part of the illusion as well as part of the protection. None of the clients has any way to contact a woman except through the office telephone numbers.”

“Who has access to your files?”

“Myself, my husband, and his sister. This is a family business,” she explained as the phone began to ring again.
“My sister-in-law is working her way through college and mans the phones in the evenings. One minute.”

She handled the next call with the same routine. Ed glanced at his watch. Twelve-fifteen. Obviously phone sex was a popular lunchtime activity. Then he wondered if the funeral was over and Grace was home alone.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Before you ask, our files are confidential. None of us discusses our clients or employees with outsiders. It’s business, gentlemen, but not the kind we chat about over cocktails. We’re very careful to keep things legitimate and well within the law. Our women aren’t whores. They don’t sell their bodies, but conversation. Our employees are screened, carefully screened, and if they break any of our rules, they’re fired. We’re aware that there are some businesses similar to ours where a young boy can call and charge the conversation to his parents’ phone bill. I happen to think that’s irresponsible and sad. We serve adults only, and our terms are explained in full up front, before any charge is made.”

“We’re Homicide, not Vice, Mrs. Cawfield,” Ben told her. “In any case, we’ve already checked out your business and you’re within your rights. At the moment, we’re only interested in Kathleen Breezewood. It might help us if we had a list of her clients.”

“I can’t do that. My client list is confidential for obvious reasons, Detective Paris.”

“And murder isn’t confidential, Mrs. Cawfield, for obvious reasons.”

“I understand your position. You’ll have to understand mine.”

“We can get a warrant,” Ed reminded her. “It’ll just take time.”

“You’ll need a warrant, Detective Jackson. Until you have one, I’m obliged to protect my clients. I’ll tell you again, none of them could have located her unless they had access to this machine and broke the code to the program.”

“We’ll have to talk to your husband and sister-in-law.”

“Of course. Short of breaking client confidentiality, we want to cooperate in every way.”

“Mrs. Cawfield, do you know where your husband was on the night of April tenth?” Ed gave her a mild look as he held his pencil over his pad. Ben saw her fingers tighten quickly.

“I suppose you have to ask that, but I find it tasteless.”

“Yeah.” Ben crossed his legs. “Murder doesn’t have such a sweet taste either.”

Eileen moistened her lips. “Allen plays softball. He had a game on the night of the tenth. He pitched all nine innings; I was there. It was over about nine, maybe a bit before. Afterward, we went out for pizza with several other couples. We got home a little after eleven.”

“If we find we need names, you can provide them?”

“Of course. I’m sorry, very sorry about Kathleen, but my business isn’t involved in her murder. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to take this call.”

“Thanks for your time.” Ed pushed the door open and waited for Ben to join him on the sidewalk. “If she’s playing it straight, and I think she is, none of the clients would have gotten Kathleen’s location through the main office.”

“Maybe Kathleen broke the rules.” He pulled out a cigarette. “Gave out her address, her real name. Maybe she met one of the guys and he followed her back, decided he wanted more than talk.”

“Maybe.” But it was hard for him to think of his former neighbor as a woman who broke the rules. “I wonder what Tess would say about the possibility of a man who uses a MasterCard to charge sex talk committing rape and murder.”

“She’s not in this one, Ed.”

“Just a thought.” Because he recognized the tone in his partner’s voice, he let it ride. Ben had already had to deal with his wife being involved in a homicide investigation.
“You know, it’s more likely that someone busted in, came across her, and lost it.”

“But it doesn’t feel right.”

“No,” Ed agreed as he pulled open the car door. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“We’re going to have to talk to Grace again.”

“I know.”

H
E HAD TO LISTEN
again. It had been too long. As soon as his last class was over, he came home to lock himself in his room. He’d wanted to ditch school altogether that day, but knew his father would be involved if he was reported. So he’d sat through all of his classes, a quiet, bright, well-behaved boy who spoke in a clear voice. The fact was, he blended in so well none of his teachers would have noticed him if he wasn’t the son of a potential president.

Jerald didn’t like to be obtrusive. He didn’t like people to look at him because if they looked too long they might see some of his secrets.

It was rare that he took the chance of tapping into Fantasy’s line during the day. He liked the dark better; he could imagine so much better in the dark. But since Desiree, he’d been obsessed. He put on his headphones and cued his terminal. Sitting back, he waited for the right voice.

He knew Eileen’s. It didn’t interest him. Too businesslike. The other one, the one who worked at night, wasn’t right either. Too young, too prim. Neither of them ever made any promises.

He closed his eyes and waited. Somehow he was sure, absolutely sure, that he would find the right one soon.

When he did, her name was Roxanne.

H
YACINTHS. GRACE SAT ON
the steps in front of her sister’s house and stared at the pink and white hyacinths that had opened, thankful their scent was too light to carry. She’d had enough of the fragrance of flowers that day. The hyacinths looked different, too—sturdy and hopeful beside the cracking concrete. They didn’t remind her of white caskets and weeping.

She couldn’t sit with her parents any longer. Though she hated herself for it, she had left them huddled together over their endless cups of tea and escaped, needing the air, the sun, the solitude. She had to stop grieving, even if only for an hour.

Occasionally a car passed, so she watched. A few children in the neighborhood were taking advantage of the warming weather and lengthening days to ride bikes or skateboards over the uneven sidewalk. Their calls to each other were the calls of the summer that was just around the corner. Now and then one would stare over at the house with the round, avid eyes of the curious. The word was out, Grace thought, and cautious parents had warned their sons
and daughters to stay clear. If the house remained empty long, those kids would be daring each other to go as far as the porch to touch the forbidden. The very brave might race to the windows and peek in.

The haunted house. The Murder House. And the children’s palms would sweat, their hearts thunder as they ran away again to report their derring-do to their less courageous friends. She’d have done exactly the same as a child.

Murder was so fascinating, so irresistible.

Already, Grace knew, Kathleen’s murder would have been discussed in the quiet little houses up and down the street. New locks would have been bought and installed. Windows and doors would be checked with extra care. Then a few weeks would pass, and with the buffer of time, people would forget. After all, it hadn’t happened to them.

But she wouldn’t forget. Grace rubbed her fingers under her eyes. She couldn’t forget.

When she recognized Ed’s car pulling up, she drew a deep breath. She hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for him but had no trouble admitting it now. She rose and cut across the grass, arriving at his car just as he stepped out.

“You put in long hours, Detective.”

“Goes with the territory.” He jingled his keys before he popped the trunk. All that was left of her makeup were a few swipes of mascara. “You all right?”

“So far.” She glanced back toward the house. Her mother had just switched on the kitchen light. “I’m taking my parents to the airport in the morning. It doesn’t help them or me for them to stay here, so I convinced them to go. They’re propping each other up.” She ran her hands along the hips of her slacks, then finding nothing better to do with them, stuck them in her pockets. “You know, I never realized how married they were, how really married, until the last couple of days.”

“At times like this it helps to have someone.”

“I think they’re going to be all right. They’ve … they’ve accepted it.”