Mr. Kiss and Tell (19 page)

Mac stared up at her. “You think Bellamy was crazy enough…?”

“I don’t know. Might be a long shot. It’s not like every guy who hires an escort is going to leap right out of the sack and write a review, right? But if Bellamy’s a serial offender, he’s hired escorts before.” She leaned toward Mac. “Maybe it doesn’t matter that no one’s reporting him. Maybe he’s incriminating himself in his reviews.”

They combed through the reviews. Fourteen of Grace’s clients had supped from the erotic smorgasbord in multiple cities. Of them, only one of them had posted a review after the attack.

mr_kiss_and_tell.

The reviewer had patronized more than thirty high-end escorts. It was hard to pinpoint the exact dates; he could have waited weeks between when he saw a given girl and when he posted a review. But the majority of the girls worked out of cities in the western half of the United States: Boise, Albuquerque, Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Seattle, L.A. All university towns with Division I teams—places a basketball coach would have a reason to visit.

“He has a type, that’s for sure,” she said, looking over the list. The girls were all “small,” “slender,” “petite.” They were all very young, at least from what Mac and Veronica could see—most of their faces were obscured on their websites. All were high-end. And they all specialized in role-play.

I have a full closet of fun costumes I just can’t wait to wear for you.

Pretending to be someone I’m not really turns me on!

I’m eager to be the very girl you want.

Mac stared at a picture of a lithe brunette in a low-cut gown, a flute of champagne in one hand. “I just don’t get how anyone could do it. Like, even if danger weren’t an issue, there is no way I could let some rando get intimate with my lady parts.”

Veronica didn’t answer. It wasn’t that Veronica could suddenly imagine going into the business herself, but Grace didn’t feel foreign to her at all. Grace felt like someone who, in other circumstances, she might have been friends with.

Mr. Kiss and Tell’s rankings were all across the board. He gave most girls three or four stars out of five, critiquing their performances like a cross between Hugh Hefner and Simon Cowell.
Yvette had perfect breasts, full lips, and a toned body, but the sounds she made were distracting and ridiculous.
Or:
Delia was very sweet and obedient but I didn’t care for her clothes. Why does everyone assume that just because I want a submissive that means I want leather and straps? That said, she had a great bedside manner.
A few girls, like Grace, had one star. Those reviews were even more critical: Tonya Vahn from L.A.
acted like a stuck-up bitch. Looked nothing like her picture.
One, a Nikki Valentine from Albuquerque wasn’t properly groomed:
I could see her roots, her nails weren’t done, she showed up in the trashiest dress I’ve ever seen. For $400 an hour I expect a princess, not a tramp.

“What a charmer,” Mac muttered.

“There’s a reason he’s paying for it,” Veronica said. “Tomorrow we need to start searching the criminal databases in all of these cities. We’ll look for open assault cases dating in the past four years and see if any of them match up. But I’m pretty sure Grace is right—if any of these women were attacked, most of them won’t have reported it.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“Can I see your computer for a minute?”

Mac handed over the laptop. Veronica opened up one of her private e-mail accounts and sat, thinking for a few minutes. Then she started to type.

I’m writing in the hopes that you can help me. I know you have a vested interest in keeping your clients confidential, but I’m currently investigating the rape of a working girl here in southern California and I think the man may have done it before. I’m trying to establish a pattern of abuse in the hopes that we can find a way to stop him. I’ve enclosed a photo of the suspect. If there’s anything you remember about him, please, call or e-mail.

It was a shot in the dark. If these women hadn’t reported an abusive john to the cops, there was no reason for them to do so for a perfect stranger. But Grace had mentioned that there were forums where sex workers could warn each other about “bad dates.” These women, at least some of them, looked out for one another. Veronica had to hope that the news that one of their own had been raped might move at least a few of them to reply.

Veronica and Mac sent the message to every girl Mr. Kiss and Tell had reviewed. A few of them had taken their websites down, apparently out of the business. A few of the e-mails bounced back immediately, the addresses no longer valid. But Veronica pictured the message winging its way across the country, popping up with little red
Urgent
flags in dozens of inboxes. Maybe landing in the right inbox. Maybe finding the woman who could help make their case against Mitch Bellamy.

“They’re too long, man.” Eli Navarro stood in front of the mirror outside the changing room, looking at his reflection. The slacks he’d tried on pooled at his feet. “You’d have to be seven feet tall for all this leg.”

Keith smiled. They were in Brautigan’s, a large department store in the Neptune Mall, trying to expand Eli’s courtroom ensemble options. Light piano music tinkled from the speakers, and an obsequious sales clerk hovered near the doorway.

“They do that so you can get them sized. Turn around.” Eli did. Keith nodded. “See, they fit everywhere else. We’ll take them to a tailor, have them hemmed right up.”

Eli shook his head slightly. “It’s a lotta money to spend on pants that don’t fit. And then you gotta spend more to get ’em fixed?”

“Trust me on this, Eli. It makes a difference.” Keith crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against a wood-paneled pillar. “When you have three million bucks you won’t even remember what it was like to wear off-the-rack.”

Eli smiled in spite of himself. “You’re counting chickens, and they ain’t hatched yet, Sheriff.”

Weevil was the only person who still called Keith by his former title. It was strangely endearing. Keith had known the kid a long time, had watched him grow from a petty criminal to the head of the PCH Biker Gang. Hell, half the time Keith had been the one to arrest him. When he’d watched Eli pull his life together, it’d made him strangely proud. He’d been pulling for the guy then, and he still was today.

“Well, I happen to think we’ve got a good chance at making you a rich man.”

Keith had managed a breakthrough in his search for witnesses. After weeks of pounding on doors, he’d found three more people willing to testify that evidence planted by Deputy Harlon had led to their wrongful convictions. From where he stood, the case against the department looked strong.

“It’s not just gonna be fancy pants and new TVs and diamond studs, Sheriff,” Eli said, padding back into the changing room and talking over the door. “I’m getting a house for Jade and Valentina. Even if they don’t want me back I’m buying them a place. And I’m gonna send Valentina to one of them Mussolini schools, you know? Where they learn by doing crafts and playing games and stuff?”

“I think you mean Montessori.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” The door swung open, and Eli was back in his scuffed jeans and hoodie. “And I’m gonna invest. Find some way for my money to make money, you know?”

“But there’s going be a
little
flash, right?” Keith leaned in conspiratorially. “I mean, you’ll be able to afford one or two bad decisions.”

Eli broke into a grin. “I have to admit I like the idea of gettin’ a Segway, if only to see the looks on my PCH boys’ faces when I roll up on it. Either that or an Xbox One. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on one of them since the new
Call of Duty
came out.”

Keith handed him an armful of hangers. Pants, jackets, button-down shirts, and ties bulged from his arms. “Now let’s pay for this and head to Ben & Jerry’s. My treat—just don’t tell Veronica. I’m supposed to be on a diet.”

Keith paid for the clothes on his credit card. If Eli won, he’d pay him back; if not, Keith would consider it a donation to the Don’t Re-elect Dan Lamb campaign.

They went down the escalator and were heading toward the mall exit when Keith heard a familiar-sounding voice called out from behind him.

“Keith? Keith Mars?”

He froze, Eli stopping short next to him. They were between Women’s Shoes and Cosmetics, and the air was heavy with mingled perfumes. Slowly, he turned to face Marcia Langdon.

She was dressed in jeans and a blazer and she’d recently cut her hair. It now was too short for the severe bun she’d sported in her military photos but the new bob had an almost equally stiff and uncompromising look. Still it was a bit more stylish, and style counted in Neptune. You couldn’t expect someone like Petra Landros or Celeste Kane—or any of the other moneyed women currently teetering around them, trying on too-high heels—to vote for a woman who looked like a samurai Ayn Rand.

“Marcia. It’s been a while.” Keith held out his hand, and she gave it a single, brisk up-and-down pump. “I didn’t know you’d moved back to town until your election news came out.”

“I’ve been back since February, but I’ve been keeping a low profile.” The smile she gave him wasn’t quite warm, but it was pleasant. “I
thought
I was retiring. But you know how it is. Hard to sit back and watch your hometown become synonymous with ‘miscarriage of justice.’ ”

He put his hands in his pockets and studied her face. It was almost eerie; for a moment he could see the teenaged Marcia he’d known, superimposed over this older woman’s face. The eyes and nose were the same, even if the crow’s feet and the frown lines hung heavily around her features.

He gestured to his left. “This is my friend Eli.”

“Mr. Navarro.” She held out her hand to him. “I’ve been following your case with great interest.”

“Yeah?” He glanced quizzically at Keith, and then turned back to Marcia. “Well, for my part, I hope you’re able to run that asshole out of office.”

To Keith’s surprise, she grinned.

“Honestly, it was your case that made me decide to run,” she said. “For months now I’ve been seething over this guy, but I didn’t think I could do anything about it. But when you started speaking out, I thought…well, hell, it’s worth a try, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Eli shifted his weight.

She turned her gaze back to Keith. “And you. You do great work, Keith. I’ve read your books.”

“Oh, those.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Just a little something to make sure the bills get paid. PI work’s kind of boom or bust, so I turned to the even-keeled and predictable world of publishing to round things out.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m a fan. Anyway, I don’t want to keep you. It was nice seeing you, Keith, really.”

“Good luck, Marcia.”

They stood for a moment, watching her disappear back into the shoe section. Several women around Marcia seemed to notice and recognize her, and one or two walked up to her to shake her hand.

“She seems nice.” Eli said, glancing at him again as they started toward Ben & Jerry’s.

Keith didn’t answer right away.

The Langdon family had lived three doors down from Keith’s tiny efficiency. Mr. Langdon, like many dads in the neighborhood, had vanished to parts unknown. Mrs. Langdon worked in a garment factory on the edge of town. Keith, who at the time had been a twenty-one-year-old newly hired deputy in the Neptune Sheriff’s Department, remembered her as a soft-spoken woman with an expression that always appeared either anxious or frightened.

Keith often sat on his front porch to escape his gloomy apartment and quickly struck up a friendship of sorts with Marcia, who would walk by on her way to a 7-Eleven on the corner. With only four years separating them in age, they had plenty to talk about: the Padres, teachers, how much they both hated ABBA.

She was a different breed of cat than he’d been in high school. Keith had been a swingman between the gearhead and art-geek cliques. He’d also played bass for a local rock band that, infelicitously, played Springsteen and Warren Zevon covers at the exact moment punk rock was breaking. She was an avid JROTC member, socially maladroit, and a teacher’s pet. But Keith had always respected her scathing honesty and uncompromising intensity.

Then there was Tauntaun. Bobby “Tauntaun” Langdon was enormous, the kind of looming presence forged in iron for offensive line play. He was two years older than Marcia, and his steamroller blocking had powered a Neptune ground game that took the team all the way to State his senior year. Even beyond his status as a sports hero, he was a good dude, the type you could count on to break up a fight or to offer you a ride to a party.

Until graduation, anyway. Post-high school life didn’t agree with Tauntaun. He drifted, lost in the real world. Keith had only ever heard rumors, but not long after that, Tauntaun apparently fell in with a crew of guys who sold dime bags at the Boardwalk and broke into vacation homes to steal the hi-fis.

The summer after Marcia’s senior year, Keith was called as a backup when two other deputies arrived at the Langdon’s little apartment with a search warrant. He was just pulling up to the curb when they came out with fifteen kilos of coke that had been stacked neatly in Tauntaun’s bedroom closet. Marcia’s brother told them he’d been storing it for someone else, but when he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—name names, he took the fall.

It’d been Marcia who’d called the sheriff on him. Marcia who found the drugs while hanging her brother’s clean laundry in his closet. Marcia who’d been humiliated every time the cops showed up at the duplex to haul Tauntaun in again, for vandalism or public intoxication or breaking and entering. The night of Tauntaun’s arrest, the sound of breaking furniture and shouting echoed from the Langdon apartment. Keith heard later that Mrs. Langdon had kicked her out, claimed she never wanted to see her again. Marcia already had an ROTC scholarship at UCLA. She left Neptune and she didn’t come back. Not for thirty-three years.

And Tauntaun? He’d been stabbed to death in the showers at San Quentin a few short years later.

As Keith and Eli made their way down the long corridors of the mall, sidestepping moms with strollers and slow-moving teenagers, he remembered Tauntaun’s terrified face as the cop shoved him in the car. The whole thing had never sat easy with Keith, though it was hard to say why. It emerged at that trial that Tauntaun’s IQ had tested at eighty-seven, but even Tauntaun had to know that storing a dozen bricks of coke in his room was a bad idea. He’d committed a crime, and he’d gotten caught. That was how it worked.

But who turned in family?

Maybe there was more to it. Maybe Marcia had tried to reason with her brother before turning him in. Maybe she thought it was for his own good. Either way, she
was
honest. And, most important, not Dan Lamb.

Weevil turned a quizzical look toward him as they got in line in front of the Ben & Jerry’s.

“You all right, man? You look kind of…I don’t know. Spooked.”

Keith took a deep breath and smiled.

“Yeah, I’m all right.” He pulled out his wallet as the smiling scooper called them forward for their order. “Just thinking what a good sheriff she’s going to be.”