Shaken (29 page)

“So tell me,” Shell said, leaning forward on the table so his knuckles brushed mine again, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a career like this?”

I’d been asked that before, but never like that. Most people wondered what was wrong with me for wanting to be a cop. When Shell asked me, I felt like my job impressed him.

“Mom was on the force,” I said, leaning closer, letting our fingers meet. I liked it that Shell was confident enough to flirt with me, and wondered how far he would take it if I let him. “But she joined in the sixties. Women didn’t climb the ranks, and we didn’t get the due respect.”

“Is that what you’re looking for? Rank and respect?”

I answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

“What rank are you shooting for?”

“I’m going to make lieutenant by the time I’m forty.”

Shell ran his index finger over the back of my hand. “I’m sure you will.”

I probably should have pulled away. But Shell was attractive, and saying all the right things, and I was feeling bold and a bit reckless. My so-called boyfriend, Alan, hadn’t so much as called me on my birthday yesterday. That stung. Neither of us had said
I love you
yet, and even though he had a key to my place we’d never had the
we’re exclusive
talk. So if I wound up doing anything with Shell I wouldn’t be cheating.

But I wasn’t going to do anything with Shell. At least, not at that moment. I’d only met the guy two hours ago. I considered myself liberated, but that didn’t mean I was easy.

“So how about you?” I asked. “How did you wind up running an escort service?”

Shell’s lips formed a small grin, and he glanced away, back to some long-ago memory. “I’ve always liked the finer things in life. Food, wine, fashion, cars, hotels.” His eyes centered on mine. “Women.”

The way he said it made me feel like I was, indeed, one of the finer things in life.

“A few years ago I was dating a dynamite woman,” he continued. “Smart. Sassy. Beautiful. She was a model, but finding it increasingly difficult to find paying gigs. She told me she was considering becoming an escort to make ends meet, but was clueless about how to get started. I took it upon myself to help her. For my assistance, she gave me twenty percent of the escort money she earned. She also recommended I help some of her friends do the same thing. A business was born.”

“When was the first murder?”

Shell’s face clouded, and I was a little sorry I’d lapsed into cop mode. But I needed this information, and talking to someone who knew the victims would be more helpful than reading about them in police reports.

“A month ago,” Shell said. “Her name was Nancy. Nancy Slusar. Like Linda, she’d been…” Shell swallowed, “…hacked to pieces.”

“Did Nancy, Linda, or you have any enemies?”

“I gave Detective Benedict a short list. Three disgruntled clients. Several women I had to fire for inappropriate behavior. A guy who kept hanging around, wanting to date one of the girls.”

“How about business competition? How do you get along with the other escort services?”

“The girls often sign up with more than one service, to maximize the amount of dates they get. We’re mostly ambivalent about each other.”

“Mostly?” I probed.

“There is one service—the Dodd Agency—who has aggressively tried to pursue some of my girls, wanting them exclusively. I had to retain a lawyer to get them to stop it. I believe they’re Outfit owned and operated.”

“Outfit?”

“You know. The mob.”

I wished I’d had a notepad like Herb’s to write this stuff down. Instead, I committed it to memory.

“So.” Shell’s tone changed, from sad and guarded to flirty once again. “Are you ready to go shopping?”

“Shopping?”

“For clothing. You have to look the part for your photo.”

I had no idea where he was going with this. “What photo?”

“For your portfolio. Clients choose their dates based on a photo and a detailed bio. So we need to go shopping, get you something suitable.”

“I guess,” I said.

Shell dug into his wallet and dropped a hundred dollars on the table, more than covering the tab. “You don’t seem excited by the prospect. Most of the women I know love to shop.”

I put my elbows on the table, resting my face in my hands. “Most of the men I know love to work on cars. I can’t imagine you getting grease under your manicure.”

He smirked. “Touché. Those who buy Cadillacs can afford to pay someone to tune them up.”

“I could have guessed you had a Cadillac.”

“I love it. In fact, I love it so much I wouldn’t trust a mechanic to tune it up. So I do it myself. And this isn’t a manicure.” Shell held up his hand, spreading his fingers. “I’ve been successfully clipping my own nails for years now.”

I was surprised, and a little impressed. “I guess we were both wrong to stereotype.”

“Agreed. So what is it you do like doing, if I might ask?”

“Competition shooting. I’m the best marksman in the district.”

Shell raised an eyebrow. “Marks
man
?”

“The Chicago PD is still getting used to the idea that someone with boobs can shoot. All of my trophies have little gold men in Weaver stances on top of them.”

“I bet that pisses off your fellow law enforcement officers.”

“It does,” I said. “That’s why I do it.”

Shell stood up, holding out his hand. “So, Officer Streng, are you ready to piss off more of your coworkers by catching this psycho murdering my girls?”

I took Shell’s hand. “There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.”

Chapter 6

“S
o Armani makes clothes for women, too?” I asked Shell, holding the black pantsuit in front of me and staring into the body-length mirror adjacent to Lord & Taylor’s fitting rooms.

“It’s called a power suit,” Shell said. He stood behind me, close enough for me to feel his breath on the back of my head.

“The shoulder pads are too big. I look like I could play defensive tackle for the Bears.”

“Try it on. You’ll see.”

Skeptical, I took the suit, along with a white silk blouse by someone named Ralph Lauren, and slipped into the closest room. Two minutes later, the Sears suit was in piles on the floor around me, and I stepped back out into the store in bare feet and stood in front of Shell and the mirror.

It was like looking at a stranger.

The pants tapered high at the waist and flared out, clinging to my curves, making it obvious this was designed for women. The blouse hugged my breasts, and the shoulder pads I’d been dubious about made them look bigger than they ever had before.

I was astonished. I actually looked feminine, while still coming across as professional.

More than that, I was hot. Not hot in a slutty way. Hot in a confident, mature,
here’s a woman in complete control
way. No wonder it was called a
power suit
.

“Try these on as well.”

Shell knelt down next to me, holding a pair of black heels. “These are Givenchy. You’re a size seven and a half?”

I nodded, wondering how he knew. Shell gently lifted up my left foot, fit on the strappy heel, and then repeated the process with its twin. Somehow, they made the lines of the suit even stronger.

“What do you think?” he asked, staring up at me.

I turned, looking at it from behind. It was as if Armani had made this especially for me. I’d never felt better wearing any outfit.

“It’s amazing,” I said.

Shell stood, putting his hand on my neck, finding my ponytail holder. He freed my long, brown hair, and I shook it loose and watched it cascade over my shoulders. I’d gone from being a professional businesswoman, to ready for a night on the town.

“You’re beautiful,” Shell said.

I’d never been called beautiful before by anyone other than my mother. I was a size six, thanks to the Jane Fonda workout tapes I’d stuck with for the past few years, and my face was okay, but no one would ever put me on the cover of a magazine. Yet when Shell said it, for a brief, magical moment, I believed him. The word made me feel young and girlish and a little bit heady.

“How much is this little ensemble?” I asked. I hadn’t checked the tags because I was afraid.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m paying.”

I turned, facing him. “I make a decent living, Shell. I can buy my own clothes.”

“I must insist,” he said.

“How much is it?”

“With the shoes, just over nine hundred dollars.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. That was more than two months’ rent.

“That’s…a lot of money.”

“I learned something a while ago. People don’t remember the things you say or do. But they do remember how you look. The better you look, the better impression you make. For a woman in a career dominated by men, you need to make the best impression you can.”

I agreed with him completely. But nine hundred bucks? My entire wardrobe didn’t cost that much.

“If you prefer, you can pay me back.”

The way he said it was a bit oily and suggestive. Almost as if I could pay him back by sleeping with him.

Staring at myself in the mirror, I was seriously considering it.

“I’ll let you buy this for me on one condition,” I said.

“Name it.”

“When we catch the killer, I’m returning it.”

“As you wish, Officer. Now we only have one thing left to do.”

“And that is?”

Shell grinned. “We have to take some pictures.”

Chapter 7

I
didn’t take Shell up on his offer to shoot some pictures of me back at his place. He was cute, smart, and almost predatory with his sexuality. While I liked the confident, lothario vibe he gave off, and the attraction was no doubt mutual, I wasn’t going to screw up my first real case by, well, screwing one of the people involved.

So I took him to my place instead.

He had one of those expensive SLR cameras with an assortment of lenses and filters, portable lights, and even a stand-up backdrop, all in the trunk of his Caddy. While he was setting up in my living room, I went into my bathroom and futzed around with makeup. While I wasn’t Max Factor, I managed to slap enough color on my face to look feminine. Then I ran a brush through my hair and hit it with Aquanet, trying to tease it up as big as possible. By the time I was finished, I looked like I could be in a Whitesnake video.

Then I changed out of my Sears suit and put on the outfit Shell had bought for me. All dolled up, it was hard for me to recognize the person in the mirror. It didn’t look much like me. Rather, it looked more like the person I wanted to be.

I finished off the can of Aquanet, choking on the aerosol, and then walked out of the bathroom. My apartment was small, even by civil servant standards, so the bathroom let out right into the living room, where Shell had erected a makeshift studio, complete with three-point lighting. A white screen, with back splashes of red and blue lights, was set up in front of my television.

“Wow,” he said as I approached.

I thought of my boyfriend, Alan. He never said
wow
when he saw me.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked. I wasn’t sure why, but I suddenly felt a tiny bit uncomfortable.

“Whiskey, if you’ve got it.”

“Hate the stuff,” I said. “Vodka okay?”

“Rocks.”

I went into the kitchen, opening the cabinet and hoping I had two matching rocks glasses. I didn’t. The only matching glasses I owned had Ronald McDonald on them. I gave Shell my single rocks glass, then poured my vodka up, in a martini glass, making sure he wasn’t looking at the bargain basement brand I was serving. I dropped two ice cubes in his and then went into the living room. After handing him his drink, I realized why I was nervous. Having a cute guy in my apartment felt like a date. We’d gotten very comfortable with each other very quickly. Too quickly.

I took a very small sip of vodka, set it on a bookcase, and put my hands on my hips.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

Shell finished his drink in one gulp, and if he noticed it was sub-par vodka he didn’t show it. “Stand in front of the backdrop,” he told me.

Immediately, I felt like I was back in high school, getting a class photo. I always hated those, standing in front of some disinterested, impatient photographer who didn’t want to be there, nervous that I’d look goofy.

“Have you been shot before?” Shell asked.

“Shot at, but they missed,” I said, before realizing what he was asking. A moment later we both laughed, and the camera went
click, click, click
.

“The secret to getting terrific shots is to pretend the camera is a person you like. You want to show this person how much you like him, how interested you are in him. How you want him to see you. So right now, tell the camera
hello
with your eyes.”

It sounded like utter bullshit, but I gave it a try. Shell snapped a few pics, then told me to pout, like the camera broke a date with me. I tried it, jutting out my lower lip a bit, trying to channel my inner spoiled brat.

From pouty we went to flirty, then to serious, then to curious. Soon we were in a comfortable rhythm and I no longer flinched at the shutter sounds. Shortly after that, I no longer paid any attention to Shell. The world had been reduced to me and the camera. The camera told me what it wanted, and I tried to please the camera.

“Let’s take off the jacket…

“Show me coy…

“Let’s untuck one shirttail…

“Show me thoughtful…

“Let’s open the blouse a button or two…

“Show me daring…

“Let’s open it one more button…

“Show me turned on.”

At that last suggestion, I lost all momentum. “Excuse me?” I asked.

“Turned on,” Shell said. “Aroused. You know. Your sex face.”

The inner vamp I was channeling was now confused and embarrassed. “My portfolio will have a picture of my sex face?”

Shell released the camera, letting it hang by its strap. “I’m not talking mouth-open eyes-shut
When Harry Met Sally.
I mean that look you give your boyfriend when you’re really aroused. Your
take me now
look.”