The Red Hot Fix (15 page)

LionEl lifted his head at long last. Reinhart held his comments off with a raised hand. “But if I see one player, for one moment, give less than every ounce of what I think they’re capable of, I’m sending him home. Superstar or bench jockey, I don’t care. He can watch the rest of our wins from his lawyer’s office, calculating ways to sue me.”

Reinhart cut off Wilkerson’s retort and focused on LionEl. He jerked a thumb toward L.B. “You’ve been listening to this sorry-ass excuse for an agent too long. Let me tell you the cold, hard, ain’t-not-even-Jesus-would-tell-you-any-different facts of life.” His voice was ice. “I own you, LionEl. You got that? You sold yourself to me, and Fatso here drew up the paperwork. You are a tool I’ve purchased to use as I see fit. I want you at the arena. Suited up, fired up, and ready to play. If you’re not, I’m cutting you. Loud and with fanfare. After your half-assed
showing in Los Angeles, you’ll be lucky to land a job selling popcorn and autographs in some Croatian bus league.” Reinhart turned toward L.B. “Try living off twenty percent of that.”

LionEl snapped his head toward L.B., back to Reinhart, and back to L.B.

Reinhart snorted in derision. “My God, LionEl. You ever read those piece-of-shit contracts he has you sign? You hitched your wagon to the wrong star, my friend. Hell, you get injured and all you’ve got is workman’s comp. I fire you, you got no buyout. You’re on the streets and my wallet’s free to pick up a new hired gun.” Reinhart pushed himself away from the table. “You all know your assignments.”

Reinhart stepped to Ingrid. “Don’t worry about emptying out your desk. I’ll have Danielle handle it.” He bent down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you at home.”

Mort’s mood was as foul and foggy as the damp afternoon. The chief had his back for the time being. He wasn’t happy to hold the press conference Mort swore was their best defense against more Trixie corpses, but he did it anyway. The chief liked to announce arrests, not warnings. “Just make sure the next time I’m standing in front of cameras, I’m declaring the end of this thing. We clear, Detective Grant?”

He’d shave two years off his life for one solid lead. A knock on his office door pulled him away from wondering with whom he might cut such a deal. He saw Charlotte Conklin standing in his doorway holding two cups. He waved her in.

“I saw the press conference.” She handed him a cup of something hot. “Thought you might benefit from a soothing beverage.”

Mort pulled the lid off and the aroma reminded him of long, lazy hammock glides. “This smells terrific.”

Charlotte sat down. “My own blend. It’s a roast I keep on hand for days that threaten to get the better of me.”

Mort took a sip. “Is that cinnamon?”

“My secret.” Charlotte settled back and took a drink from her own mug. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“I’m eyeball deep in dead bodies. Why wouldn’t I have time for a cup of coffee?”

She laughed and Mort felt a pang of guilt for enjoying its melody.

“I wanted to thank you for the hamburger the other night. I’d love to do that again.” She dropped her eyes for the briefest of moments. “If you’re interested, of course.”

Mort’s mind reeled a montage of scenes from his life with Edie. The time he cleared out the men’s room at a concert their sophomore year in college and stood sentinel at the door. Hiding quietly in the hall as she sang to both kids in the bath. The police department Christmas party when she pulled him into a darkened coat closet, two hairs past drunk and determined to give him an early present.

Mort raised his cup to Charlotte. “I thank you for the coffee. And the break.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Not unless you know the hooker responsible for all this.”

“It’s not a prostitute.”

Mort balked at her assessment. “No?”

“These murders are calculated, Mort. Intentional.” He watched her stare into middle space as though she was seeing it play out. “Whoever kills these men is in complete control. Sure of her next move. Confident in the outcome.” She turned toward him. “Prostitutes don’t feel that way. They’re always aware of the danger in their world. They’re vigilant. Reactive. They want to keep their time with their client short and contained.” She looked away. “At least the ones who want to survive do.”

Mort caught her profile against the diffused afternoon light.

“Tell me how you know that,” he whispered.

Once again she turned toward him and he saw a sadness that kicked hard in his gut.

She set her cup on his desk and leaned forward. An internal murmur suggested he brace himself.

“Because I’ve been there, Mort.” Her voice had the tone of surrender. “You’re looking at the call girl who used to get three thousand dollars a night for her services.” She shivered at the memory. “Five if you wanted me to stay for breakfast.”

Icy fog enveloped Mort’s body. Charlotte was a woman who lobbied Congress and state legislatures. The idea of her accepting money for the most intimate human connection didn’t jibe with the Charlotte who held her own discussing philosophy with Larry.

He crossed the room and closed his office door.

“When? Where?” He resumed his seat behind his desk. His mouth was dry. “Am I even allowed to ask?”

Charlotte’s steady gaze contrasted with her shaky voice. “Of course. I want you to know everything before …” Her voice cracked. “Before any decision about sharing another hamburger is made.”

He nodded slowly and willed his hands to stop trembling.

“I grew up in Des Moines.” Charlotte relaxed a bit. “Dad was a foreman at a grain collective. Mom worked part-time at Penney’s, full-time running herd on my two brothers and me. I had a delightful childhood. Lots of friends. Honor roll. Homecoming Court.” Mort saw tears form as Charlotte continued. “I was the lead in every drama class production from sophomore year on.” She smiled at him. “I know every word of every Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. You’ll want me on your team for Trivial Pursuit.”

Mort held himself steady.

“After graduation I worked at a local radio station doing promos and special events, saving each paycheck. My plan was to finish the summer and head off to New York City.” She looked down at her hands. “My brothers and parents cried as they loaded me on the bus, but I was beaming. Convinced I would be a star by Christmas.”

Mort flashed to Allie. His precocious daughter was always filled with big dreams and
little patience. He cleared his throat and refocused on Charlotte.

“Imagine my surprise when the Darling of Des Moines was met with a less than enthusiastic welcome by Broadway producers.” Charlotte sounded defeated. “I made the rounds of auditions during the day and waitressed at night. The best I did was a callback for the chorus in a Sondheim musical. New Year’s found me struggling to make the nine hundred dollars a month I needed to share a one-bedroom fourth-floor walk-up with two other girls.” She glanced up at Mort. “Want to know how long you can stretch a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread?”

Mort managed a tense smile.

“I missed Christmas at home, of course. I worked so many shifts to cover expenses I couldn’t make auditions. Around Valentine’s Day one of my roommates, Sandy Mittering, took us all out to the Plaza for a farewell dinner. She was moving to SoHo. Got herself an apartment with her own bedroom, an elevator, and a full-time doorman.” Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Ever been to the Plaza for dinner, Mort?”

He shook his head. “Never been to New York.”

“No other city in the world like it. Food tastes better. Music sounds sweeter. Your soul vibrates at a higher pitch.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, Sandy treats to what must have been a thousand-dollar meal for the three of us. Champagne, shrimp cocktail, the whole thing. Needless to say, I asked her where she got the money. Not only for the dinner but the place in SoHo.”

“And Sandy introduces you to the glamorous world of prostitution.” Mort’s stomach tightened.

“She didn’t use those words.” Charlotte settled back into the chair. “She told me about going out to dinner with older men coming to town for business. How all she had to do was be nice to them and show them the latest hot spots.” She ran a trembling hand through her sandy brown hair. “She worked for an agency that handled everything. All she had to do was dress up and smile.” Charlotte looked back down at her lap. “I’ll tell you, after six months of ramen and rejection, it sounded pretty good. Sandy assured me her agency would be interested. Said my homespun look was just what they were looking for. Two weeks later I was on my first date. I earned a thousand dollars and my customer bought me a Stella McCartney sweater just because I said I liked it as we passed by Bergdorf’s window.” She looked away. “All I had to do was have fun showing them around town. And then put my mind someplace else for twenty minutes at the end of the date.” She stayed quiet for a moment. “Afterward there was always a generous tip waiting for me. I flew home first-class for Easter brunch and gave my mother a bracelet from Tiffany’s.”

“How’d you explain the money to your folks? Surely they’d want to come see any show you starred in.”

“I learned lying came as easily to me as self-delusion. I convinced them I’d become interested in the behind-the-scenes Broadway. Told them I was a casting agent.” She wiped a wet cheek. “I rationalized my lies by assuring myself I was protecting them. My parents died in a car accident that next summer. They never learned the truth about me.”

“And your brothers?” Mort hoped he didn’t sound like her interrogator.

“We get together twice a year. Conversation’s never deep. The subject of my six New York years has never come up.”

“Why’d you leave?”

Charlotte rose and stepped to the window. “Like I said, the money was good. By the time I was twenty-one, I had an apartment on the Upper East Side. I abandoned my Broadway dreams and found something that occupied me during the day and kept my evenings free.” She gave a pained laugh. “I enrolled in college. Columbia. It proved quite appealing to my customers. My manager raised my rates and suggested I take finance courses.”

Mort was glad he was seated. If his legs were as unsteady as the rest of him, he didn’t think he could stand.

Charlotte leaned against the windowsill. “I double-majored in finance and sociology. My finance courses taught me to invest my money wisely, but it was my sociology courses that I loved. My senior year I took a course on the underrepresented. Ironically enough, my professor assigned me to a team investigating New York City prostitution. But truthfully, I didn’t consider myself a prostitute at the time. More of an escort or companion. Funny how strong denial can be, isn’t it?”

He didn’t need to answer. He knew how easily one could break a law, a commandment, an ethic, and rationalize it.

“That was my first exposure to what prostitution really is. Using people with total disregard for their humanity. The utter desolation the prostitutes feel. The drugs necessary to numb out.”

She dropped her head and took a deep breath. “Not long after that, my manager called with a date. The client was new but came highly recommended. A Houston oilman in town to consult with UN committees on third-world petroleum exploration. He was looking for someone smart to accompany him to a dinner with ambassadors from four nations.” Charlotte sighed. “And he wanted her there for breakfast, too.”

Mort’s breathing was shallow and swift. A surge of impotence engulfed him as he accepted he was powerless to prevent Charlotte’s humiliation.

“I took the assignment. Spent the afternoon at the salon getting myself polished while I read articles on the geopolitical intricacies of African oil exports.” Her lips pursed. “I was really good at my job.”

“Charlotte, stop.” Mort needed to spare her the anguish. He choked out a whisper. “There’s no need for this.”

Her eyes telegraphed a determination he was sure was the source of her survival. “There’s every need, Mort. You have to know this about me.”

Mort nodded despite his dread.

“Dinner was fine. My oilman got his money’s worth. I charmed the ambassadors and their wives and, I must admit, enjoyed it when my date looked at me with pride. Oh, he was so handsome in his tuxedo and cowboy boots.”

She was silent for several moments.

“We went back to his hotel. I suggested a drink at the bar but he said he had champagne chilling in his room. He wanted to toast our success. When we got to his room and he pulled me into an embrace, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.”

Mort’s pulse pounded a primal rhythm.

“His grip on me was tight. I whispered I couldn’t breathe and he locked his arms tighter. I tried to twist away, certain he was unaware of his strength, but my struggle only brought a laugh.” She bit her lower lip. “I knew I was in trouble.”

Mort grabbed the arms of his chair.

“And so began my long, long night.” Charlotte focused on the floor, but Mort knew the scene was playing in her mind. “His first punch knocked me off my feet. He ripped my dress off in what felt like one swift swipe.” She paused. “It’s funny how the mind reacts. I remember thinking, ‘Hey, I just paid five hundred dollars for that.’ ” She shook her head.

“After what felt like eternity, I heard the phone next to the bed ring. It sounded so far away. I learned later that was because of fluid buildup in my ears. He’d beaten me so severely my head was swelling wherever it could.” Charlotte drifted back into her silence and Mort struggled to swallow bile.

“It was his wake-up call,” she finally said. “He’d spent the entire night beating and raping me and there he was, thanking the operator and wishing her a good morning. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. When I heard the shower running, I crawled across the room. My body burned with pain. I reached out for the phone and saw my hand. It was shaking and pocked with marks I later learned were from cigarettes. I must have passed out at some point during the attack, but now I could smell my charred skin. I saw smears of blood on the carpet and sheets. I had bruises on my thighs and legs. I knew in that instant I couldn’t call for help. I was a whore and he was the tycoon who was spending a week in a suite that cost seven thousand a night.”