Chapter 22
A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet—
—1 T
IMOTHY
2:11–12
T
hey spent an hour or so reading the e-mails Cherry had saved from Kerberos. By the time they left, Hanson knew more about Cherry than he knew about his ex-wife. She loved
24
and
House
; her favorite book was
Pride and Prejudice
; and her favorite ice cream was Chunky Monkey.
He still didn’t know anything about Kerberos, though, that would help them find him. His favorite book wasn’t going to give them his address.
“I bet that’s a lie, anyway,” Gina said. “Nobody reads James Joyce without a gun to their head.”
His profile picture on Collarme.com was just an icon of a whip, and a long, rambling “About Me” section:
I am a True Dominant seeking a slave who will serve Me obediently; whose every thought is for My pleasure.
This slave must know that her rightful and natural place is at My feet.
I will be her Master, and she will be Mine. . . .
“Christ,” Hanson muttered. “This guy just goes on and on about what he wants in a slave. Nothing about him personally.”
“Except that he’s a ‘true’ dominant,” Gina said with a snort. “My first advice to newbies? If someone tells you they are a ‘true’ anything, run like hell.”
“Listen to this, will you?” Hanson said. “This is the first e-mail he sent her after he raped her—
You pleased me so much yesterday, my girl. But you will please me more when you learn to control your fear and accept what I choose to give you without resistance or hesitation . . .
“At least the bastard had a clue that it wasn’t completely peachy for her,” Gina snorted.
“Can you really rape someone and not know what you’re doing?” Hanson asked, incredulous. “She’s screaming—or trying to—and crying and bleeding, and he doesn’t get it?”
Gina shrugged and looked at him with weary eyes.
“You know I told you about the unofficial motto: safe, sane, and consensual?” Gina asked. “This is what the ‘sane’ part is about. Knowing the difference between fantasy and reality.”
“Either this guy doesn’t know the difference,” Hanson said, “or he doesn’t care.”
“It almost sounds like he’s trying too hard to play the part of what he thinks a dominant should be.” Gina sounded thoughtful. “Everything he says, it’s a stereotype, almost like he copied it from someone else.”
“So?”
“So, I’m thinking he may be even more of a babe in the woods than Cherry. No, hear me out! I’m not saying he’s not a monster, but I honestly think he has no idea what BDSM is supposed to be, only what he’s read in some bad S&M online porn.”
“He’s a fuckin’ nutcase, is what he is,” Griggs interjected.
“I told you we were looking for someone outside the community,” Gina insisted.
Hopefully, Hanson thought, the techno geeks would be able to track him down through his e-mails. Griggs was making the necessary phone calls to start the ball rolling with a warrant for Collarme.com.
“Collarme.com isn’t going to lead anywhere,” Gina said. “It’s a free site; you don’t have to give them anything but a valid e-mail to sign up.”
“Then we’ll just have to track
that
e-mail address,” Hanson said.
The geeks were also having a look at Cassandra’s computer, as well as Robyn’s, in case Kerberos had made online contact with either of them. The techs had already gone over them once, but now they had something specific to look for.
Cherry had left the package with the collar at her apartment. They collected it and took it to the lab for fingerprinting.
“It would be nice if we got lucky,” Gina said. “But I’m not holding my breath.”
“Kerberos,” Griggs said. “What kind of name is that, anyway?”
Gina typed K-E-R-B-E-R-O-S into Google.
“It’s the Greek word for Cerebus. The three-headed dog from hell. Or it’s the name of an authentication software.”
“Or a science fiction series,” Hanson read over her shoulder.
“I’m thinking he chose it because of the hell-dog thing,” Griggs muttered, putting a hand over the mouthpiece of his cell. “Shit, I am still on hold with the D.A.’s office.”
“Whichever reason he chose it,” Gina said, “it’s a great geeky name for a monster.”
Cherry had also provided a phone number for Paul. She didn’t know his last name, either. Gina called the number and it went straight to voice mail.
“Let’s see if he returns the message,” Gina said. “If we haven’t heard from him by tomorrow, we’ll pull his phone records.”
They placed a squad car outside of Marla’s as well as the lake house. As Gina had suspected, Marla wasn’t crazy about Cherry staying with her, and even Cherry fought the idea.
“Marla’s already done so much for me,” Cherry said. “Besides, with the police outside, I’ll be okay here.”
They had nothing else to do except wait. Wait for the tech guys to track down Kerberos’s e-mail; wait for any further leads from trace still being processed back at the lab; wait for Paul to call them back.
The next day brought no joy, either.
Paul didn’t call, but the phone number Cherry provided did yield an address. Google gave them details.
“Say what you want about the Internet”—Griggs grinned—“but it sure makes it easier and faster to get info on somebody.”
Paul’s last name was Carlson. He was married to Joanna nee Nader, and the father of two boys: Chip, age eight; and Michael, age six. He was the lead sales manager at a Kia dealership, and his credit rating was in the crapper.
The house was in one of the new subdivisions of postage stamp homes shoehorned into an older and desirable ZIP code. Hanson looked at the marigolds making little yellow-gold pillows along the flagstone path and wondered if Paul and the little woman had planted these together some weekend, or if they’d just paid someone to do it.
No one answered the front door, though there was a Forte Koup in the driveway.
“Doesn’t look like anybody’s here,” Griggs said.
The neighbor on the right said she barely knew the Carlsons, but hadn’t seen them in a few days. The little old lady on the left, however, was happy to tell them that Paul, Joanna, and the kids were on vacation.
“They asked me to get their mail and paper for them,” she said.
“Did they say when they would be back?”
“No, I asked. Joanna said she wasn’t sure, that the vacation was a last-minute thing and she was in a dreadful hurry.”
“Son of a bitch is hiding from us,” Griggs said as they walked back to the car.
“We’re gonna have to trace his phone,” Hanson said. “Why can’t anything ever be simple?”
The florist that sent the roses to Cherry’s office said the order was paid for in cash by a walk-in.
“Did he write the card himself?” Hanson asked.
“No, I did,” said the florist, a middle-aged man named Davis. “He asked me to. Said I had a very neat handwriting.”
It didn’t matter. They didn’t have the card anyway.
“I don’t really remember what he looked like,” Davis said. “Nothing stood out to make me remember him.”
“White?” Hanson asked.
“Yeah,” the man said.
“Tall or short?” Griggs asked, impatient.
“About average, I guess.”
They gave him a card and left. Hanson was feeling like he lived in the damned car.
“I wish just once,” Griggs said, “we could catch a murder done by a four-foot-tall hunchback with Papa Smurf tattooed on his forehead.”
“Yeah, but then we’d probably have a dwarf hunchback Smurf convention in town.” Hanson sighed. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“Where’s Gee today, anyway? She too good for the grunt work?”
“She’s working.”
“Well, we all got bills to pay, I guess. Ain’t no rest for the wicked.”
Griggs’s phone began chirping.
“Uh-huh,” he spoke into the phone. “Yeah? Shit. Okay, thanks.”
“That didn’t sound good,” Hanson said.
“It wasn’t.” Griggs put the phone back in his pocket. “The only fingerprints on that collar belonged to Cherry.”
Hanson’s phone went off. It was Gina.
“You wanna take a field trip tonight?” she asked.
Chapter 23
So long as the laws remain such as they are today, employ some discretion: loud opinion forces us to do so; but in privacy and silence let us compensate ourselves for that cruel chastity we are obliged to display in public.
—M
ARQUIS DE
S
ADE
“H
ot damn! We’re going to a sex club.”
“It’s not a sex club, Griggs.” Gina sighed. “Not in the way you mean it, anyway. The average city cab probably sees more actual fucking than the Inferno.”
“Come on!” Griggs said. “You’re telling me people come to this place to beat each other, but they don’t have sex?”
“Yep. Very few actually fuck in public. I don’t get it, either, but that’s the way it is. At least in the het side of the BDSM community. Gay kinksters fuck like bunnies at their parties. It’s enough to make me wish I had a dick.”
“Are we going to have to look at fudge-packers?” Griggs asked with anxiety in his voice. “Oh, man, I don’t wanna see that shit—”
“No, you knuckle-dragging bigot,” Gina snapped. “This club is primarily straight. Gay men don’t really like to share their playpens with us. Guys like you being the reason why.”
“Okay, then,” Griggs said, grinning once more. “No fags. That works for me.”
“There is no way I can take him in there . . .” Gina said, looking at Hanson in desperation.
“Come on, Gee,” Griggs wheedled. “I promise I’ll be a good boy. One night and I can store up a year’s worth of free jerk-off material—”
“Asshole. If you were my slave, I’d have to keep a gag in your mouth all the time.”
“I could be down for that.” Griggs grinned. “If you were wearing some of that leather get-up.”
Gina looked at Hanson, then back to Griggs.
“We
do
need to dress appropriately,” she said without even a hint of a smile.
“What do you mean
appropriately
?” Hanson asked.
“I mean trying not to stand out. Blending in.”
“Okay,” Griggs said. “You wear the leather, I’ll do a leash and a gag—”
Hanson burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it.
“But I ain’t wearing a gimp suit,” Griggs continued. “Or showing my package to the world.”
This, Hanson thought, just kept getting weirder.
The Inferno was located in a warehouse in one of the older industrial parks. There was no sign, just the street number stenciled above the front door of a cinderblock building painted a bland shade of beige.
But on a Saturday night, when the whole area was deserted, the parking lot was filled with a mix of vehicles, including three big, gleaming Harleys.
They walked toward the door and it struck Hanson as funny, somehow, that there was a handicapped ramp. Gina shot him a look when he laughed.
“Sorry,” he said, sobering. “I’m a little nervous, I guess.”
Griggs, on the other hand, was practically bouncing on his toes.
Hanson had nothing very edgy in his closet, so he was in black slacks and a plain black T-shirt that actually belonged to Gina. It was a little snug, but she said it made him look buff.
Over Gina’s objections, he had added a black sport coat, to conceal his gun.
Griggs was in black jeans, with his handcuffs dangling from one belt loop. He had on a pair of engineer boots and a Metallica T-shirt.
“I thought they looked good,” Griggs grumbled when Gina told him to lose the studded cuff and leather vest. Hanson had been stunned, never suspecting Griggs had such things in his wardrobe.
“Metallica?” Hanson asked. “Really?”
“You’re trying to look average,” Gina said. “And the leather vest has certain . . . connotations. For you to wear it would be insulting.”
“What about my gun?” he asked, scowling. “Hanson’s got his—”
“You don’t need a gun,” Gina said. “Stop whining or I’ll make you flag yellow.”
“Huh?”
“Look it up on the Internet,” Gina said.
Gina was in a wine-colored velvet corset that pushed her breasts up and out, transforming them from merely lovely to astonishing. Her long silk skirt was slit nearly to her crotch, and the black leather boots reached her mid-thigh.
“Is what you’re wearing
average
?” Hanson asked.
Hanson tried not to stare, but his penis kept twitching involuntarily. Griggs didn’t bother to hide his admiration or the erection that strained at his jeans. In the four-inch stiletto heels, she was taller than either of them.
Gina’s usual easy grace was transformed into untouchable perfection. She rarely wore much makeup, but tonight her skin was luminous, flawless; her eyes, ringed with impossibly long, deeply black lashes, threatened to suck his soul from his body.
“I have a professional image to uphold,” she said without a touch of irony. “This is what they expect of me.”
“Now I understand why some guys pay you to spank them.” Griggs snickered. “If it means they get to look at you dressed like this.”
Gina brought out a dog collar and buckled it around Griggs’s throat.
“Hey,” he said, fingering the collar as she snapped a leash to it. “Does this mean I’m your bitch?”
“It means that when you say something stupid, I’m gonna tug on this leash. When I tug, that means shut up.”
“Or what?” Griggs grinned.
“Don’t push me. I know ways to hurt you without leaving any marks.”
Hanson watched a black van slow along the street. The van sped up and disappeared into the night.
“Probably newbies.” She shrugged. “Some people get to the front door and lose their nerve.”
“Surveillance?” Hanson nodded to the camera above the door. “Could we get anything useful off of it?”
“It doesn’t record. Closed circuit only. People wouldn’t come if they thought they were being photographed. It’s purely for parking lot safety.”
“And to see if the cops are at the door, I bet,” Griggs said.
“This place is entirely legal. It’s a private club, members only. Daubs used city codes to shut Cassandra down, but the Inferno even meets ADA standards. They were very careful about that.”
Hanson half-expected someone to open the door and ask for a password, but Gina walked right in.
A large woman sat at a desk in a dim room. Rolls of flesh peeked over the top of her vinyl dress, but she smiled warmly.
“Lady Gee!” she squealed, jumping up to embrace Gina. “Oh, my God! It’s been ages!”
Gina grimaced at Hanson over the woman’s shoulder.
“Hello, Angel. Am I good for guests?”
“Of course!”
Angel asked them to sign in and explained that as guests, Hanson and Griggs would have to sign a waiver.
“It just means you know what goes on here.” Angel giggled. “And that you’re okay with that.”
Hanson watched Griggs sign in as
Milton Daubs
.
“That’s not funny,” he said.
A few people milled around a table of chips and dip, crackers and cheese, and cheap cookies. Typical party food except for a cake shaped like a penis. Music thudded from behind another door.
“I want a drink,” Griggs said, nodding at the Styrofoam cups.
“All they have is coffee and soda,” Gina said.
“No beer? Not even wine?”
“Nope. Alcohol is not allowed.”
“You’re shitting me!”
“Would you let a drunk tie you up and beat you?”
“I couldn’t let someone tie me up and beat me unless I
was
drunk.” Griggs shrugged.
A drink sounded like a good idea to Hanson, feeling off-balance and edgy. It was more than just Gina and the way she looked, or the way other men were looking at her: this was the world she had invited him into, and the one he’d refused. What had he been so afraid of?
That he might like it. That he might fit in.
A man wearing a silk shirt of dancing flames approached. He had a powerful build except for a slight gut, a head full of curly, salt-and-pepper hair, and a matching beard. More curly hair peeked from his shirt collar.
“Lady Gee!” He enveloped her in a bear hug. “Good to see you.”
“Hanson, Griggs; this is Dante. He’s the current director of the Inferno.”
“Appropriate,” Hanson said, shaking the hand he extended.
“I started out as Crimson Dragon.” He grinned. “But then I realized that every other dominant in the Lifestyle is named Dragon. New pet?” Dante nodded toward Griggs.
“Being considered,” Gina said. “Just taking him out for a test drive.”
“Didn’t you tell me you had a friend named Grey Dragon?” Hanson said to Gina, hoping to cut off any comment from Griggs.
“Is that why you’re here?” Dante’s eyes narrowed. “Goddamn it. I thought you weren’t a cop anymore?”
“I’m not. But they are.”
Dante herded them into a corner.
“You brought cops into our house? That’s a violation of confidentiality—”
“We’ve got a serial killer out there who seems to be targeting people in the community,” Gina said. “Would you rather they’d come flashing badges?”
Dante groaned and ran a hand through his beard.
“People are pretty on edge about all this already. Attendance is way down tonight, and rumors are running wild.”
“What kind of rumors?” Hanson asked.
“The ones about Cassandra’s dogs seem to be the most popular. Did they really . . .
eat
her?”
“Afraid so,” Gina said.
“Damn, that’s fucked up. Even for Cassandra.”
“You weren’t a fan of Lady Cassandra’s?” Hanson asked.
“She was a hard woman to like,” Dante said. “But it’s downright ghoulish how some people are enjoying this.”
“How did people react to Grey Dragon’s death?” Gina asked. “And Kitty’s?”
“Shocked, sad. Dragon was very well-liked.”
“And Kitty?”
“Oh, the ones who knew Kitty were upset, of course. But she’d been in and out a lot, so not everybody knew her. And as for Randy, the poor bastard. People always felt sorry for him, but none of them really considered him a friend.”
“You know anybody might have wanted any of them dead?” Hanson asked.
“If it was just Cassandra, I’d say look at any of the people she used, backstabbed, or borrowed money from,” Dante said. “But Dragon and Kitty? I can’t think of anybody who’d want to hurt them.”
“Have you had any problems here lately?” Gina asked.
Dante ran a hand through his wild hair.
“Nah, not really. I mean, hell, the Internet has changed everything. We get a lot of new folks. Some are sincere, some are just tourists.”
“We had a guy who came in as a guest last weekend,” Dante continued. “We had to throw him out because he was drunk.”
“What about wannabes?” Gina asked.
“Just a couple of doormat subs.” Dante shrugged. “Female.”
“Doormat subs?” Hanson repeated.
“Broken or abused women who think that being smacked around is what they deserve, rather than what they want,” Gina explained.
“We have to save them from themselves,” Dante said. “Otherwise they become prey for a different kind of predator.”
“I thought that you guys were all about consent,” Griggs piped up. “Gina said you don’t allow those kinds of predators here.”
“We try not to,” Dante said. “But what I consider a predator, someone else thinks is the perfect dominant.”
Hanson didn’t miss the look that passed between Gina and Dante.
“You talk to Quinn?” Dante asked.
“Yeah,” Gina said flatly. “We talked to him yesterday.”
“You consider Quinn a predator?” Hanson asked.
Dante hesitated, again glancing at Gina.
“Gina would know better than me. I don’t think Quinn is dangerous in the way you mean. I just don’t particularly like his style.”
“Which is?” Hanson prodded.
“Quinn believes that some women need to be pushed a little—”
“Some women do go for the more aggressive alpha male types,” Gina said coolly, but Hanson didn’t like the idea that she was defending Quinn. Or was she merely defending herself?
“And you don’t?” Griggs asked. “Think they need to be pushed a little, I mean?”
“I think it’s too damned easy to cross the line when you play those kinds of games.”