Death of an Escort (25 page)

"You'll agree to meet me or I'll have the
cops at your place in five minutes," I said.

"Fine," she said. "Where?"

"The indoor rock wall, at the recreation
plaza," I said.

"Why there?"

"Be here in ten minutes or there will be
issues," I said.

She hung up.

When the traffic allowed me to, I made a
u-turn and took side roads back to Carlie's apartment.

Back up the wooden steps I went. I knocked.
No answer.

I knocked again. Finally the younger sister
answered.

"Adrienne," I said. "Hello."

"Hi," she said to me.

"I want to come in," I said.

"My sister isn't here," she said.

"I know," I said.

"You were just here," she said.

"I know," I said.

"I can't let strangers in," she said.

"You're a teenager, right? I think you're big
enough to decide who you'll let in," I said.

"Whatever," she said, but she opened the
door.

I went in. "Let's go to the living room," I
said.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Can you show me your computer?" I asked.

"Computer?" she repeated.

"Yes," I said. "Show me your computer."

She frowned at me, but she led me through the
kitchen and the edge of the living room, and down a hall. The first
room on the right was the one we went in.

It was as disorganized as the living room. I
hated laundry strewn about.

"Here it is," she said.

"Turn it on," I said.

"You are weird, you know?"

"I know," I said.

"You probably shouldn't even be in here." She
turned the computer on.

"Probably not," I said.

We waited in silence for the computer to boot
up. A little more than half-a-minute later, it was ready to go. I
noticed that the computer was still using Windows 2000 for the
operating system.

"It's an older computer?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. "Now what?"

"What program do you use to surf the
internet?"

She used the mouse pointer to indicate
Internet Explorer. I put my hand over top of hers and clicked
it.

Momentarily, a browser window opened up.

"You want to stop touching me?" she
asked.

"You're free to move your hand," I said, and
she slid her hand out.

I checked the temporary history file.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Looking to see what websites you guys have
been looking at?"

"What business is it of yours?"

I pointed at one result. "See that? It's a
cookie to the Hemlock Society webpage," I said.

"So?"

"What's the Hemlock Society?" I asked.

She shrugged.

I typed it into the search box and hit enter.
We both watched the page load.

"It's a site devoted to suicide," I said.
"Interesting."

I navigated through it and found the page I
was looking for. It was a whole section devoted to killing yourself
with an "exit bag". There were even instructions on how to make one
using various household items. Also listed was a section about
filling the bag with a gas. Helium was mentioned.

Chapter 24

"Ever seen this website before?" I asked.

"Nope," she said.

"But it was in your history," I said.

"My sister uses the computer too," she
said.

"Good point," I said. I went back to the
temporary history folder. I highlighted the cookie.

"It says this file was created on a Friday at
2:36pm," I said. "What time does your sister get off of work?"

She didn't answer.

"It isn't until after 3pm, is it?" I
asked.

No answer.

"You got helium for your sister's party not
too long ago," I said. "Whose idea was that? Yours?"

She still said nothing.

"I remember you said you liked climbing rock
walls. You know what is kind of like a rock wall? A brick wall.
Sort of," I said.

She stared at me.

"Kind of like the exterior of the Sleep EZ
Inn." I looked straight into her eyes.

She didn't move a muscle, but she was staring
hard back into my eyes.

"Someone saw you. Saw you climb the wall.
What do you think about that?" I asked.

She started to say something, but then she
stopped.

"It was a homeless guy. He's a little odd,
but he said something about seeing a person smaller than an adult
going up the back wall of the Sleep EZ Inn."

"You're crazy," she said. Her voice was
constricted sounding.

"He also said that the person had what looked
to be like a jetpack on his or her back. In the dark, a tank of
helium might look like a jetpack. Imagine it was sticking out of
the top of a backpack."

Her face was becoming pale now.

"Furthermore, I have you on video tape," I
said. "Your sister doesn't know it, but the whole encounter was
taped. At the end, a dark shape shows up in the window after your
sister leaves. I bet image enhancing will reveal it to be you."

She sank down on the chair.

"After all, who's the person that hated Kelly
Brandt? Wasn't that you?"

"Okay," she said. "I did it."

"How did you get the bag over her head?" I
asked.

"I thought you had it on tape?" she
asked.

"I couldn't see that part," I said leading
her to believe I had more on tape than I did.

"She'd fallen asleep," she said. "Guess my
sister wore her out."

"So, you came in, put the bag over her head
and filled the bag with helium?"

She didn't answer, but we both knew that was
what happened.

"Kelly Brandt's autopsy revealed that helium
was in her bloodstream when she died."

I'd nailed it. Yeah!

"So, what will happen to me now?"

I thought it odd, but she didn't sound
frightened.

"You need to talk to the police and tell them
what happened," I said.

"What if I don't?"

"Doesn't matter," I said. "I'll tell them,
and I'll give them all the evidence I gave you."

"Maybe I'll kill you," she said, and she
looked up at me with haunting eyes.

"Maybe," I said. "But others have found me
rather difficult to get rid of. And you're just a child."

"You've got a gun on you, don't you?" she
asked.

Instinctively, I looked down to see if it was
showing. It wasn't.

"I can tell," she said. "I can tell when kids
at school have them too."

I didn't know what to say to that, or why it
had been brought up.

"You should have left us alone," she said.
"Kelly was the problem. She's gone, and things were okay. Now
you're the problem."

"Stop threatening me," I said. "You're not
going to scare me."

"I'm not trying to," she said. "But I'm a
minor. At worst, I'll only be in for five years. Then I'm going to
get you."

I took out a business card and set it down
next to her. "Here's my card. Look me up when you get out and give
me your best shot."

"I will," she said quietly.

We locked eyes, and she didn't back down.

I took out my phone and called the
police.

A detective from the force came, and Adrienne
was forthcoming with all the details. She was taken into custody
before Carlie even got back to the apartment.

Fingerprints that matched Adrienne's were
found on the second story window sill of the Sleep EZ Inn where
Kelly Brandt died. It was going to be and open-and-shut conviction.
From what it sounded like, she wasn't going to be tried as an
adult. Indeed she would be out in less than five years.

Whatever. She'd be the least of my
worries.

That night I was in my real office again. I
had gotten a second-hand computer and desk. The smell of fresh
paint hung in the air.

I was working on a letter that was addressed
to three women: Morgan Kisenski, Jaycee Kirkwood, and Shellie
McCormick. They were the three other fiancées that I'd uncovered.
All were engaged to Mickey at the same time. All were being
exploited for his dirty, illegal voyeur porn website.

In the letter I explained to each what was
going on, and I gave each of them the names and phone numbers of
the other ones.

I also included the porn website address
where video of them was posted.

Somehow, letting them take this to the
authorities was so much better than doing it myself. Besides, this
might make Mickey mad. It might make him mad enough to do something
stupid towards me again.

In truth, I wanted a good reason to put a
slug in his head and not feel bad about it.

Finishing the letter, I printed three copies
on a borrowed printer. The accountant in the office next to mine
had loaned it to me. He lent me the printer because he said he felt
bad that my office was the only one the explosion had damaged. All
the other tenants in the building believed it was a gas pipe
accident.

Apparently that was the cover story.

I had come to realize that everything in life
was a cover story. You can't trust what you see or hear about
anything or anyone. Take me for instance. Was I Ray Crusafi?

Not really. But no one knew except me.

The mail came. I only had one letter. It was
from Macy Brandt. The paper was tear-stained. The note was brief,
and it thanked me for the job I'd done for her.

After the trial, she'd be able to collect on
her mother's life insurance and while that wouldn't bring her
mother back, it would allow her some level of security.

Also enclosed was another check. It was
generous. Like in the four figures generous. She also covered my
hospital bills for the last visit when the broken bottle was shoved
into my gut.

This was enough money for me to take a
vacation. I figured I'd join my wife. With the letters I was
sending out to Mickey's fiancées, things could get a little hot
around here.

I didn't want anything bad to happen to her,
my wife, that is.

I locked my office and headed to the first
floor with the three letters in hand that I was going to mail.

Outside, the sun was almost setting. Rush
hour traffic was rushing by on the main highway.

A lone man was walking on the sidewalk. My
breath caught in my throat.

I'd recognize that bald head anywhere, even
though I hadn't seen it in fifteen years.

They were here.

They'd found me.

After all this time, they'd found me. But
then he walked on by, not even taking notice of me.

I stood there, frozen. Only after a minute
did I realize that my hand was resting on my hidden gun.

I watched him walk away into the orange
sunset. What do I do now? Part of me wanted to chase him down and
shoot him.

He must be here for me? Right?

But come to think of it, given the nature of
my former associates' business, it was possible they could be in
town for unrelated business.

Still, it was him. He'd walked right by my
building. Did that have no meaning? Purely happenstance after
fifteen years of hiding?

And that made me wonder; do I even reunite
with my wife? Or do I go on the run now? Changing name, look,
occupation, mannerisms, etc?

I wanted to make the right decision. More
than anything, I wanted to be with my wife, but was that being
selfish? She didn't deserve to be in danger because of me.

For some time I stood in the parking lot,
motionless.

The sun went down. With some effort, I made
my decision. I hoped I didn't live to regret this. Or not live to
regret it.

I pulled my disposable cell phone out of my
pocket. I dialed a number.

After two rings, her voicemail answered.

"Hi, honey," I said. "It's me." I paused.
"I'm driving down tonight. We have to talk. There are some things
about me you don't know, but you should. I'm going to tell you my
secrets."

No more going on the run.

No more changing names and hiding.

It was time to come clean and face the
consequences. Time to act responsibly.

I snapped the phone shut and dropped it into
my pocket.

I am Ray Crusafi.

* * * * *

“Get down!” a panic-filled voice yelled. I
had no idea who it was. Almost immediately after the warning, shots
were fired. I hit the ground.

The shooting stopped momentarily, and my ears
were ringing. I reached for my concealed weapon, but it wasn’t
there.

That’s right, I remembered. I had left it in
the glove box; my gun was a good fifty feet away in my car in the
middle of the parking lot. Damn!

Two more shots rang out. Women screamed.

A can of green beans slid off the shelf and
clunked onto the floor next to my head. From a newly punctured
bullet hole in the side, some of its contents spilled out.