Death of an Escort (4 page)

That means there are less ways for someone to
break in. I entered my code and used the key to undo both locking
mechanisms.

The house was dark.

Ah, then I remembered. Marline, my wife, was
working tonight. I went to the kitchen and there was a note on the
island. I flipped the light on and read it.

It said she'd left dinner in the fridge for
me.

I ate and pulled out my legal pad with my
list of suspects. I had four people listed. The ever present
unknown suspect, Macy (with no reason to suspect her other than to
make my list complete), Carlie Smith, and the fiancé.

I'd have to see the fiancé tomorrow.

After dinner I went into my den and sat down
to spend the evening working on my obsession/hobby. Developing a
gravity generator, or something along the lines of perpetual
motion.

I've been told many times that it's
impossible. It's a scientific fact.

Well, the Wright brothers were told that too.
It was proven back then too. Flying was impossible, until it was
done.

So, I continued my work late into the
night.

The next morning I woke up in bed alone. I'd
gone to bed alone too, but the rumpled sheets told me that Marline
had been there.

I looked at the clock. It was already
eight-thirty. She was probably out running or something.

While eating a piece of toast and drinking
some orange juice, I looked up Brass Works Wholesale online. I
found their website and got their phone number.

Then I gave them a ring to confirm that
Mickey Richardson was in the office.

He was.

I told the person that I would need to see
him today, and I was asked what I was selling.

"I'm a private investigator, and I'm not
investigating him. But I do need a moment of his time," I said.

"Hold, please," the receptionist said. She
came back on the line. "He won't be able to see you today."

People like making my job hard. They don't
realize that it doesn't faze me.

"But he'll be in all day?"

"Yes, but he's not available for an
appointment."

Not a problem. I'd show up without one. Big
deal. I hung up and set out walking to my car to start the day.

It was parked exactly as I'd left it, and a
quick glance told me that it all seemed fine.

I got in and started it up, and then I headed
back into town.

The first stop I made was in the old,
historic downtown section. I made my way to Jackie's Emporium. It
was there that I hoped this whole button thing could come to rest,
whatever that meant.

It was a little after nine in the morning
when I pulled up. The store didn't open until nine-thirty, and I
hadn't seen that on the door when I was there before, so I had to
wait. And in the mean time, I still had to pay for the parking
space.

Finally, when nine-thirty came, she came to
the door and flipped the sign to open and twisted the deadbolt
open. I got out and walked in.

"Oh, hello," she said.

The way she said it made me nervous. Like
perhaps the button maker wasn't going to be in today or he wouldn't
arrive for several hours still.

"Hi," I said. "Is the button maker here?"

"He's in the back," she said. I was relieved.
"I'll ask him to come out here." I nodded my thanks and waited.

A little old man came out of the back and
greeted me. I handed him the button.

"I made this," he said in his high, almost
squeaky voice.

I nodded. At least I was getting somewhere.
"Can you tell me anything about it?"

"Of course," he said. "I can tell you
everything about it. I can even tell you who bought it from
me."

"You remember that?"

"No," he said. "But each button is numbered.
I keep a record. Come in the back."

And into the back of the shop we went. The
back had a closeness about it, but it wasn't bad. It was
surprisingly comforting. All kinds of goods were stuffed on shelves
and waiting to be taken to the front and rotated with the other
merchandise.

He took me to his tiny work area. He had some
bright lights on floor stands that shown down on his work area.
Machines formed a fence around the workspace. One looked like an
antique band saw with a very thin blade. The other machines looked
similar in terms of age, but I wasn't sure what they did.

He set the button down on a metal work tray
that stood on a stand and squeezed himself into his little work
cubby space.

Once situated, he took some kind of a
magnifier and stuck the thing in his eye. Now he looked like a
jeweler. He manipulated the button with a pair of tweezers and
twisted it this way and that.

Then he took the eyepiece out and took a
three ring binder off of a squat shelf above his head.

He hummed softly as he flipped through
handwritten ledger pages. About two-thirds in, he stopped flipping
pages and began running his finger down the page.

"Here it is," he said. "I sold that button
and six others like it to Macy Brandt."

"Macy Brandt?" I said. "Do you remember
her?"

"No," he said in a faraway voice. He
scratched the top of his head where there was more scalp than
actual hair left. "No, I don't," he said. "But often Jackie makes
the actual sale up front when I'm not around."

"I see," I said. "When were they bought?"

"Ah, two months ago," he said.

"Thanks," I said. "Oh, out of curiosity, how
much did they cost?"

"Twenty dollars per button," he said proudly
and handed the one back to me.

"I know Macy Brandt," I said. "I'll give this
back to her. Thanks again."

He kind of cackled. "It was fun," he said. "I
like showing my shop to people." He spread his wrinkled hand to
indicate his little work area. I nodded and walked out of the
store. I was thinking.

That was an interesting discovering, but I
wasn't sure what it meant, and I didn't want to jump to
conclusions, as hard as it was not to.

I got in my car and headed to my next
stop.

Brass Works Wholesale was on the opposite end
of town, and it took me a good twenty minutes to get there.

It was situated in an industrial park where
there's nothing but businesses, and all the buildings have the same
gray nondescript look about them.

A semi-truck had its back end up at one of
the three bays and looked like it was getting loaded.

I pulled up and took a visitor spot. Then I
headed inside. The receptionist greeted me cheerfully, and smiled
brightly.

I walked right up to the sign-in book and
signed my name.

"A visitor's badge, please?" I said.

She cocked her head to one side. "Can I ask
who you are seeing?" Then she expectantly picked up the phone.

"No," I said. "I'm not seeing anyone."

She looked confused.

"I'm here to give you a quote on getting new
carpet."

"New carpet?"

We both looked at the carpet. It looked
rather new.

"They want a different color," I said.

She looked even more confused. "You don't
have anything to measure with," she said.

I thought I had liked her at first. I was
wrong.

"The ceiling tiles," I said. "I can count
them. They are two feet square."

"Okay," she said. And she handed me a visitor
badge. I clipped it to my shirt.

She was still watching me. I was going to
have to count ceiling tiles.

"Do you need something to write on?" she
asked.

And how about that? I'd left my notepad in
the car.

"I remember everything," I said. And I walked
past her and started looking for a big office.

All the big offices were along the wall and
in the corner, I found Mickey's office. The door was ajar.

I took a deep breath and pushed it open and
walked in. Then I closed it and locked it behind me.

Mickey looked up and was surprised.

I walked across his office and sat down in
one of the two chairs that sat facing him.

"Kelly Brandt is dead," I said. "Why?"

He reached for his phone. I leaned forward
and put my hand on top of it holding the receiver down.

"Who are you?"

"Answer my question first," I said. I had
hoped to shock him into revealing something about this. It looked
like I was going to need more practice at it.

"Kelly died Saturday. Her daughter called and
told me. Apparently it was suicide. Now, who the heck are you and
how'd you get into my office? And let go of my phone."

"I'm Ray Crusafi," I said. "Private
investigator."

"Ah," he said and didn't seem comfortable
about it.

"I was hired by Macy," I said.

He seemed to relax at that a little. "She's
wasting her mother's money," he said.

"Why is that?"

"I assume she hired you to look into the
death, right?"

I nodded.

"And you think you can find something the
police over-looked?" he asked.

"We'll see," I said.

"No need to play games," he said. "I'm
familiar with private investigators. You don't really do wrongful
death investigations, do you? That's what the TV and movie
detectives do. Not you."

"I investigate what I'm hired to
investigate," I said.

"Good answer," he said. "And while you're
here, it's the least I can do to help you look into my fiancée's
death. How can I help you?"

I was about to ask a question, when I saw
something peaking out under some papers on his desk. It really
grabbed my eye because it looked like the butt of an attractive
woman, and it was naked.

I scooted forward and put my index finger on
the exposed picture and slid it out. It seemed to be some kind of
an advertisement, and it was full of naked women.

Mickey grabbed it and dropped it behind his
desk. "You need to leave now. That's an invasion of privacy."

"What was it?" I asked.

"I have asked you to leave. You are now
trespassing," he said.

"I thought I saw Kelly Brandt on that sheet,"
I said. Indeed, I was sure I had.

He stood up and was quite agitated now. "It
is time to leave."

I stood up too. This wasn't over, but for now
it was. "Thanks for your time," I said.

He didn't reply and I left. The receptionist
called out after me as I walked out, but I didn't really hear what
she said, and I kept going.

In my car, I took out my phone and dialed
Macy.

"Hi," I said. "Are you available? I have some
follow up questions about your mother."

She told me to come over, but she sounded
like she'd been crying.

I had to park in a gas station that was near
by; it was actually right next to the salad bar restaurant we'd
eaten at the day before. Then I walked the few blocks to her front
door.

When she opened it, I could see that she had
indeed been crying, and she was still wiping her eyes.

She led me back into that 1970s office room,
and she took her post behind the monster of a desk.

Finally, she finished dabbing at her eyes. If
she was crying about her mother, this meeting wasn't going to make
that any easier.

"Yesterday, I visited the last client your
mother had. Presumably the last person to see her alive."

Her eyes widened. "How did you figure that
out?"

Suddenly I felt good about myself. "I'm a
detective," I said. "It's my job to figure things out."

"And?"

"She didn't want to talk."

"Why?"

"Maybe she knows something. More likely she's
embarrassed about me knowing she slept with a prosti—an escort," I
corrected myself.

"So you didn't find anything out?"

"She doesn't seem to have a lot of money, and
I don't think your mother's fee was relatively cheap."

"It wasn't," Macy said.

"So, there's something odd there, but that's
all I know about that."

"Okay," she said.

"I saw your mother's fiancé," I said.

"And?"

"He's also hiding something," I said.

"Like what?"

"How did your mother feel about pornography?
I assume she was okay with it given her profession, and—"

"No!" She sounded indignant. "Absolutely
not."

"Come on," I said. "She had sex for money
with people. With women. That's kind of like living porn."

"No," she said. "She was against porn. She
found it degrading."

If that were true, then what I saw at the
fiancé's office was even stranger.

"So she wouldn't pose for porn?"

"No!"

"I haven't visited your mother's website," I
said. "I assume she had one?"

Macy nodded. The emotion was coming back, and
she was fighting tears again.

"And it doesn't contain any nude shots of
her?"

"No!" she said. She started crying and
excused herself from the room.

I used the moment to follow up on a little
investigating of my own. The top of the large desk was covered with
papers to all different things.

They all had that legal and official look.
The other day, I thought I saw something about insurance, and I
wanted to take a closer look.

It had been somewhere in the middle of the
desk yesterday.

Macy still hadn't returned. So I began pawing
through the papers. I was looking for the paper I had seen
yesterday.

It had changed positions, but it was there
under two layers.

Macy wasn't back yet, and I didn't hear her
coming. So, I scanned the papers.

They were life insurance papers. Life
insurance on the life of Kelly Brandt.

Chapter 4

That raised a lot of questions. I wasn't even
sure if life insurance would pay for suicide. If it wouldn't, was
that why Macy had hired me?

I heard her coming, and I had to quickly get
the papers back and looking like they hadn't been touched.

I sat as Macy re-entered the room. She'd
regained her composure and was snuffling lightly.