Or at least claimed she hadn’t.
Was that why Quinn was looking so smug?
“You knew Marla Banks as well?” Hanson asked instead.
“Yes, of course. Lovely woman, a very devoted submissive.”
“What kind of relationship did you have with Roger Banks?” Griggs asked. “You were friends?”
“Do you mean, did we go bowling together? Hardly. We moved in the same circles, that’s all. Dragon suffered from White Knight Syndrome, something diametrically opposed to my own philosophies.”
“What’s that mean, that syndrome thing?” Griggs asked.
“Dragon believed that submissives—female submissives—had to be protected and sheltered,” Quinn said, leaning back regally once more. “Defenseless little things who can’t defend themselves from the big bad wolves.”
“And you disagreed?” Hanson asked.
“I believe that being submissive doesn’t excuse you from taking responsibility for your actions, or what happens to you—”
“He means that if a woman can’t stand up for herself,” Gina interrupted, “she has no business playing around with BDSM.”
“Absolutely right,
bella.
” Quinn grinned, again without turning, just that slight incline of his head and the roll of eyes in her direction. “What we do is powerful magic. It’s not for the weak of mind or spirit.”
“Besides, Dragon’s views were sexist,” Quinn added.
“He felt no similar need to protect male submissives from predators like my former wife.”
“You think she was a predator?” Hanson asked.
“I know she was,” Quinn said, his weary tone edged with a hint of real bitterness, the only sincere notes Hanson trusted. “Ask anyone she ever got her hooks into.”
“Anybody particular you have in mind?” Griggs asked. “Someone we should talk to?”
Quinn shrugged.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been privy to Cassandra’s dramas for some time. She was always prowling for submissives with deep pockets, or influence. But she never kept them very long. Have you heard any rumors, lately,
bella
?”
Gina’s face was stone.
“I don’t put much stock in rumors,” she said. “Or anything that came out of Cassandra’s mouth.”
“What about Robyn Macy?” Hanson asked. “We think she was at the motel with a guy named Paul—”
Quinn surprised him by laughing.
“How predictable! Paul’s been sniffing after Kitty for the last couple of years, and she’s been collared to just about every other dom in a four-county radius.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice, confidentially.
“I’m sorry, I should explain ‘dom’ is short for dominant. I wouldn’t want you to be confused.”
“I got it,” Hanson said, giving him a sour smile. “Thanks.”
“I’m surprised he got to her before you did,” Gina said.
“Who says he got there first?” Quinn smiled slyly, still not turning around. “Kitty’s old news,
bella
. Old news. I don’t collar
all
my fucks.”
Hanson’s gut clenched with another urge to smash the man’s face in, but Gina betrayed no reaction at all.
“You say she was collared?” Griggs asked. “You mean, like wearing a dog collar?”
Griggs was doing his Columbo again. Act stupid, keep them talking. It worked particularly well with Quinn’s superiority complex.
“Collared, as a slave or submissive.” Quinn smiled. “Some do use dog collars, some use chains or even expensive jewelry . . . It’s a personal preference. But a collar is a symbol of ownership. To collar someone is to take ownership of them.”
Hanson tried not to look at Gina’s necklace. Was it a collar? Had Quinn owned her?
Did he still own her?
“You know where we might find this Paul?” Hanson asked. “Do you know his last name?”
Quinn shook his head.
“We’re not exactly friends. I run into him at the club every once in a while; that’s about it.”
“Sounds like you don’t have many friends, Mr. Lee,” Griggs said.
“Most of my friends happen to be female,” Quinn said pleasantly. “I have quite a few of those.”
“What about the other guy?” Hanson asked. “Randall Heeler?”
Quinn studied the last photo and sighed.
“Randall. Known as Randy or ‘subgeek’ online. A total waste of oxygen, if you ask me, but it takes all kinds.”
“He wasn’t a popular guy?” Griggs asked.
“Randy is one of those poor bastards no one wants to play with,” Quinn said. “Poor social skills. And bad hygiene.”
“Probably why he ended up dead with your ex-wife,” Griggs said. “Not much of a housekeeper, was she? That could have been enough to drive a guy crazy.”
“I had no reason to kill her,” Quinn said. “Gina had just as much motive as I did. Maybe more. Have you questioned her?”
“I’m well aware of Ms. Larsen’s relationship with your ex-wife,” Hanson said. “And with
you.
So you can drop the bullshit, all right, and just answer the questions.”
Quinn looked at him appraisingly, then smiled a little.
“Ask away, Detective Hanson,” he said, spreading open palms.
“Do you know anyone named Cherry?”
“Is that a real name? Or a scene name?”
“Does it matter?” Hanson asked. “Either.”
“I know lots of women
online
named Cherry. Usually it’s ‘Cherry-one-two-three’ or ‘slavecherry’ or some variation.”
“Because ‘cherry’ sounds sexy, huh?” Griggs asked.
“Exactly. Because of the sexual connotations. Just as there are dozens of Kitties, Cats, Angels, and Slaves.”
“So you’re saying you don’t know her?” Hanson asked.
“But there
was
a Cherry around a while back,” Gina said slowly, rousing a little. “A red-haired newbie, rather pretty, now that I think of it. You must remember her. You have a thing for redheads, after all.”
She smiled at the back of Quinn’s head, but the smile had a nasty edge to it.
“There have been so many. I don’t recall.”
“Oh,
I
do,” Gina said. “At one of the charity slave auctions. She put you down as her only limit.”
Quinn’s jaw tightened.
Hanson looked at Gina questioningly.
“The club has a slave auction once a year,” she explained. “People auction themselves off—”
“You mean for sex?” Griggs asked, a little too eagerly.
“No,” Quinn interjected as if talking to a toddler. “That would be
illegal
.”
“Not for sex,” Gina said. “For scenes, for playing. Submissives list what they like to do, and what their limits are—the things they won’t do.”
“And this girl, Cherry,” Hanson said, beginning to smile. “She said she was willing to do anything but
you
?”
“Ouch,” Griggs exclaimed. “Man, that’s cold!”
“She was afraid I might get through to those deep dark places she wanted to go, but didn’t have the nerve to explore.” Quinn shrugged. “It’s one of the drawbacks of my big bad reputation.”
“But you don’t know where she is now?”
“No.”
Hanson glanced at Gina. She only shook her head.
“We’ll need to confirm your alibi with Maggie,” Hanson said, getting to his feet. “And I would like that Starbucks’ receipt and the name of the woman you met with.”
“Is that
really
necessary?” Quinn asked, standing also and literally showing them the door.
“Yes, it is,” Hanson said, passing back through the supply room and into the showroom once more.
“I’ll have to go check my pockets upstairs.”
“We’ll wait,” Hanson said.
They watched Quinn step through another narrow door, glimpsing stairs beyond.
“I’ll go have a little talk with Maggie,” Griggs said quietly, moving toward the counter.
Hanson pushed the victim photos at Gina.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew them?” he said into her ear. “Damn it, you lied to me!”
“You never showed me
these
photos.” Gina pushed them back at him. “All I saw were the crime scene photos. Their own mothers wouldn’t have recognized them.”
“And you never connected the names?”
“Christ, Hanson! I told you people go by scene names, just like I did before I got outted. And I haven’t seen these people in a couple of years—”
“What about this Cherry? You just suddenly remembered her?”
“Yes, I did.” She stabbed his chest with a finger. “Seeing him made me think of it.”
“It doesn’t look good, Gee. Griggs already thinks you’re wound just a little too tight—”
Did you check out her alibi? Griggs had asked. She could have taken Roger out, if she got the drop on him. You said it yourself, this perp is one angry fuck, and Gina Larsen is pissed at the world . . .
“I don’t give a damn what he thinks.”
“Well, maybe you should. He’s a good cop.”
He could hardly look at her without seeing that damned photograph.
Bella Rosso Crucified.
“Are you actually looking at me for these murders?” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you out of your mind, or just stupid?”
Hanson rubbed a hand over his face and took a deep breath.
“Just stupid, I guess . . . So, this Maggie. She’s his slave?”
“Slave or sub.” Gina shrugged. “He’s probably got one or two more. He likes his harem. Many doms do.”
“Do you know her?”
Gina looked over at Maggie, who didn’t seem to be enjoying her talk with Griggs. She was moderately attractive, a little on the heavy side, but dressed in a low-cut blouse that showed generous cleavage, and a short skirt.
Maggie kept looking over at Gina, her big brown eyes narrowing with every glance.
“No,” Gina said. “Please tell me he’s not hitting on her.”
“If she can handle Quinn, she can handle Griggs.”
Gina snorted.
Her phone chose that moment to blare “Superfreak.”
“Go ahead and answer the damned thing,” Hanson said, watching her read something on the screen.
“Maybe I don’t want to answer it,” she said, tucking it back into her belt holster.
“Can we trust an alibi from her?” Hanson asked, jerking his head toward Maggie. “Would she lie for him?”
“People lie all the time.”
“But if she’s his slave—”
“Christ, Hanson.” Gina sighed. “Slave is just a word; it doesn’t really mean anything. It’s not like it’s legally binding in a court of law.”
“You mean it’s like voodoo? It only works if you believe in it? Maybe Maggie does.”
Gina shrugged. All the fire was gone from her. She was flat and empty.
“The relationship between slave and master can be a very strong, intimate bond,” she said softly. “It’s frightening, really . . .”
Hanson waited, but she said nothing else.
“What is?”
“The things you’ll do for someone,” she said, staring out the window. “The things you’ll let them do to you.”
Quinn reappeared and held out an envelope.
“Inside you’ll find my Starbucks receipt, the one from the Mexican restaurant, and a receipt from when we got gas on the way home. Do you want the three condoms I used that night, too?”
“You forgot the name of your coffee date,” Hanson said, not smiling.
“No, it’s in there. The name she gave me, at least, and her phone number. Please do try to be discreet.”
“If you think of anything else that might be helpful—” Hanson handed him his card.
“Of course,” Quinn said. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a pretty wannabe photographer on the hook.”
He moved toward the counter, then abruptly turned back.
“I read in the paper that the killer used some kind of wooden object. It wasn’t a baseball bat, was it?”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
“The details of the case are confidential,” Hanson said.
“Ah,” Quinn said, smiling. “So you don’t know what it is, do you?”
Bastard.
“Never mind.” Quinn shrugged. “I understand. But it occurred to me that the weapon might be a tire thumper.”
“A what?” Griggs asked, stepping in.
“A tire thumper,” Quinn said. “Gina can tell you about it.”
He winked at them and walked away.