Death of an Escort Read online

  I held my hand out. "I'm Ray Crusafi. Do you have a moment?"

  "For what?" She put her hands on her hips.

  I took my hand back and got a business card out and silently handed over to her.

  "You're a private investigator? Serious?" she asked.

  "Yes, I am," I said. "Can I talk to you?"

  She looked suspicious. People do when I ask them if we can talk and tell them that I'm a private investigator. I'm used it, but I still notice it.

  "What do you want to talk about?"

  "Kelly Brandt."

  She looked down at the girl. "Adrienne, go inside." Then she closed the door behind her.

  The little landing at the top of the steps wasn't really big enough for the two of us. We could both stand there, but it felt uncomfortably close.

  "I don't know what to say, except how the hell do you know that name?" she asked. "Were you watching? Oh, that is sick!"

  "Kelly is dead," I said and watched her. She was good. I couldn't tell if I was telling her something she already knew or not.

  I waited for a question or comment but didn't get any. So I had to continue.

  "You do know who Kelly is?"

  More silence.

  "Did you know she died?"

  "I think you should leave," she said.

  "You were the last to see her alive," I said. "I need more information. You could help with that."

  "Goodbye," she said.

  I dug in my pocket for the button and pulled it out. "Does this belong to you?"

  That arrested her motion of going inside. She looked down at it and squinted, but the squinting wasn't necessary. It was plenty big enough to see plainly. It was a giant button.

  "No," she said. Then the door was open, and she was inside. The door shut firmly, and I heard the deadbolt snap into place.

  That was that.

  It would seem that I'm a lousy murder detective. I really should be working on stuff that I'm good at, like staking out a cheating husband, except I had no paying customers for that right now.

  Back down the stars I went and I decided to head home.

  I started my routine for going home. This was always an exercise I did. I got out onto the main highway and changed directions multiple times.

  No one was tailing me. For fifteen years, no one had tailed me, but the day I don't check . . . that will be the day.

  I sped out of town beyond my office building and the traffic thinned out. It wasn't much past four in the afternoon, and as it was also Monday, the rush hour traffic wasn't bad. Plus, our little city of Muldove isn't much larger than fifty thousand people, and it's hard to get much of a rush with that few of people.

  I continued to check the cars around and behind me as I headed out. Five miles out, I passed the road that went south down to my house. I overshot it and about half a mile down, I parked my car in a truck stop gas station that always had cheaper gas than anywhere else around.

  This was one of the places I left my car, and as it was busy twenty-four hours a day; my car wouldn't stick out being parked here over night.

  I got out and walked back to my road and then I walked down it after again checking that no one was observing or following.

  It isn't legal to carry a concealed weapon in this state. However, if given the choice between staying alive and following the law, well, I think my choice was obvious.

  If someone ever was following me, they'd get a thirty-eight caliber bullet in them.

  The house my wife and I shared wasn't far down, and it took me only minutes to walk to it. There is a hill in the side of our property, and our house was actually built right into it.

  It's technically an underground house, a hobbit house. I prefer it because it's more secure. Only the front of it is exposed with windows and a door. The back and sides are buried under earth.

  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 ant
ique 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."

  "Com
e 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.

  "You were asking about my mother's website," she said.

  "I was," I said. I pointed at the computer on the far corner of the desk. "Could we look at it briefly?"

  She pressed her lips together firmly and nodded, but then she abruptly turned to me.

  "Could you look at it alone? I don't think I can," she said.

  I nodded.

  She booted the computer up and then turned around and faced the other way.

  "What was her web address?" I asked.

  "KellyBrandt.com," Macy said.

  I typed it in and a website with a black background came up. The header was a headshot of Kelly and her name along the top. The headshot was fuzzed out around the edges and the whole picture had been softened.