Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (16 page)

Nurse Jackie almost smiled back. “Sean Connery in
Goldfinger
. Pinewood. 1964.”

“Now who watches too many movies?”

She pointed to the reception desk. “You're signed out. Please don't call again.”

Then she was gone with a swish of the curtain, leaving Grant to walk slowly through reception and into the night. He stood for a moment on the sidewalk and took a deep breath. The fresh air was bliss after the contaminated atmosphere inside. Two ambulances were parked across the road. A patrol car drove past the end of the hospital, cruising not blue lighting. The night was peaceful.

Headlights came on and an engine started to his left. A Hertz rental car pulled up to the entrance, and the passenger window slid down. A throaty voice told him to get in. Grant ducked to look through the window but didn't need to see the driver. He never forgot a voice. She raised an eyebrow. “Next of kin?”

“So you can get my body.”

“Well, they got the right number then.”

Grant got in and slammed the door, then Terri Avellone drove him away.

twenty-two

Soft hands
and a
CVS Pharmacy natural sponge
soaped his body down in the shower. The showerhead was fastened to a sliding bar up the tiled wall for height adjustment, but it only adjusted to the full height of a midget. Grant stood head and shoulders above the hot spray. That was good. His face was sore. The stitches holding his cheek together were dressed with medicated gauze and sticking plaster. It needed to be kept dry.

Terri Avellone stood naked in the shower with him and washed everything else. As they'd discussed before, cleanliness was next to godliness. Avellone was having a religious experience cleaning Grant's man parts. As before, at the Airport Hilton, she was employing the full body-washing technique. Her hands and the sponge soaped and rinsed his stomach while her breasts and love mound slithered up and down his back and buttocks. She was gentle with him, shocked by the vicious bruising that was already purple down one side of his chest and blackening one eye. The grazing was restricted to his face. The torn jeans and orange jacket had protected the rest of him, leaving red marks but not breaking the skin.

The tattooed No Entry sign was the only constant. Everything else about him had changed since their last encounter. Almost everything. She soaped that with the sponge, then slid her hand up and down it to make sure it was clean. It sprang to life. Grant didn't need much encouragement. “This is getting to be a habit.”

She continued the gentle rhythmic action. “You know it can't go anywhere. Don't you?”

“That's the best kind.”

She suddenly squeezed her fist tight. He almost came in her hand. Her other hand spanked his backside. Twice. “Naughty boy. Don't you know a woman likes to think she's the only one?”

“If I knew what women liked, I'd be awesome.”

She relaxed her fist. “You are awesome.”

He turned to face her. The soap on his stomach lathered her breasts as they pressed against him. His hardness prodded her stomach, high up just beneath her ribs. The benefits of having a shorter woman. She flexed her knees and her breasts slid down either side of him. They felt even nicer than her fingers. He moaned. A deep and contented sound that vibrated his chest against her face. She straightened her legs, and her breasts released his manhood.

Grant smiled at a private thought.

Avellone saw the look and raised one eyebrow. “What?”

His smile broadened. “You know what they say. Save a mouse, eat a pussy.”

She laughed a dirty laugh that was deep and throaty. “You're an animal lover. Right?”

“RSPCA.”

“That's English?”

“Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”

“I'm impressed.”

She reached behind him and turned the shower off. “So, go ahead and save a mouse.”

He crouched slightly, squeezed her in a bear hug, and picked her up standing upright. The cubicle was too narrow to sweep her up into his arms. He walked like that, with her body crushed against his, into the main room and laid her on the bed. He stroked her stomach, gently opened her legs, then proceeded to save a mouse. More than one.

There was something
very
freeing about sex without actually having sex. It relieved the pressure of having to perform and allowed you to simply have fun. Like playing with your favorite toy. It also meant you didn't have to mess about unrolling a condom, even if Terri Avellone's condom-unrolling technique was better than most. Grant's mouse rescue left her completely satisfied.

The condom stayed in its cardboard matchbook on the bedside cabinet.

Until after.

Grant listened to Avellone washing herself in the bathroom and picked up the distinctive black matchbook with the flame and nude silhouette. He flicked it open. There was nothing written inside the flap. Not like those PI movies. He read the name on the front.

TRIPLE ZERO
Gentlemen's Services

He read the address on the back. Somewhere downtown. He wondered if it was another club or simply a business address—like a dead-letter drop. Burst in to search the place and find a bunch of old ladies knitting socks for the troops. He also wondered where Terri Avellone got so good at what she did. She didn't learn the
putting
-a-condom-on-with-her-mouth technique at pharmaceutical training.

Time to tread carefully. Because she was so good at what she did. He didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or kill the goose that laid the golden egg. She was fantastic at laying his golden egg.

The water stopped. A few seconds later Avellone came out of the bathroom wearing a towel and a smile. She took one look at Grant twirling the condom matchbook and the smile faded. “You look like you lost a fiver and found a penny.”

“Shouldn't that be lost a dollar and found a nickel?”

“I'm trying to make you feel at home. What's the problem?”

“No problem.” He held the matchbook up. “Just wondering where you get these from?”

“I'm in pharmaceuticals.”

“Pharmaceuticals. Not prophylactics.”

He watched her face. Her eyes specifically. It was standard technique when questioning someone. Being a cop, it often slipped into his normal life, and some people found it disturbing to be having a conversation with him while he stared them in the eye. Her usually confident look slipped a touch, but she soldiered on. “Pharmacies stock rubbers.”

“Not these rubbers. Triple Zero only supplies sex clubs and bars.”

“That what they told you at the Gentlemen's Club?”

“That's a fact.”

“Well, here's a fact for you.”

She took the matchbook out of his hand, opened the flap, and ripped the sealed condom out. She turned it over. The lettering was too small for him to see.

“Condoms supplied by Blue Rhino, third largest prophylactics manufacturer in the United States.” She flicked the cardboard flap. “Packaging supplied by Lindley Print, a rather smaller business in Boston.”

She tossed the matchbook and the condom onto the bed. “Pricks supplied free of charge by anyone with too much sap needs milking.”

Grant got off the bed and held his hands up in surrender. “Now I've gone and pissed you off. Sorry. It's the copper in me.”

Her expression softened. “So long as it's the cop that's inside me.”

He sat on the bed and dragged her down beside him. He kissed her gently on the forehead. “Not tonight. I'm stiff as a board.”

“All the better.”

“And sore as a limp-dicked motherfucker.”

She kissed his nose. “Someone with a limp dick can't be a motherfucker.”

He laughed and laid her down across the bed. He leaned over and stroked the side of her face, then kissed her forehead again. He kissed her left eye and then the right, forcing her to close them. He kissed her nose then laid one finger across her lips. She opened her eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her lips, gently at first, then with more force. She kissed him back, avoiding touching his damaged face. He was glad they'd made friends again.

It was just a pity she was lying.

twenty-three

They were friends again,
but something had changed. Grant felt sad about that but knew it was inevitable. Sooner or later they were going to move on; it was just the natural law. No recriminations. It was good while it lasted. What he needed now was answers. The best way to get answers was to avoid confrontation and slide in from the blind side.

The blind side was the Internet. “You got a laptop with you?”

“I've got a Mac.”

“I don't want a burger.”

She slapped him on the shoulder, careful not to hit the bruises, then went over to the case she'd brought up from the car. She never left anything of value in the car. The case was too small for clothes and too big for makeup. She unzipped it and took out a heavy white laptop with a silhouette of an apple with a bite missing on the top. She opened the lid and the MacBook automatically switched on.

Check the Internet. There's dozens of websites for Boston escorts. They cater for all tastes. Eastern Europeans are very popular.

Gerry O'Neill had been way ahead of Grant on that score. The Resurrection Man was good at many things, but being computer literate wasn't one of them. The secret of good policing though wasn't knowing everything but knowing who to ask.

“Can you check for Boston escort services?”

She gave him a funny look, then typed the request into Google. A list of advertisers came up almost straightaway, with a small map in the corner. The map of Boston had red pins dotted around, marked with A and B all the way to K. Sponsored links next to the map had corresponding As and Bs and Ks, giving more details for the locations shown. An indicator at the bottom showed this was page one of ten and there was an arrow next to number ten saying
More …

O'Neill had been right. There were lots of escort services on the Internet. Grant scanned the list on page one. They had colorful names.

After Dark Escorts.

J'Adore Escorts.

Boston Pussycats.

Eros Guide.

The Twilight Club.

Triple Zero Gentlemen's Services.

Avellone appeared uncomfortable. Grant wasn't sure if it was a specific name on the list or her knowing that he suspected she was lying. Once distrust entered a relationship, it was curtains. The fact that Grant considered this to be a relationship was a bit of a surprise too. Discomfort filled the room.

He concentrated on the list. Triple Zero came up on the first page alongside a similarly named Triple X Escorts. That name seemed more fitting, echoing the XXX rating on hardcore porn videos and DVDs. It reminded Grant of the Northern X massage parlor chain back in Yorkshire. A rogue ex–West Yorkshire police officer, Vince McNulty, had finally brought that chain to its knees. Grant wasn't sure yet if bringing down Triple Zero was his mission, but zero tolerance had always been his credo. His shift inspector would no doubt label him a rogue cop.

He indicated the computer screen. “Triple Zero.”

Avellone clicked on the link. A very professional homepage came up with a colorful image of the Boston cityscape viewed from the river, all glass and chrome skyscrapers set against a blue cloudless sky. There were various headers across the top of the screen linking to different pages on the site.

Introduction.

Rates.

Triple Zero Beauties.

Gallery.

Bookings.

Employment.

Grant was curious. He pointed at the screen again. “Let's check employment.”

“You thinking of changing jobs?”

“My inspector wouldn't argue to keep me.”

She clicked the link, and a separate page opened. There were various sections promoting the benefits of becoming a Triple Zero escort. Grant thought it looked like any regular recruitment page. He read the special invitation.

“If you are a lady of exceptional beauty and you possess poise, personality, and that something special, we would like to extend an invitation to join our team.”

He smiled in disbelief. “Sounds like being headhunted by Microsoft instead of giving head.”

He wondered if the ones being imported by Freddy Sullivan had been given the same incentive? He doubted it when he read the qualifications.

• •
  You must be 18–42.
  
• •
  You must have a cell phone.
  
• •
  You must be completely reliable, ambitious,
  and purposeful in life.
  
• •
  You must be articulate and well spoken.
  
• •
  You must have a remarkably pretty face.
  
• •
  You must have immaculate and well-cared-for skin.
  

Whoever Freddy Sullivan was importing must have been for the lower end of Triple Zero's market, because he doubted Freddy had ever met anyone that filled this criteria. He wouldn't know how to speak to an articulate woman if his life depended on it. Grant felt a pang at that last thought. He brushed it aside and read the benefits section.

• •
  Unlimited income.
  
• •
  Brand-new car.
  
• •
  Company-paid gym membership.
  
• •
  $2,000 Christmas and New Year bonus.
  
• •
  Company-paid vacations.
  
• •
  Private in-call locations.
  
• •
  On-site security.
  

Grant sat back in his chair and puffed out his cheeks. He let out a long, low breath and rubbed his eyes. Computers did that to him.

“Jesus. No wonder they give away free condoms. I bet they don't pay that in pharmaceuticals.”

“Well, I don't get the unlimited income and on-site security.”

Grant asked her to click on the gallery. A selection of studio portraits came up that made the dancers at the Gentlemen's Club look like back-street strippers. They were stunning. Playboy centerfold standard. There were blonds and brunettes and raven-haired beauties. The only thing they all had in common was their obvious Eastern European bone structure. The Russians were coming, or women from that general direction. There was a banner across the bottom of the page with the same headings as the top but with two additions.

Links.

Contact.

He pointed at the links heading. Avellone clicked on it. A new page opened with a collection of advertising banners for separate clubs, including the Gentlemen's Club. These were obviously for lower-income customers. Grant didn't bother noting the addresses. He'd already visited one location. The others would simply be more of the same. He did get her to click on the contact heading, though. There was an e-mail address and a telephone number. He wrote the number in his notebook and picked up the condom matchbook. He wrote down the address on the back.

One Post Office Square

“Do you know where that is?”

“Downtown somewhere. In the business district. Exclusive.”

“Head office then, d'you think?”

“It certainly won't be a strip club.”

“Escorts neither?”

“I doubt it. Not down there.”

Grant turned the matchbook over in his fingers, looking at the front and then the back. He lifted the flap. This was where being in one of those old PI movies would come in handy. The vital clue written inside the flap. The flap was empty. The clue was there, though. He just needed the right person to interpret it. It was time to push a little harder.

“D'you think your friend could get me some info on Triple Zero?”

Avellone's face turned to stone. “My friend?”

Grant was watching her eyes again. He held up the matchbook.

“The one you were protecting. Over the condoms.”

Her face remained impassive, but her eyes couldn't hide the lie. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Terri. I'm not judging anybody. But this is serious. Two men are dead.” He indicated the cut on the side of his face. “Somebody did this. I need help. Your friend might be able to help.”

Avellone lowered her eyes, unable to meet his stare. She took a deep breath. Her usual self-confidence seemed to evaporate. When she looked up, she had made a decision. Then she told him what he wanted to know.