Mr. Kiss and Tell (22 page)

Veronica went straight home from the rec center. She’d read the e-mail over again at every red light, filled with equal parts of revulsion and triumph.
Not that I like having my direst preconceptions about humanity confirmed or anything. But I was
right.
Finally she had proof that Bellamy was, in fact, Mr. Kiss and Tell.

Once in her apartment, she pulled up his profile on The Erotic Critique, looking for Bethany Rose’s review.

1 star/5. It’s a real turn-off when I have to haggle over every nickel and dime. I guess that’s pretty close to the actual Girlfriend Experience, right? But seriously, an hour is an hour. If I’ve paid you for an hour, you owe me sixty minutes of your time.

Bellamy had gotten cocky. He’d gotten away with rape at least twice, and then he’d gone a step further and smeared his victims online. She could imagine that, in his mind, the fact that he hadn’t been caught or punished was like a mandate from heaven, a kind of tacit approval of his behavior. That was how psychopaths worked, how escalation happened.

“Loose lips sink ships, Mr. Kiss and Tell,” she murmured. “Who else have you been talking about?”

She started to comb through the other single-stars, jotting their names on a whiteboard she’d pulled out of the broom closet, along with their home city and the date of the review. Aside from Grace, there were four other one-star reviews. Nikki Valentine, the girl whose grooming he’d criticized, had been reviewed in March 2012. In April 2013 he’d reviewed Bethany Rose, and then in December he’d posted two at once: a “Tonya Vahn” in L.A. who “acted like a stuck-up bitch and looked nothing like her picture” and a “Madelyn Chase” in Vegas who “didn’t follow directions at all.”

The last two girls seemed to be either out of the business—or perhaps had changed their working names—as their websites had been taken down. Veronica noted that on the whiteboard as well.

No one but Bethany Rose had responded to her e-mail, and it seemed reasonable to assume no one else would.

Veronica held her phone for a moment. Then she dialed the number listed on The Erotic Critique for Tonya Vahn. The number had been disconnected.

She tried Madelyn’s next. A robotic voice mail recording answered: “Leave a message after the beep.”

“Madelyn, hi.” She gave a nervous giggle into the phone. “My name’s Angie. Oh my gosh, this is so awkward, I’ve never done this before but, um, my boyfriend’s thirtieth birthday is coming up, and I was looking to celebrate in a, uh, special way. I was calling to find out if you ever work with couples. Call me back at this number. Thanks!”

She rerecorded her own voice mail message in “Angie’s” chirpy falsetto.
Alter egos all around.
Then she glanced at the clock; it was just after nine.

“What time do you think escorts man the phones, Pony?”

The dog cocked her head to the side and wagged at the sound of her voice. Veronica scratched behind her ears, then dialed the number listed on Nikki Valentine’s profile, ready to record another message. She was startled when it was picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

Veronica’s fingers twitched slightly around the phone. “Nikki, please listen. A friend of mine, a working girl, was recently raped, and I think the same guy may have assaulted you sometime in the winter of 2011 or spring of 2012. Please, I’m not a cop. I’m not interested in getting you in trouble. I just want to try to get some answers and I need your help.”

The line went silent. Veronica held her breath, listening. For a moment she thought Nikki had hung up on her. Then she heard a tiny, soft
snick
. The sound of a cigarette lighter, followed by a swift exhale.

“No one’s ever raped me on the job.”

Veronica cradled the phone against her ear like it was something delicate, like if she clutched it too hard she’d lose this one slender thread.

“If I sent you a picture, could you tell me if you recognize this guy?”

“I don’t dish about my clients.”

“This guy’s a psycho, Nikki.”

There was another pause.

“Send me the picture.”

Quickly, Veronica paused the call and texted her the headshot of Bellamy from PSU’s basketball website. When Nikki came back to the phone, Veronica was surprised to hear her laughing, a low, humorless chuckle.

“
This
piece of shit. Yeah, I remember him. He thought he was going to get rough with me. He pushed me against the wall, got one punch in, chipped my tooth. Then I called for my boyfriend.” There was the little
kiss
noise of her taking another drag on her cigarette. “He could barely walk when Marty was done with him. I’m kind of shocked he tried it again with someone else.”

Veronica sat up straight. The basketball trip to Tucson, when the players had seen Bellamy’s injuries. “Wait—was this the night of February third?”

“I don’t know. It was about two years ago.”

“Did you ever report it to anyone? The cops, or—”

“Riiight.” Nikki interrupted, drawing out the word. “You think I’d still be working if I talked to cops? No, after Marty beat the shit out of him I figured it was over and done with.”

“Can I ask you a logistical question?”

“Shoot.”

Veronica put her forearms on her desk. “How did your boyfriend get there so quick? Was he somewhere listening?”

“Yeah. When I do outcall, he hangs out in the hallway in case I scream for him.”

“That doesn’t get people suspicious? Hotel staff, other guests?”

“You’d be surprised how little anyone cares what’s going on in the next room over.” The girl sounded weary, almost disgusted. “If anyone talks to him, he just says he’s waiting for a friend. If you act like you’re supposed to be there, people generally don’t ask too many questions.”

Fair enough.
It was a strategy Veronica had used many times.

“Did he do anything else besides hit you?”

“Nope. I showed up to the room, he gave me a once-over and decided to be mean. Some guys are just looking for an excuse. He had a problem with everything I did. Kept calling me a stupid bitch. Whatever, it’s his dollar—and it’s not like that was the first time I’ve been called names—but he just got madder and madder, like he was deliberately working himself up. He got in my face and told me I looked like a whore, hit me, and that was it.”

Veronica was silent for a moment, thinking.

“Anything else? I’ve kinda got to clear the line here,” Nikki said.

“Should I assume you don’t want to give an official statement about this?” The girl just snorted. Veronica sighed. “Okay. Okay, thanks, Nikki. You’ve helped a lot.”

“I hope your friend’s okay.” There was a soft click as she hung up.

Veronica swiveled in her chair. Bellamy had learned from his mistake. He’d discovered what happened when he gave a girl a chance to scream. So he’d started choking them, at first just to keep them quiet, but then perhaps he realized he actually
liked
that part. Liked to strangle them, liked to hurt them.

Her reverie was interrupted by the phone cutting through the silence. Her screen displayed a number with a Vegas area code.

“This is Angie,” she sang into the receiver.

“Hi, Angie, this is Isabella.” The voice was young, a throaty purr. “I’m returning your call?”

Veronica frowned, changing the phone to the other ear. “I’m sorry, who?”

“You called for Madelyn but she’s not with the agency anymore. I thought I’d give you a call back and see if we couldn’t set anything up instead.”

Her heart picked up speed. “Madelyn’s not with the agency?”

“If you’re looking for a three-way…”

“Did something happen to her? Do you know where she is now?”

Isabella was quiet for a moment. “Just a minute.”

The line went on hold. Veronica waited. It was almost three minutes before Isabella came back.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“My name is Veronica Mars. I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find proof that a suspect has been raping and assaulting high-end escorts all over the country. I think Madelyn may have had an encounter with him.”

“I’m not talking about this on the phone,” Isabella said. “Can you get to Vegas?”

Veronica leaned back in her chair. “Maybe. Do you know Madelyn Chase?”

“Stay at the Mercury tomorrow night. Call me back at this number and leave your room number once you’re there.”

“Did something happen to Madelyn, Isabella?” Veronica asked urgently.

But the girl had already hung up the phone.

“Pony! Drop it. Drop it!”

Veronica knelt down next to the puppy, trying to wrestle her favorite boot out of the dog’s mouth. It was the morning after her conversation with Isabella, and Veronica’s suitcase was open across the bed, half packed with clothes. The hard-shell case of her snub-nosed .38 Special was just visible from under a folded pair of jeans.

Pony gave a little grunt of exertion, her hindquarters waving back and forth with excitement as she tugged on the boot. Veronica sighed and stopped pulling. The struggle was just getting tooth marks all over the leather. She rested her chin on her hand and looked the dog in the eye. “Why don’t you go chew up Daddy’s things? He has a bomber jacket just begging for some puncture marks.”

“I heard that.” Logan’s voice came from the hallway. She straightened up as he poked his head in the door. His cheeks were pink, his hair streaked from the sun. He leaned against the door frame and smiled.

“You’re home. I didn’t hear the door.” She stood up and went to kiss him on the cheek.

“It’s my advanced military training,” he said. He wove back and forth in a shadow-boxing stance. “They teach you to move like a
panther
.”

“Oh yeah? Is there a lot of call for stealth in the cockpit of a fifty-million-dollar fighter jet?”

“The SEALs aren’t the only ones with moves.” He leaned down to pet Pony, who licked his chin. “How’re my girls?”

“Well, one of us peed in your shoe. And the other barked all morning,” she said. “How was the trip? Were there some gnarly waves?”

“There were indeed.” He noticed the suitcase and frowned. “What’s up? You going somewhere?”

“Just for one night. I have to fly out to Vegas for a case. But I should be back Thursday afternoon, barring anything unforeseen.” She put her arms around his neck.

That was when she saw the manila folder he was holding. “What’s all that?”

“My paperwork. To get back on the
Truman
.” He opened the envelope and slid out a stack of papers. “I’m going to get it in the mail this afternoon.”

Without thinking, she let go of him. He raised his eyebrows at her, his smile turning both wry and wistful. “Okay. Let me have it. Again. Give me your best Columbia Law School try.”

“I’m out of ideas,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “Unless you think a rendition of ‘Billy Don’t Be A Hero’ will work.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me. These guys we’re fighting, they don’t have anything that can take down a Hornet.”

“You do realize I
just
went to a military funeral, don’t you?” She stared up at him, her spine bristling with a sudden surge of anger. “And there are Wikipedia pages about every single aviation accident in naval history?”

His face darkened. “Come on, Veronica. I don’t do this to you. The stuff you do is at least as risky as what I do. I mean, you’re off to Vegas to do God knows what. You work crazy hours, you deal with dangerous people. I don’t like it, but I’ve learned to accept that it’s the price of admission.”

Her cheeks flushed. “How long have you been holding on to
that
argument?”

“Well, it is the obvious one.”

She raised her hands. “Look, I’m not saying you don’t have the right to do exactly what you’ve made up your mind to do. I’m just saying, don’t act like it’s nothing. Don’t act like you have to do it. Don’t act like it’s just another day at work. It’s a big deal, Logan. You could be hurt. I could—” She suddenly came up short. She’d been about to say
I could lose you
; instead, she bit her tongue.

Veronica took a deep breath and glanced down at her watch.

“Look, I have to go, I can’t miss my flight. We can talk about this later.”

“Later, right.” Logan sighed.

She took him in, guilt forming in her chest as she realized how few
laters
they had left. But she had to find out what Isabella knew.

Just like he has to go back and join his squadron,
she told herself. Because, for better or worse, that was the way they were both wired.

The Mercury Resort and Casino was one of the newest hotels on the Strip, a sprawling, thirty-three floor behemoth. It boasted five different restaurants, a nightclub, forty high-end shops, a full-service day spa, and the world’s longest waterslide—the Quicksilver, a long, knotted tube that stretched from the eighteenth floor of the hotel down to an amoeba-shaped pool below. It was a pleasure dome that would likely have disappointed S.T. Coleridge but was right in the wheelhouse of a Baton Rouge dermatologist with money to burn.

Veronica stood for a moment outside her $300-per-night room. A few feet away, a small black table held a towering ikebana arrangement, a cluster of plum branches and irises arcing out at surreal angles. She glanced around, then carefully set a tiny wireless nanny cam just behind the vase. It was synced to her phone, and showed a clear shot of her own door.

Then she went into the room and dialed Isabella’s number. She got the girl’s voice mail. “Hi, this is Isabella. Do leave me a message.”

“Um, hi. I’m at the Mercury, room 347. It’s Veronica.”

Congratulations, Veronica. You’ve just ordered your first call girl.

Then she settled in to wait.

No one could accuse the Mercury of blandness. Thick amethyst carpet covered the floor of her room. The walls were papered in an elaborate gray filigree, the curtains and bedspread shiny white. But there was a tiny tear along the base of the velvet armchair, exposing just a centimeter of yellowed foam cushion beneath. In Vegas, the veneer of glamor was bright but thin. You didn’t have to look that hard to see the darker realities that lurked beneath the surface.

Isabella hadn’t specified a time for their meeting, and Veronica hadn’t thought to ask. An hour ticked by, then another. Every time she heard footsteps she whipped out her phone and checked the camera. The only people she saw were other tourists heading back to their rooms.

She thought about calling the agency again, but if their phone call was any indication, Isabella wasn’t the kind of person who’d respond well to being hounded. So Veronica kept waiting, too on edge to turn on the TV or open the
New Yorker
she’d brought to read on the plane.

Maybe she got cold feet. Or maybe someone stopped her from coming
. The thought sent a stab of cold through Veronica’s stomach. She’d gleaned from her research that a lot of escort agencies were scarcely better than pimps, bullying and manipulating the girls in their employ. What if someone had decided to silence her?

When a soft knock came at the door she jumped and looked down at her phone. The screen was black. Someone outside the door had turned the nanny cam facedown.

She stood on her toes and stared through the peephole. There, in front of her door, was Isabella. Unlike the escorts in other cities, the Vegas girls tended to show their faces on their websites; both Isabella and Madelyn Chase had been fully visible when Veronica looked them up. Isabella was abundantly curvy; she bore a passing resemblance to a young Monica Bellucci, if Monica had the word “goddess” tattooed along the curve of one full breast.

Veronica opened the door.

“Isabella…” She stopped as an enormous man shouldered around from behind the door and into the room. Isabella stepped in behind him and quickly shut the door.

“…and friend,” Veronica finished lamely. The man was at least six-five, cleanly bald, and unsmiling. A black sports coat strained to contain his bulk. His head was massive, his features broad and stony, as if he’d been rough-chiseled from a boulder. Gold hoops glinted from his ears. Veronica took a few steps back as he advanced into the room. She bumped into the bed and lost her balance. Suddenly, the man’s brawny arm shot around her shoulder. She tensed for a moment, then she realized he’d reached out to keep her from falling.

“Careful there.” His voice was a bass rumble. Her breath came back to her all at once, a sharp stab in her lungs. She gently detached herself from his arm.

“I didn’t know to expect an entourage. I would have ordered us a cheese platter. Some Bellinis. Maybe some hookers. Make a party of it,” Veronica said, looking from Isabella to the giant.

“Oh, funny. She’s funny, Sweet Pea.” Isabella leaned against the wall, a cool, haughty tilt to her chin. She reached into her purse and pulled out an engraved cigarette case.

“I think this is a non-smoking room,” Veronica said.

Isabella lit her cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke in Veronica’s direction. “Guess they might hit you with a $200 upcharge then. They’re thieves.”

Veronica wondered, fleetingly, if she’d been somehow set up. If the plan had been to rob her, or worse. She thought about the gun in the holster at the small of her back. It didn’t seem the right time to go for it, though—not yet. She forced an expression of calm as Sweet Pea walked quickly to the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked around. Then he came back into the bedroom.

Isabella raised her cigarette to her lips again, exhaling in a long, cool stream overhead. “I read about you. After the Bonnie DeVille thing. You’re shorter than I expected.”

“Yeah? You’re more people than I expected,” Veronica said, glancing at Sweet Pea. “So neither of us got what we were counting on.”

Sweet Pea spoke. “Couldn’t be helped. You call us up out of the blue, asking about missing girls, I got to be involved.”

That got her attention. “Missing? Madelyn Chase is missing?”

Sweet Pea and Isabella exchanged a quick glance before he spoke again.

“Since December of last year.”

A sudden sick feeling came over Veronica. She stared at Sweet Pea, trying to see if this was some kind of con. His expression didn’t falter.

“You didn’t know that?” Isabella broke in. She sounded almost angry.

Veronica shook her head. “No, I…I don’t know anything about Madelyn. That’s why I’m here.”

Sweet Pea pulled a chair out from under the desk and offered it to Isabella. She shook her head impatiently, so he sat down himself.

“So what is it you
do
know?” he asked.

Veronica crossed her arms over her chest.

“I know the confidentiality issues in the PI business are probably similar to those in the escort business,” she said. “You know I can’t just tell you what I’m investigating.”

Isabella pushed off the wall, jabbing at the air with her cigarette. “You knew
something
happened to Maddy, and you’d better start talking, or I’m—”

“Hey.” Though Sweet Pea’s voice wasn’t loud, it filled the room. He gave Isabella a meaningful look. “Everyone in here wants information, okay?” He turned back to Veronica. “How about you tell us what you came out here to find, and we’ll see where it takes us?”

Veronica sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.
I guess I can give them a
version
of the truth. Tit for tat.
“A woman I know in Neptune was assaulted by a client in March. She’s an escort. I’m trying to help her prove it was a rape. I’m sure you know all the reasons why that’s tough to prove.” She glanced at Isabella, who was slouching back against the wall again. “I’m trying to find other victims. If I can show this is a pattern I can force the issue. The cops won’t be able to ignore it, then.”

Isabella gave an angry snort. Sweet Pea frowned.

“And what makes you think the same guy did something to Madelyn?” he asked.

She hesitated. Isabella, at the very least, had googled her. And something told her Sweet Pea was smarter than most in his line of work. If she said too much she’d risk them tracing the same set of clues she’d found. She didn’t know what they’d do with that information and she couldn’t afford a loose cannon.

“Can you tell me a little more about Madelyn’s disappearance?” she deflected. “Is anyone looking for her?”

“What do you think
we’re
doing?” Isabella went to the corner sink and filled a cup with water. She threw her cigarette in and placed it on the counter. When she turned back she seemed calmer.

“I meant the cops.”

“Oh, I
talked
to the cops,” Isabella interrupted. “They don’t give a shit. They have her picture in a file somewhere, but they’re not doing anything to find her.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, across from Veronica. Her eyes were dark, almost black—restless and sharp. “Maddy and I were friends. I want to know what happened to her.”

“When exactly did she go missing?”

“December sixth, 2012,” Isabella said promptly. “It was a Friday. We met for drinks at Emerald’s at around nine. I had a date at eleven at the Four Seasons. She wasn’t prebooked that night, and she was debating whether or not to go work the floors.”

“Work the floors?” Veronica asked.

“Yeah, sometimes we hang out at the casinos, talk up guys, see who’s spending money and who’s making money. It sucks, though, because you’re hoofing it all over the Strip, and a lot of times you strike out or waste a lot of time with a guy who turns out to be a cheapskate. We only do it if it’s been a slow couple weeks. She was thinking about heading home and taking a night off. But a few minutes before I took off, she got a call. A client.” Isabella smoothed out the tassels on one of the pillows, her brow crinkled. “She agreed to meet him at midnight. I left right after that. That was the last I ever saw her.”

“When did you try to contact her again?” Veronica asked. “And how long was it before you realized something was wrong?”

“I texted her the next morning. She never answered back. That was a little weird, but not raise-the-alarms kinda weird. Our schedules are so crazy, sometimes we’re not in contact for weeks at a time. But a few nights later she had a big client on the books—one of her regulars, a guy she’d never stand up without good reason—and she didn’t show. That’s when we knew something was up.”

Veronica furrowed her brow. “She went alone to meet this last-minute client, the one she knew nothing about?” She gave Sweet Pea a sidelong look. “Is that how it normally works in your agency?”

Sweet Pea’s expression didn’t falter. “We usually
do
send someone out with the girls, especially if they’re seeing someone new. Mad called in that night, asked for someone to come around, but we didn’t have no one free. She still wanted to take the job. Well, good luck telling one of these hos what to do, you know what I’m sayin’?” Isabella snorted again, but this time with more humor than anger. “I ain’t no pimp. The girls, they’re independent contractors. We just do booking and security. So she went ahead on her own.” His knuckles tightened almost reflexively. “But you’re right. It was a lapse. And I don’t like lapses.”

Somehow, his businesslike demeanor was even more terrifying than if he’d raged or snarled. Veronica suddenly had no doubt that this was a man who’d hurt people, methodically, dispassionately.

“Did you know anything about the client?” she asked. “Where he was staying, who he was?”

“He said his name was Mike and he was staying here, at the Mercury. She was supposed to text Sweet Pea the room number but she never did. She could be a flake like that,” Isabella said.

Veronica didn’t answer for a moment. It was all too easy to imagine Madelyn Chase arriving at Bellamy’s room, forgetting to check in before she knocked. Figuring she could text them from the bathroom once she got in and saw if the guy was okay or not. Never quite getting the chance—because Bellamy had learned to strike quickly if something set him off.

“Did you check her house, contact her family?”

“Maddy wasn’t in touch with her family,” Isabella said. “I got the feeling they were assholes. She grew up in West Texas but she told me she ran away when she was sixteen. And yeah, I went to her condo. I had a key—I used to take care of her cat when she was out of town. Anyway, she wasn’t there, but all her stuff was. There wasn’t any sign that she’d packed up and left. And Taffy was there—she loved that fucking cat. She wouldn’t have left her behind without arranging for someone to take care of her.”

“I’m assuming Madelyn Chase wasn’t her real name?”

Isabella shook her head. “Of course not. I’ve got no idea what her birth name was, though. The name on her condo was Molly Christensen, but that turned out to be a fake.” She rolled her eyes. “The cops got a lot more interested in finding her when they realized she’d committed identity fraud.”

“This guy you’re looking into. He hurt a lot of girls?” Sweet Pea asked in an almost offhanded way, like he was asking about the weather.

Veronica hesitated. “Three for sure. Four if I can prove he did something to Madelyn.”

He nodded slowly. “Gonna be straight with you, because you seem like you don’t mess around.” He crossed his large hands in his lap. “I think you know as well as we do that the cops ain’t gonna touch this guy. Let’s say you find a girl who’ll testify, which I wouldn’t put money on. That don’t mean you’ll find a cop who’ll take it seriously, or a lawyer, or a judge, or a jury. But there
are
other options.” The guy didn’t do anything ominous when he said it—didn’t crack his knuckles or punch his fist—but the words sent a chill down Veronica’s spine nonetheless.

“Options?”

He gave a little shrug. “You know. Maybe you give me this guy’s information. Then you head on back to your nice little ’burb on the beach, and I make sure the right people look into the matter.”

The air in the room became dense, weighted down by the silence. She could feel Isabella’s eyes on her, sharp and searching. She thought back to Dan Lamb’s sneering face when she’d taken the case to him. Would it make any difference if she found another victim—if she found a dozen victims? These girls lived in a world that only tenuously overlapped with society at large. The law offered them no protection. They were disposable.

Veronica took a deep breath.

“Thanks, Sweet Pea. But I’m going to keep doing this my way.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t argue with her.

“Suit yourself,” he said. He stood up and went to the little writing desk, opened the top drawer. He took out a notepad and jotted something down. Then he ripped off the page and handed it to her.

“My cell,” he said. “In case you change your mind.”