Naked She Died (standard:mystery, 13146 words)
Author: kendall thomas	Added: Mar 26 2005	Views/Reads: 3953/2969	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Hard Boiled detective story.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


Seen through the opening, the ground dropped away suddenly on the other
side into a depression about twelve feet deep covering an area of five 
or six acres. Once sublevels of some vanished buildings. He stepped 
through the opening pushing rotted boards to the side. Below he could 
see the body wrapped in clear plastic. 

The drop was too steep for a direct descent. Staying close to the fence,
he walked along a narrow, weed-trampled ledge until he came to a place 
where the ground sloped down more gently. 

He managed to keep from slipping by stepping on half-buried tires and
the rusty frame of a box spring mattress. When he reached the bottom he 
put on the mask. 

The corpse was barely recognizable as a woman it was so badly
decomposed. Places in the plastic had been ripped away by rodents and 
the flesh eaten. The face was completely gone. Only a skull with a few 
strands of lank, red hair clung to it. 

McKay put on the latex gloves and pulled the plastic back from the
skull. All the teeth were missing. No sign of blunt trauma. No bullet 
holes. He took out a pocket knife and cut away the lower portion of the 
plastic -- it was thicker than drop cloth -- and examined the hands. 
The flesh sloughed off as he touched it. One finger still remained 
fairly intact except for where the print should be. He searched for any 
jewelry that might have been overlooked but found none. Several 
fingernails had flaked off. He picked one up. It was long and finely 
shaped and painted a deep purple. Nothing had adhered to it. He put it 
back. 

He glanced up at the opening in the fence and motioned to the EMT
waiting there to come down. He didn't bother searching the surrounding 
area. It was plain the body had been dumped from the opening in the 
fence. 

While the EMTs bagged the body, McKay threw away the latex gloves and
climbed back up the slope, taking off the mask when he reached the 
fence. 

“Told you you wouldn't find anything,” Freddie said, puffing on a
cigarette that he kept cupped in his hand. “Just some fuckin whore 
nobody's gonna give a damn about.” 

2 

Back at his desk in homicide, McKay went through a list of local missing
persons, posted by the NCIC, for the last month on his computer. There 
were two women in their thirties with red hair, but when he punched up 
the Dental Society Database neither woman was entered. Although the 
victim's teeth were missing they might have been able to run a match on 
the jaw bones. 

One of the women was a housewife with three kids. She had only been
missing ten days. The other was a hooker by the name of Ann Wilson, 
with several priors. A mug shot accompanied the report. A woman by the 
name of Alice Mason, 136 Alcorn Ct., Apt. 3-B, had reported her missing 
three-and-a- half weeks ago. 

136 Alcorn was a three-story brownstone located on a tree-lined court
next to a small park with tennis courts. Stone cupids frolicked in a 
large fountain on the grassy median separating two lanes of parked 
vehicles. A pair of lions covered with a coat of verd-antique guarded 
the entrance to the court in Sphinx-like positions on waist-high, 
limestone bases. Early in the previous century the court had been the 
residence of wealthy merchants. Now the grand old homes, with their 
carriage houses, had been converted into apartments for college 
students and working class people on their way up, or down. 

McKay went up a concrete drive to a side entrance and up a flight of
wide stairs to the second floor. Apt. 3-B was to the left at the end of 
a high-ceilinged hall. He shook beads of rain from his raincoat and 
knocked firmly. After a pause he heard someone moving about. 

“Just a moment,” a woman's voice called out. 

There was the fumbling of a lock, and the door opened on a tousled
blonde with an interesting face and a hand to her mouth as she tried to 
stifle a yawn. She wore a blue terry cloth robe. Her feet were bare. 

“Yes?” she said, softly, raising the hand farther up to brush back a
lock of hair from her eye to stare up at him. 

“I'm Inspector McKay. I'm here about the missing person report you filed
several weeks ago.” He took his badge out and showed it to her. 

She looked at his ID, her expression anxious. 

“Have you found Ann? Is she all right?” 

“Sorry, she hasn't been located officially -- yet,” McKay said. “But I
need to ask you a few questions, if it's convenient?” 

Her expression became withdrawn. She sighed and nodded. Stepping back,
she held the door open, then closed it behind him when he entered. 

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked, motioning for him to take a
seat on a plum-colored sofa. It was adjacent to a French window that 
opened onto a small balcony overlooking a brick-paved alleyway. Beyond 
tall oaks partly obscured a chained-off parking lot of an imposing 
stone cathedral with a crenulated high tower. 

“Sure, if it's no trouble.” He took off his raincoat and hung it on a
coat-stand by the door. 

“No trouble.” Her voice was pleasant, friendly. She excused herself for
a minute and disappeared into another room. When she came out her long, 
blonde hair had been brushed to a glossy smoothness down her back. 

The kitchen was separated from the living room by a counter. McKay
watched her as she moved about opening the refrigerator door, reaching 
into cabinets, making dings and clinks as she brought cups and spoons 
together. 

The area that was visible was spotless. One wall was neatly lined with
books. In the corner was an easel with a canvas of an abstract painting 
half finished. The room smelled faintly of honeysuckle. Then, suddenly, 
the aroma of buttery cinnamon toast and strong coffee filled his 
nostrils as she brought a tray out and set it before him on a 
glass-topped coffee table. 

“You looked hungry,” she teased. 

McKay grinned faintly. 

“I called earlier, but there was no answer.” 

“Yes, I work nights, at Cricket's . . . as a stripper or, as it states
on my resume, exotic dancer. I keep the phone off so I can sleep late. 
Then I usually go for a jog in the park around noon.” 

“You were friends with Miss Wilson -- Ann?” he asked taking a bite out
of the cinnamon toast. 

“Um hmm.” 

“How long have you known her? This is good.” 

“About four years, thanks, since I started to college. She helped me get
my footing on the mean streets. I couldn't have survived without her. 
She taught me the ropes. I was just a naive country girl from a hick 
town. She's the one who got me into stripping so I would have money to 
attend college. I wanted her to go with me, but she said she was making 
too much money hooking to waste her time studying dead languages or 
cutting up smelly frogs. She wanted to be rich, to travel and see the 
world while she was still young enough to enjoy it.” 

McKay nodded. 

“Was there anything odd about her behavior before she disappeared . . .
anything out of the ordinary?” 

Alice Mason took a sip of her coffee, a thoughtful look on her face as
she tried to recall. 

“Um, no. Nothing that I can remember.” 

“Has she ever mention having trouble with anyone? Threats from a
disgruntled client maybe. Someone stalking her?” 

“No. She would have told me. Ann is sweet, but she's a pretty tough
cookie. She knows how to handle herself.” 

“Street wise.” 

“Yes.” 

“Does she work for a service?” 

“She did at first, Annie's, but she liked being independent and
developed her own client list, after a year or two, which she kept in a 
diary, I believe." 

McKay asked a few more questions, then finished his coffee and stood. He
looked out the rain-beaded French window. 

“Must be nice.” 

“Yes, I like to sit out there when the weathers nice, especially in the
evenings, and smell the honeysuckle, listen to the wind in the trees, 
the chatter of squirrels, the singing of the birds. I even enjoy the 
sounds of the traffic coming and going, the snatches of conversation as 
people pass; and on Sundays the church choir is beautiful . . . .” 

McKay moved toward the coat-stand. 

“What will you do now?” she asked, following him. 

“See if I can get the super to let me in her apartment.” 

Alice Mason smiled. 

“I have a key. The super, Larry, knows me and won't say anything if I'm
with you. I paid up her rent for this month in case --” She didn't 
finish her thought. 

McKay nodded. 

“I'll wait for you in my car.” 

3 

Half an hour later she came down the drive wearing a gray raincoat and
holding a black umbrella over her head. Her blonde hair was fixed in a 
bun. 

She folded the umbrella and got in the car. 

“Sorry I took so long,” she said glancing at him apologetically. 

McKay pulled the Mustang slowly away from the curb. The high flow
mufflers and quad exhausts made their signature, throaty rumble. A 
small boy hugging a skateboard in a bus shelter stared out sadly at the 
world. 

She gave him an address, then sighed softly. 

“ Inspector?” 

“Call me Mike.” 

“Mike . . . . Is there something you're not telling me? I mean, it's
been almost a month, and I've heard nothing from anyone. Now, all of a 
sudden, you show up on my doorstep asking questions.” 

“We found an unidentified homicide victim this morning. I'm just
checking all possible leads. If I discover anything for sure I'll 
notify you personally, I promise.” 

“Thanks, Mike.” She gave him a wistful smile, then gazed out the side
window at the rain-soaked streets, twisting a silver ring on her 
finger. 

1254 Baxter St. was a six story, yellow brick probably dating from back
in the forties. Alice used her key on the entrance door, bypassing the 
buzzer. They rode an elevator to the top floor. The hall had a thick, 
spongy carpet and was silent as a tomb. Alice stopped in front of a 
door with the number 62 and opened it with a second key. 

They entered a large living room with a stark, furnished look. A kitchen
entrance to the left and farther along a door which probably opened on 
a bathroom. A closet door stood to the right. The textured sofa had a 
tweedy look and was the kind that would open into a bed. 

The silent room had a hollow, depressing feel about it. A couple of
glassed-in generic prints hung on the wall. The kind you see replicated 
everywhere in lobbies, offices and hotel rooms. A TV and stereo stood 
in one corner, on a large console, nudged against a writing desk and a 
tall, live rubber plant next to the only window. A small stack of 
beauty magazines lay on the coffee table. There were no knick knacks or 
cutesy stuffed animals that one might expect to find in a woman's 
apartment. No photographs of family or friends. Nothing personal. 

“Did she leave the apartment like this?” McKay asked. 

“There wasn't much to clean up. I tidied up the sofa bed and washed a
few dishes.” Alice sat down on the sofa and began to cry softly, her 
shoulders jerking with faint spasms. After a moment she composed 
herself. “She always left the stereo playing so she wouldn't feel so 
alone. I wanted her to move in with me, but she couldn't because she 
was always entertaining.” 

“The super didn't mind?” 

“Not as long as she was discreet. She only handled a higher-class
clientele. The kind that doesn't want publicity, or who would be 
unlikely to cause a disturbance. And I believe she gave Larry something 
extra a month to look the other way.” 

“You mentioned a client list in a diary?” 

“Something like that, yes, she mentioned having one, once; I think she
kept it on a lap top.” 

“OK, Alice, I want you to do me a favor. Go in the bathroom, and don't
come out until I tell you to.” 

“What're we doing, playing hide-and-go-seek?” she said, pursing her
lips. 

“McKay gave her a slightly jaded, wry look. 

When the bathroom door closed behind her, McKay opened the closet,
pushed the clothes aside, going through the pockets; he shifted through 
boxes on two shelves and found a small cache of floppies, each with a 
name printed on a white label. He pocketed them. In the kitchen he 
found a lap top on the table and removed the floppy that was in it. 
Then he went through the refrigerator and freezer and the cabinets one 
by one, examining anything that might conceal anything important. He 
examined the stereo and found it contained a hidden spy camera hooked 
to a VCR on a lower shelf in the console. When he was through, he 
called out for Alice. 

When she emerged from the bathroom, she gave him a tongue-in-cheek look
and sat back down on the sofa. 

“I have to pee,” he said. 

Going into the bathroom and looking around he noted a bottle of purple
fingernail polish. He examined his face in the mirror and smiled. 4 

McKay was wearing a gray sharkskin suit, black tie and a blue shirt. He
was leaning against a filing cabinet idly watching his partner, Pol 
Andersen, who was standing next to the late Julian Blakemore, a 
prominent defense attorney, studying the bullet holes. 

Blakemore was slouched down in a swivel chair behind his desk, his head
thrown back, face toward the ceiling. 

The right side of his face and shoulder was covered with dried blood. A
dime-sized spot of blood stood out in the middle of his chest. 

“Took one in the temple up close, flash burns. Muzzle must've been
almost touching. .38 maybe. The one in the chest, near the heart, was 
farther away, six or seven feet.” 

Andersen, a big, broad-shouldered Swede, was chewing on a toothpick as
he moved around to the front of the desk. He turned to face the corpse 
holding his hand up as if it were a gun and stepped back until he was 
beside McKay. 

“Way I figure it, Mike, the shooter stood about here. He came in when he
knew the secretary would be gone to lunch. Entered the office door and 
fired the first round, then he walked over to the body and administered 
the coup de grace with one to the head. Has all the marks of a mob 
hit.” 

“And the room is sound proof so nobody would have heard the shots,”
McKay added. 

“That's it -- pure and simple.” 

“Mm, I don't know. Not so pure and not so simple.” 

“Whatdaya mean, Mike?” The Swede folded his thick arms across his chest
and turned to look at McKay who continued leaning nonchalantly against 
the oak filing cabinets. 

“The chest shot wouldn't have been immediately fatal.” 

“Well, so?” 

“Where's all the blood?” 

The Swede glanced at the corpse and shrugged. 

“If the heart was still pumping after he was shot, there should be blood
all over his chest. But there isn't any. But there is plenty of blood 
coming out of the head. It's all over his right side.” 

“OK then, where does that get us, Mike?” 

“The head shot had to come first. The heart was pumping blood out of the
head wound but by the time the second shot was fired into the chest the 
heart had stopped beating. 

“Assuming you're right, Mike, why would someone pop him in the head then
step out in front of the desk and pop him again?” 

“To make it look like a mob hit, maybe?” 

McKay walked around behind the desk. There was a bloody puddle on the
top of the desk, about where the head would have rested if someone had 
been napping. Most of the drawers had been pulled out. Some papers and 
folders were strewed about on the floor. The center drawer remained 
closed, begging to be opened. Careful not to disturb the body, he 
pulled it out. Inside was a video tape. There were some freshly dried 
red smudges on one corner. 

The tape was a blank. The right spindle was empty. He flipped it across
the desk to Andersen. 

“What about prints?” 

“I wouldn't worry about that. I have a feeling what's on the tape is
what this is all about.” 

The Swede put the tape in a VCR next to a wall of expensively bound
legal texts. 

The scene opened on a man and woman having sex doggie style. 

“Holy shit,” Andersen exclaimed. “Mike, isn't that David Corelli, Nick
Corelli's son, the one who announced his candidacy for mayor?” 

McKay nodded distractedly. 

“I told you it was a mob hit,” Andersen gloated. “Blakemore was
blackmailing Corelli and Corelli, or one of his boys, whacked 
Blakemore. 

McKay stared at the rubber plant next to the window and the tweedy sofa
and shook his head slowly. 

~ ~ ~ 

Blakemore's pretty, brunette secretary was seated behind her desk
sniffling into a handkerchief. A dour-faced female police officer was 
standing by the hall door blocking the curious from entering. 

McKay sat down on the edge of the desk and waited for her to compose
herself. 

After a moment she glanced up at him, a sad, sweet smile, eyes
glistening. 

“I'm sorry, Mary,” McKay said, reading her name off the nameplate on the
desk, but I need to ask you a few questions.” 

She nodded, arching her back and squaring her shoulders. 

“What time did you go to lunch, Mary?” 

“At twelve. I have an hour, until one.” 

“When you left was anyone with Attorney Blakemore?” 

She shook her head. 

“No. A Mr. Corelli had an appointment for eleven-thirty, but he never
showed.” 

“I see; who made the appointment for Corelli?” 

“It was made earlier this morning; I'm not sure; I must've been on a
break or somewhere else when it came in; it's a mad house around here 
at times. A woman's voice, I assume Mr. Corelli's secretary.” 

“And when you got back at one Mr. Blakemore was dead?” 

Mary suppressed a sob, holding the handkerchief at the ready by her
mouth, and nodded. 

“Could you check something for me, Mary? I need to know if an Ann Wilson
was ever a client of your boss.” 

Mary turned to her desk computer, dabbing the handkerchief at the corner
of her eye, and tapped some keys. When a client list appeared she 
scrolled down. 

“Yes,” she said. “It's been awhile, almost four years.” 

“Can you tell me why she was seeing Blakemore?” 

Mary shook her head. 

“I'm sorry, Inspector, but the case files are confidential.” 

“That's all right. I think I know anyway.” 

McKay stood. 

“You can go on home now, Mary,” McKay said, thanking her. 

He stepped up to the dour-faced officer. 

“Have someone notify Mrs. Blakemore, Kelly.” 

5 

Later that afternoon, hours after he had sent in his official report,
McKay got a call telling him that the Chief of Detectives, Captain 
Waters, wanted to see him. 

Waters' large office was on the third floor. McKay tapped on the frosted
pane of the door and entered. Next to Waters' desk was a middle-aged 
man, seated in a leather arm chair, dressed in a dark brown Armani, 
with a tropical tan. McKay recognized the rugged, Hollywood-handsome 
face of Commissioner Blaine Jarvis. 

“Mike, come in,” Waters said grinning. “Grab a seat. You know the
Commissioner.” 

McKay nodded toward the tanned face with the flashy white teeth and took
a seat in a matching leather chair on the opposite side of Waters' 
desk. 

“I was just telling the Commissioner what a hell-of-a job you did on
solving this Blakemore case so quickly.” 

“Yes, a splendid job, McKay,” the commissioner said, taking out a gold
cigarette case from the side pocket of his coat. “The mayor is very 
pleased, and not just because he would have had to face Corelli in the 
upcoming mayoral race. As you know, the Corellis have a hand in every 
corrupt enterprise in the city: extortion, drugs, gambling, 
prostitution -- you name it. And with a Corelli in the mayoral office 
their control would have been total.” 

The commissioner tapped an unfiltered cigarette on the side of the case,
then smoothly slid it back in his pocket. From another pocket he fished 
out a gold lighter, lit the cigarette and flashed McKay another broad 
smile as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. 

“Well, it's nice to be appreciated,” McKay said, rubbing the flat of his
hand along the side of his chin. “But I think congratulations are a bit 
premature.” 

Waters, who had been propped on an elbow, straighten up and leaned back
in his swivel chair; a guarded look was passed to the commissioner. 

He sniffed a couple of times, twitching his nose, then tapped his
forefinger on a couple of manila folders lying on his desk. 

“Andersen seems to think it's open and shut, Mike. What's the problem?” 

“Well, for openers there's a Jane Doe lying in the morgue who was
murdered about a month ago, about the same time a hooker by the name of 
Ann Wilson disappeared. Now this Ann Wilson shows up in a video, 
stashed in Blakemore's desk, screwing David Corelli. Seems likely 
there's a connection between Doe-Wilson and Blakemore's murder. 
Furthermore, Blakemore is dead from a gunshot to the head by someone 
whom he trusted enough to let them get up close and personal -- that 
lets Corelli off the hook; but this someone, wanting to make it look 
like a mob hit, put a round through his chest after he was already 
dead. Why? To frame Corelli.” 

Waters gave McKay a deprecating smile and pushed his rimless glasses up
off his nose. 

“Mike, Mike, look --”. He broke off, drummed his thumbs impatiently on
the desk, then sighed with frustration. “You're making a mountain out 
of a molehill. First, you have no way of knowing that your Jane Doe is 
this Ann Wilson. Ann Wilson is a hooker. You know how hookers are, 
Mike. She might be anywhere -- left town. Hell, who knows, who cares? 
And even if they are the same person it doesn't mean her death or 
disappearance has a connection to Blakemore's murder. If Ann Wilson's 
dead it's probably because some john got carried away and whacked her. 
Happens all the time. Second, I haven't got Freddie's report on 
Blakemore -- too soon, but I'm sure when I get it there will be a 
reasonable explanation about the lack of blood on Blakemore's chest 
that you mention in your report. You just got it wrong this time, Mike. 
It happens. Hell, we all make mistakes.” 

“If Corelli killed Blakemore because Blakemore was blackmailing him, why
did he leave the video behind?” McKay asked. 

“Damn it, Mike, who knows? He probably ran out of time. May have
panicked or thought he heard someone coming.” 

“No one panicked or ran out of time,” McKay stated confidently. 

“How do you know that, Inspector McKay?” the commissioner asked, his
brown eyes alert with interest; he held his cigarette Turkish style 
inverted between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, palm up. 

“Because whoever shot Blakemore in the head made a deliberate show of
searching through his desk before shooting him in the chest.” 

“How could you know that?” Waters asked, echoing the Commissioner. 

“There was blood on the video cassette. The shooter had to have had it
outside the drawer which was shut until I opened it. After Blakemore 
was dead, the shooter raised him up and placed the cassette in the 
middle drawer of the desk and closed it. The other drawers were rifled 
to make it look like a search had been made. There was plenty of blood 
on the desk top where Blakemore's head fell after the head shot; 
there's no blood on the carpet beneath his head in the position we 
found him. Somebody moved the body.” 

Waters leaned back in his chair, making it creak in protest, and clasped
his hands behind his bald head. 

“Could have been smudges of red ink or ketchup on the video, Mike.
Listen -- no matter how interesting your take on it is, it's all just a 
little too far fetched for an old fashioned policeman like me to 
swallow. I don't like complications. It makes things messy. And in a 
high profile case like this, messy is he last thing you want. Besides, 
Mike, when you get to be as old as I am you will have learned that some 
things have to be pretty much cut and dry. This case is going to be a 
political hot potato, if you get my drift. The mayor, the media, the 
public -- everyone will be screaming for us to solve this case as 
quickly as possible. Now if I went with you it might take forever with 
no definite results. And why do it? Why branch off into the unknown 
when we have an obvious suspect with a strong motive? I'm afraid I'm 
gonna have to side with Inspector Andersen on this one. It's open and 
shut, Mike. Case closed.” 

McKay dropped his chin and let out a deep sigh. 

Waters leaned forward and placed his hands palm down on his desk with a
note of finality. 

“What I want you to do now is concentrate all your attention on locating
David Corelli and bringing him in -- and the sooner the better.” 

“Even if he's not our man?” McKay said, standing. 

“We'll let a jury decide that, Mike. That's what they're for.” 

6 

A little before noon McKay put on a pair of jeans, strapped on his .38
above his ankle, then slipped on some white, scraggily joggers and a 
black T-shirt and drove to Alcorn Court. He walked to the park and sat 
down on a green bench on a path near the tennis courts to watch a young 
couple battling back and forth. 

A mauve sky in the west threatened rain. A few, fat drops -- precursors
of things to come -- splattered against the concrete path, then 
abruptly stopped. 

In a few minutes he heard the rapid smacking of rubber soles against
pavement that slowed as they drew near. 

“Mike.” 

Alice Mason came to a stop in front of him. 

She was wearing red, jogging shorts with slits up the sides and a black
sports bra. A black sweat band held her blonde hair back. She glanced 
at him nervously. 

“Is there something new?” 

“No, she's still officially listed as a missing person.” 

She studied his face thoughtfully for a moment, then seemed to relax a
little. 

“I saw the article in the paper yesterday about the Jane Doe you found.
I know it's Ann. She wouldn't have gone this long without notifying me 
if she were still alive. Seeing the article suddenly made me realize 
that. Ann's gone; I just have to accept it and try to go on.” 

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes which she wiped with the backs
of her hands. 

McKay took his arm off the top of the backrest and gripped the iron arm
rest of the bench with his hand. 

“Do you know an attorney by the name of Blakemore, Julian Blakemore?” 

She glanced toward the couple playing tennis, then directed her gaze to
something just over his shoulder. 

“Umm, he was mentioned at the club last night. Someone murdered him,
didn't they?” She stopped to reflect, then smiled. “Grammar's odd isn't 
it? I start with a singular pronoun and end with a plural.” 

“Did Ann ever mention him to you?” 

“Uh, not that I can remember. Why?” 

A few drops of rain were audible against the concrete. The tennis couple
had stopped playing and were gathering their things up. The man, young 
and slender, mopped his face with a white towel, then made as if to pop 
the woman with it. She shrieked, then strutted just out of reach 
cocking her hips in a playful taunt. 

“I found a tape in Blakemore's desk of Ann and David Corelli, the
candidate for mayor, having sex. I recognized her from a mugshot in the 
database.  Her apartment.” 

“My God,” Alice murmured. “I remember her telling me once that David
Corelli was one of her clients, but why would Blakemore have a tape of 
her with Corelli?” Then her face suddenly lost its puzzled look. 
“Blackmail?” 

“That's the commonly held view,” McKay answered with a dry tone. 

“But you don't buy it?” 

Before McKay could answer a heavy gush of wind blew down on them. The
nearby maples swayed like dancers as air swooshed through their mat of 
leaves. Rain began to pelt them. 

“Come on, inspector,” she cried gaily, as McKay rose to his feet
hunching his shoulders. “We can dry off at my place.” 

They didn't hurry. It was a downpour. They were instantly soaked. 

. 

An arm appeared inside the half opened bathroom door dangling a red
towel. 

“You can wear this, Mike, until the dryer's done.” 

McKay took the towel, and the hand waved bye-bye. 

“Come out when you're ready, and I'll fix us some coffee.” 

But when McKay stepped out of the bathroom into her lavender bedroom
Alice was standing by the double bed. The covers had been drawn back. 
Like McKay, all she had on was a towel. Her breasts swelled against the 
top threatening to spill out. 

“Or tea . . . or me?” she teased. Then she dropped the towel. 

Afterwards, she lay against him nibbling at his earlobe, darting her
tongue down to tease the corner of his mouth. The palm of her hand 
warmed his half-erect cock. 

She brought the hand up and stroked the hard abs and chest muscles. 

“You must work out a lot.” 

“Ah, I stagger into a gym occasionally,” he answered. 

“Humph, you don't get a body like this occasionally.” 

McKay touched her belly, then moved his hand farther down to a tight
wetness. She gasped softly and snuggled closer to him. 

“It's nice having sex with a woman who shaves her nooky.” 

She drew her face back from his, and grinned coquettishly. 

“Did you like it?” 

“That doesn't begin to cover it.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

She smiled contentedly and stroked her fingers though his hair. 

“Mike,” she said in a more serious tone, “why don't you ‘buy' the
blackmail motive?” 

“Because it's all wrong; and I don't like the slant headquarters is
trying to put on it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, the way they want to see it is that Blakemore hired a hooker to
tape herself having sex with Corelli. Which is true, but they want to 
believe there was no connection between Ann's death and Blakemore. They 
don't want to make things complicated. They want to frame Corelli for 
Blakemore's murder, pure and simple. It's politics -- not justice.” 

“You think Blakemore killed Ann to keep her quiet about his having her
make the tape?” 

Mike nodded. 

“But you don't believe he was killed by Corelli?” 

He nodded again. 

She remained silent for a long moment then sighed. 

“It's all rather confusing to me, Mike. But maybe there isn't any
connection between Ann's death and Blakemore, and couldn't Corelli have 
done it, Mike? It makes sense.” 

McKay gave her a summary of the argument he gave the chief and the
commissioner, but in the end he realized, like them, that she was 
reluctant to accept his perspective, although she never said so 
outright. 

The rain had stopped when McKay left, but gray skies still threatened. 

As he got out of his car in front of his lake side condo two large suits
with burr cuts confronted him. 

“Mr. Corelli wants to see you,” the one with dark hair and a bent nose
said. He patted McKay down quickly and professionally taking the .38 
and sliding it in his coat pocket. 

The other, a blond with close set eyes, opened the back door of a black
sedan and nodded for McKay to get in. When he was seated, the blond got 
in next to him. Bent nose behind the wheel. 

They drove up into the hills where the mansions were. 

McKay could see winding lanes trailing off behind iron gates losing
themselves among park-like lawns dotted with massive magnolias and 
elms. These were the estates of the rich and powerful who knew how to 
play life's little game. These were the people the gods smiled upon. 
The blest. Just a dab of special gray matter -- such a small thing -- 
separated them from the masses, yet made them superior and, through no 
effort of their own, capable of enjoying the luxuries of a life that 
the common man could only dream about. 

They entered through a gate, bordered by large pillars of stone with
round bronze balls on top, and after weaving down a circular path 
arrived at a gray, stone-like fortress with huge oak doors, cut glass 
windows, and turrets. 

Bent nose parked the sedan in front of a long series of car garages;
McKay counted them automatically. There were sixteen. 

The blond motioned for him to get out. 

The air was misty and water dripped from the eaves near the huge
entrance doors onto some lacquered-leafed hollies neatly mulched with 
cypress chips and bordered with white quartz. 

“Round back,” bent nose said, leading the way along a stone path. The
blond followed close behind McKay. 

The air was rich with a lush, earth smell -- a clean, fresh, after-rain
smell that was invigorating. Trees dripped silently into the smooth 
mown lawn that stretched out from the border of the house in a 
leisurely fashion. 

McKay could hear what sounded like wood being chopped as they crossed a
patio of flagstone and went down some steps. They followed a curving 
path to where an arched bridge crossed a small stream by a stand of 
willows. Just on the other side next to a loose pile of wood was a 
gray-headed man of medium height quartering blocks with a double-headed 
ax. 

He was wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans and thick-soled, brown boots. And
despite his age -- which McKay estimated to be in the late sixties -- 
looked to be in excellent physical shape. He continued deftly 
quartering the block of wood he was working on, then buried the ax 
blade in the chopping block with a powerful thunk and cast a faint 
smile, or grimace, at McKay -- it was hard to tell which. 

“OK, Lenny, go on up to the house and tell Emma to set out a couple of
beers on the patio,” he said to bent nose. 

When they were gone, the old man turned to McKay, his eyes keen as a
hawk's. 

“I'm Nicholas Corelli, if you didn't already know. I've heard a lot
about you, McKay. You've got a good record. You're one of those rare 
birds: an honest cop. Probably the smartest cop on the force, but 
you'll never go beyond sergeant. Wanna know why?” 

McKay didn't answer. 

“Because you're not a team player. You don't play ball the way the big
boys want you to.” 

“I've heard a person can get dirty playing ball the way they do.” 

Corelli smiled his grimace-smile. “The world's a dirty place.” 

“I never grew up,” McKay answered flatly. “But if you wanted a crooked
cop I wouldn't be here, would I?” 

Corelli motioned with his hand, and they started back up the path. Gray
clouds moved across the sky. Wet magnolia leaves flickered in a soft 
breeze sprinkling the two men. 

“Yes. You're right, of course. I need a man who -- or is it whom? -- I
know is trustworthy. The world is full of liars and thieves, and, in 
their place, they serve a useful function, but when you want something 
done right you need an honest man. Your Commissioner Jarvis, the mayor 
and that son of a bitch, Chief Waters, are playing politics. They don't 
want my son to become the new mayor; so they're setting him up for a 
murder he didn't commit.” 

“How do you know he didn't?” 

“Because I know my son,”Corelli stated bluntly. 

“Does he have an alibi?” 

Corelli gave him a licentious smile. 

“One can be provided. But that's not the point. An arrest in this affair
will end his chance to become mayor.” 

As they stepped up onto the patio a pretty, black woman in a tan frock
was setting icy mugs next to two green, beaded bottles on a brass 
wrought table. 

Corelli waved McKay toward a padded chair on one side. 

“Your son hasn't been arrested yet; and if he can provide an alibi --” 

“You may be right,” Corelli cut in, “but I can't chance that.” He tilted
his mug and poured a bubbling, dark stained brew into it. “I understand 
you've been taken off the case?” 

“Your source is good; the case has been closed; the only loose end is to
bring your son in.” 

“Yes, and they wouldn't have closed the case if it wasn't in their minds
to indict my son -- a swift hearing -- then bing! You know as well as I 
that grand juries are merely rubber stamps for the prosecution. Even if 
he's proven innocent later on, they know the damage will have been 
done. It's politics, McKay, not justice.” 

“As you said, it's a dirty game.” 

“What would you say if I told you I have information that might lead you
to the real murderer. What would you say to that?” 

“I'm not in the market for a patsy.” 

“Please,” Corelli said, raising both his hands in mock appeasement. “I
wouldn't insult your integrity or intelligence with such an offer. Any 
lead I come up with will be legit. I only ask that you put your effort 
into finding the real murderer before my son is arrested.” 

“Why me?” Mckay asked, turning his mug up for a drink. 

“Going by your past record I'd say because you're the only one
intelligent enough to find the real murderer, if possible, and you're 
the only one honest enough to care that justice is done.” 

McKay stood, taking one last drink, then set his mug on the table. 

“OK. But just for the record I was going to continue on the case
anyway.” 

Corelli leaned back in his chair and smiled, his eyes cold as a cobra's.


. 

Out front a cab was waiting for him. 

“Mike, since when you been hobnobbing with the Corellis?” 

“Joey. Nick Corelli invited me over to tell me what a wonderful person I
was.” 

Joey chuckled and shook his curly-haired head. 

“Home, Mike?” 

“Yep. That's where the heart is, isn't it?” 

Joey turned and handed McKay his .38. 

“Big feller with a busted nose told me to give you this.” 

McKay slipped the weapon back into its ankle holster. 

Joey guided the cab along the curving lane and out past the gate. 

“Ain't it sumpin', Mike. A Corelli runnin' for mayor. Crooked as hell
and people will probably vote for 'im. Just like the Kennedys. Old Joe 
crooked as hell, in with the Mafia, bootleg whiskey, killed a few 
people along the way, then to get respectable runs his son for 
President. And it worked. People are dumb-asses, Mike.” 

David Corelli came out to where his father was sitting after McKay had
left and sat down. 

“Let that be a lesson to you, David,” the older Corelli mused. “Honest
men are useful. But their lives are futile. When I die thousands of 
people will come to my funeral and mourn, but how many do you think 
will come to McKay's funeral? Hell, he'll be lucky if an old dog will 
come and piss on his grave. It's not how good you are, but how good 
people think you are that counts. Someone loses his job, I get him 
another one; a family loses their home, I get a building and loan 
company -- that I own -- to get them another at inflated rates. And the 
dumb bastards think I'm a fucking saint. They're too stupid to know 
that I fill their kids with junk, turn them into pimps and whores; that 
I take their hard earned salaries with my gambling casinos, or half 
their earnings through extortion; yet because I tip heavy in a 
restaurant with money I've stolen from them, or tithe in their stupid 
churches with money I've extorted, they love me. Remember this, Dave, 
people are sheep; people are sheep, and they get what they deserve.” 

. 

When McKay got back to his condo a message was waiting for him on the
answering machine. A woman's voice. 

“If you want to know who killed Julian Blakemore pick me up at the
corner of Madison and Chestnut. Ask for Rose.” 

It had started to rain again by the time McKay pulled up in front of
Byer's pool hall. A few pros were hanging out in the doorways of 
adjoining buildings, a couple were holding newspapers over their heads. 
One of them, a tall, black woman, tossed her cigarette off into the 
street and approached McKay's car as he lowered the passenger window. 

“You uh cop, suuugah?” She leaned down nonchalantly to look at him with
the shrewdness of ages showing in lacquered-lidded eyes 

“Do I, the fuck, look like one?” 

“How the hell would I know, hon? Are you hung? I like white boys who're
hung.” 

“Four and a half hard -- but I'm looking for Rose.” 

“What the hell you want with that skinny bitch when you could have these
to play with?” She cupped an ample breast underneath and jiggled it. 

“Nice, baby, but I'm in the mood for what Rose is selling.” 

She gave him the long look people give the foolish, then a lazy,
disgruntled sigh; with one hand she tapped a rhythmic drum on the roof 
of the car and stood back. 

“Rose, you got a special request,” she called out, glancing over her
shoulder. 

A petite brunette moved out from one of the crowded doorways. 

“What's you got, scraggly white girl?” the black hooker chided as she
sidled past her. 

“I've got it, honey; I've got it. Don't you worry your black ass none
about that.” 

The black whore chuckled. 

“Girl, you'd better wash your mouth.” 

The brunette was still smiling when she got in the car. 

McKay pulled away from the curb. 

She was prettier than he expected. Street whores were usually bottom of
the barrel. She looked young, but world weary. Maybe fourteen, fifteen. 
Her eyelids were tinted blue to match her eyes. Crooked teeth gave her 
face an impoverished look. Her figure was trim and curvy. Full breasts. 
She was wearing a black mini-skirt and a yellow tank top. No bra and 
probably no panties. 

“Can we get something to eat? I'm hungy.” 

McKay drove to a hot dog stand on a rise by the lake. The rain beat a
steady tattoo on the canvas awning overhead as they ate steaming hot 
dogs and greasy fries. 

“What I got gonna cost two bills,” she said, after washing down a
mouthful of food with a large slurp of soda. 

“Let's hear what you've got,” McKay replied. He stared out across the
lake. Even in the rain there were a few boaters motoring about far out, 
cutting white swaths in the slate-gray water. 

“I knew Ann a few years back, before she started hooking; she was
stripping,” she began, speaking around her food. “We had a thing until 
she met this other bitch by the name of Alice, who was a stripper, too. 
I was history after that -- mostly. Ann and me would still get it on 
occasionally; in secret though, cause this Alice was the real jealous 
type. And Ann was the type who couldn't stay with anyone for any length 
of time. She bored easily. Anyways, Ann told me once that she had been 
hooked up with a lawyer and his wife; they were into kinky sex: 
threesomes -- moresomes, bondage, S and M, you know, that kind of shit. 
And she said Alice found out and threw a shit fit telling her to knock 
it off or she'd slit her damn throat.” 

Rose paused to give McKay a significant look, then continued. 

“Ann didn't quit, natch; the lawyer and his wife were paying her too
much to turn down. The name she mentioned was Blakemore; same as the 
guy on the news who got whacked. Anyways, shortly after telling me all 
this, Ann turns up missing. It figures Alice found out she was still 
screwing around and killed her and the lawyer to get even. That's who 
your Jane Doe mentioned in the paper is, ten to one.” 

“And you want justice,” McKay said, intrigued by the way the girl
scarfed down her food unselfconsciously. 

“Sure,” she replied, without reacting to the cynicism in his tone. 

“Well,” she finally said, when she was through eating, “where's my two
bills?” 

“You've already been paid -- by Corelli; you shouldn't try to skim the
trough twice.” 

“I should have known better than to trust a fuckin' cop,” she said, with
a sour face. 

“ ‘Or a harlot for her weeping,' ” McKay murmured. 

He reached for his wallet and fished out a hundred and slipped it to
her. 

“Some of what you said might be useful, but you've offered no proof, and
you're wrong about Alice killing Ann.” 

Her face brightened as she shoved the bill in a small purse hanging from
her shoulder on a thin, gold chain. 

“Why do you say that?” 

“She doesn't have a car or a house with an adjoining garage or neither
does she live in a secluded area.” 

Rose stared at him with a puzzled expression, then shrugged and turned
to look out at the rain dripping from the awning. 

7 

Helen Blakemore lived up in the hills, too. High up on a stone-cliffed
knot that overlooked the city. The house was a three-story, molded, 
white stucco wrapped around with large plate-glass windows from top to 
bottom with a random placement of balconies. At one corner was a square 
tower with stained glass windows. 

McKay passed the main entrance which had an unused, ornamental look,
signaled by the small, neglected bushes growing at the edge of a 
slightly elevated red brick porch. He followed a black, paved drive 
that sloped down and around to the side and mushroomed out against a 
six car garage on the edge of the cliff. 

To the left, as McKay got out, were wide steps roughly carved into a
sloping, stone ledge that went up twenty feet or so to a terrace. 
Small, blue flowers grew from cracks. 

At the top of the steps McKay came to a tan, tile-covered surface
surrounding a rectangular pool, its straight, uncluttered lines 
matching those of the house. 

In it's blue, sparkling water was a nude woman with red hair swimming
toward him using a relaxed crawl stroke expertly executed. 

When she reached the edge, just a few feet from him, she gave a final
flutter kick and threw her arms up on the side. 

Glancing up, a look of surprise crossed her face, then a slow,
tantalizing smile. 

“Why don't you come in? The water's fine.” 

“Can't, I might melt,” he answered, flipping open his badge holder. “I'm
Inspector Mike McKay.” 

“Aw, and I thought this might be party time,” she said, turning her head
from side to side with mock disappointment. 

“You Mrs. Helen Blakemore?” 

“Yep, that's right.” 

“I need to ask you a few questions. Won't take long.” 

“Can I trust you?” 

“With what?” 

“To keep your eyes closed while I get out of the pool and get my towel?”


She nodded toward a patio table of wrought iron and glass where a canary
yellow towel hung over the back of one of four thickly padded green 
chairs. 

McKay closed his eyes and listened to the sound of a sparrow go
sweet-sweet-sweet from somewhere off -- followed by a plash and the 
faint pad of wet feet. 

“You can look now,” she said. 

She had wrapped herself in the towel and was drying her hair with
another. 

“I take it this has something to do with my husband's murder,
Inspector?” she teased, motioning for him to take a seat. 

“Just some routine questions.” 

“Well, anything I can do to help,” she said offhandedly. 

She wrapped the towel around her head turban style, then reached with a
leisurely show for a pack of cigarettes lying on the table. 

She was beautiful and knew it. 

“You don't seem too upset for someone who's just lost her husband.” 

“We all handle grief in our own ways, I guess,” she said, dryly. 

“Um, yes; and you seem to be handling it quite well.” 

She gave a shrug and smiled. Gorgeous white teeth. Green eyes flashing. 

“My husband and I had a marriage of convenience. An open marriage. I
married him for his money and social position. He married me for my 
looks. We liked each other, of course, enjoyed each other's company, 
but there was no great romantic love between us. We were both much too 
mature for that. Sex was our common raison d'être. We liked to 
experiment with everything life has to offer.” 

She lit a cigarette with a silver dolphin, baring her throat momentarily
as she blew a cloud toward the sky. 

“Does that shock you, Inspector?” 

“Menage a trois?” 

“A few. Are you interested?” 

“With a hooker by the name of Ann Wilson?” 

“My, someone's been talking.” 

“A video tape of her and David Corelli was found in your husband's
desk?” 

“Really? Is that why he was killed?” 

“I don't think so. I think somebody wanted it to look that way.” 

From where they were sitting, one could see out over much of the valley.
Long ago any trees had been cut down to give an uninterrupted view. A 
faint breeze stirred in from the south, fragrant and warm. Off in the 
distance, McKay could see the amethyst sparkle of the lake surrounded, 
at one end, by a neat patch work of buildings and streets that eased 
off into plotted farmland and rolling, forest-covered hills. 

“You had a life insurance policy on your husband, didn't you?” 

“Surely you don't think I would kill Julian for insurance money.” She
turned her head to one side, mildly derisive, smacking her lips. “He 
made plenty, and he was quite generous. I had everything I wanted.” 

“Did I give that impression?” McKay said with a mocking smile. “As I
said, I'm merely asking routine questions. One final one, though, and 
I'll get out of your hair. Where were you at noon the day your husband 
was shot?” 

“My, you really do think I killed him, don't you? But I have an alibi,
Inspector. I was with Alfonso; he tends bar at the country club.” She 
gave McKay a taunting look.” 

“I'll need to speak with him.” 

She sighed and put her cigarette out in an ashtray on the table and
picked up a cell phone. 

“I hope you'll be discreet, Inspector; there are still a few people in
the world who frown on my kind of life style.” 

She pressed a button on the phone. 

“Rebecca, would you bring me a rum and coke?” 

She glanced at McKay; he shook his head. When he had his pen and pad
out, she gave him an address. 

An attractive brunette came out carrying a frosted old fashion glass
chocked full of ice in amber. 

McKay stood, thrusting the pad and pen back into his coat pocket. 

“Stick around, Inspector; the afternoon's just starting; things could
get interesting.” 

She took Rebecca's hand and squeezed it. 

8 

Winding down out of the hills, McKay saw a black sedan following close.
Although Nick Corelli hadn't said so, in so many words, it hadn't been 
a request that McKay find Blakemore's killer. It had been an order. And 
McKay had a fair idea what would happen to him if he didn't comply. 

Alfonso Moreno lived in a walk-up apartment block. Latino music was
playing from a corner cantina as McKay entered one of the buildings and 
made his way up three flights of stairs, down a hallway of faded, brown 
carpeting and knocked on a door with a motley, brass fourteen. 

A swarthy, young man of medium height opened the door. He was wearing a
tight, red, muscle tee with white nylon shorts and had a muscular build 
with broad sloping shoulders, a narrow waist and thick, corded thighs. 
Curly, black hair ringed olive eyes set in a smooth, handsome face. 

Stud service was the message radiated to McKay's mind. 

“Yah, man?” 

He gave McKay the once over, eyes narrowing with a hesitant suspicion
that tightened the muscles of his cheeks. 

McKay flipped his badge. 

“I need to talk to you Al; name's Mike McKay.” 

“What about, man?” 

“Why don't we step inside and talk about it?” 

The narrow eyes studied McKay. The muscular shoulders raised slightly,
the chest swelling, as he took a deep breath. 

“OK, man, but I ain't done nothing.” 

The room was bare. Stock pictures hung on the wall. One of the Madonna,
behind cracked glass, looking sad and compassionate. A few porn 
magazines lay on a chipped coffee table in front of a black vinyl sofa. 
A couple of empty beer cans next to them. The pale, brown carpet had 
dark stains. 

“Nice place,” McKay said, and sat down in a creaking, straight-backed
chair adjacent to the coffee table. 

“It's a piece of shit. But what can you do on seven dollars an hour?” 

He sat down on the sofa, fidgeting, then reached for a pack of
cigarettes buried underneath a magazine. 

“You want a beer?” 

“Naw, thanks; still working.” 

McKay reached in his coat pocket and tossed a mug photo of Ann Wilson
onto the table. 

“You recognize her?” 

Alfonso picked the photo up while lighting his cigarette with a
throw-away and studied it. 

“Yah; I know her. She was always over at Helen's; she stopped coming
around about a month ago.” 

“Now I want you to think about this, Al: did you ever see Ann or Mrs.
Blakemore with a revolver?” 

“Yeah. Ann had this shiny revolver; she showed it to us once; bragged
about how she kept it under her pillow in case a trick got out of 
hand.” 

“Did Helen Blakemore ever come to this apartment?” 

“Yeah; she didn't like it though.” 

“Go figure. The day her old man got whacked?” 

Alfonso started to speak, then slumped forward and merely shrugged. 

“Alright, we'll let that ride for now. Were you with her all the time?” 

“Well, sure, hell, what you mean? We fucked.” 

“Did you leave the grieving widow alone, say when you went to take a
piss or slip on a rubber?” 

A light came on suddenly in Alfonso's eyes. 

“Yeah, but I remember now, she wanted some wine; I went down to the
corner and got some.” 

McKay reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty. He laid it
carefully on the corner of the coffee table and nudged it toward 
Alfonso with the tips of his fingers. 

“Al, you seem like a decent sort, and so, I'm gonna level with you. I'm
betting you twenty to nothing that the gun that killed Julian Blakemore 
is here somewhere in your apartment.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Take my word for it, Al. I'm a cop; that's how my fucking mind works.
Now if another cop were to come here with a search warrant and find 
this gun, you'd be in some serious shit. I'm talking murder one.” 

“Hey, man, that sucks. I didn't kill nobody, goddamnit.” 

“Relax, I know that, but it would be kind of hard to explain, wouldn't
it? A murder weapon showing up in your apartment.” 

“But you know how it got to be here, I suppose?” Alfonso said in a half
angry, half challenging, tone. 

“I know how, and I know why. So why don't you earn yourself a quick
twenty and see if I'm right. We'll call it a finder's fee.” 

Alfonso looked at the twenty, then stood slowly; the palms of his hands
slid up his thighs. 

He moved to the bedroom door, then paused and looked back at McKay with
a kind of pissed, whimsical expression. 

“You got any suggestions?” 

“Try your suitcase. Unless someone's getting ready to move, it wouldn't
normally be opened.” 

Alfonso disappeared into the other room. There were indistinct, muffled
sounds, then a scrapping sound like something being dragged off a 
shelf. A couple of snaps followed, then after a moment a whistle of 
surprise. 

Alfonso came back into the living room bearing a wistful expression and
a shinny chrome-plated, pearl handled .38 revolver in his hand. A 
handsome youth was just beginning to realize that he'd been played for 
a sucker -- safe bet it wasn't the first time and doubtful that it 
would be the last. 

9 

McKay started to climb back into his car when he saw the black sedan
parked back a few. 

The blond was riding shotgun. Bent nose was behind the wheel. The window
slid down as he approached. 

“Tell Corelli I want to see him." 

“You know who did it?” 

“That's the easy part.” 

. 

Corelli was in the office of The Emerald Club going over the books when
McKay arrived. 

He came out and motioned McKay toward a corner booth. 

“Pete, a couple of cold ones.” 

The bartender was a big guy with a big belly and a bald spot on the back
of his head. The thinning hair was black and greasy and an equally 
greasy looking mustache was pasted under a long, hooked nose. The 
mustache almost hid a harelip scar. He nodded. 

“Yes, sir, Mr. Corelli.” 

Corelli looked at McKay taking his time to light a maduro of a brand
McKay didn't know. 

He blew smoke into the air, then took the cigar out of his mouth with a
regal flourish, turning it between his thumb and forefinger with a 
savory glow of appreciation. 

The bartender set two beers down with glasses plopped over the necks. 

Corelli waited until he was out of ear shot. 

“I was going over the books; I don't really study them that close;
couldn't even if I wanted to; too many irons in the fire to do that, 
but they don't know that; keeps them honest if they think I'm checking 
up on them.” 

He took a few puffs, then continued: 

“That's what I admire about you McKay. Nobody's looking over your
shoulder; yet you remain honest: a man with ideals in a crass, 
materialistic world. It's men like yourself -- few though they are -- 
that keep this old world running straight. If all men were like me 
everything would be crap. And yet, when all is said and done, the world 
doesn't heap its rewards on men like you; it's men like me who reap the 
greatest benefits it has to offer. Seems ironic until you get a 
practical perspective, then, suddenly, everything makes sense. Idealism 
doesn't. Why do you do it, McKay? You're certainly no fool.” 

“I don't know; I'm not much of a philosopher. I only know what I see
when I look in the mirror, and I take it from there.” 

“Humph. Well, if you ever want a job that gives you some respect and a
decent salary, come and see me -- Anyways . . . Lenny said you know who 
wasted Blakemore.” 

“I know, but I can't prove it; everything's circumstantial.” 

Corelli sucked on his lips, turning the cigar in his hand; a cold glint
came into his eyes when he said, “Let me have it.” 

“Helen Blakemore shot him.” 

Corelli guffawed. 

“Well, it figures. He had a reputation for fucking around.” 

“Um, that's not why she shot him.” 

“Well, then, what the hell for?” 

“Life insurance. Over two and a half million.” 

“Smart bitch,” Corelli said. “She wastes her husband and rigs things to
frame my son figuring she'd get more from the insurance people without 
the risk of fucking with me and mine.” 

“Something like that,” McKay answered and took a sip of beer. 

“Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything, McKay?" 

“You've got everything you need to get your son off the hook. Your boy,
Lenny, has the .38 she used. I wiped it clean to protect the innocent, 
but there'll be prints on the bullets; so don't fuck with them. I'm 
certain you'll find a way to plant the gun on the Blakemore dame.” 

Corelli nodded. 

“So everything is wrapped up nice and neat, huh? You're a smart cookie,
McKay. Your way justice, at least the illusion of it, gets done.” 

“Not entirely,” McKay said. “Not entirely.” 

. 

When McKay got home there was a message on his answering machine: 

“Hi, tiger. It's me, Alice, the stripper, just in case you have a string
of us gals and can't keep track. Come to Cricket's tonight and I'll 
dance naked just for you. After I get off you can take me home, and 
I'll fulfill every male fantasy you guys have about strippers. Bye 
now.” 

10 

The parking lot around Cricket's was jam-packed with expensive cars.
McKay parked as far from the entrance as he could, where fewer cars 
meant less of a chance some drunk would ding his car. 

Under the marquee, glassed in cases, framed with florescent lights,
contained gaudy posters identifying the dancers. The headliner was 
extravagantly billed as ‘Mademoiselle Mimi Lamour, the international, 
exotic sensation from the Folies-Bergere of Paris, France.' 

A stiff cover charge guaranteed that the clientele would be mostly white
collar. The smoke was thick and oppressive. Cute, sexy waitresses, in 
skimpy outfits, weaved their way nonchalantly through the jostling 
crowd balancing their loaded trays with the ease of professional 
jugglers. 

The padded stools along the walkway were filled with horny drunks. They
were forking their money into the rhinestone G-string of a stripper who 
gyrated about teasing them with her lithe body and seductive smiles to 
the raunchy beat of a song called ‘Hot Leather'. It was a few minutes 
before it dawned on McKay that the stripper was Alice due to the 
lighting and heavy make up she wore. She pranced, shoulders back; her 
bare breasts jiggled; she fell to her hands and knees and slinked back 
and forth making kissy-kisses with her lips. Hands touched her 
semi-nude body, exploring as much of her as they could before she 
slipped skillfully out of their reach. 

She rolled on her back kicking her shapely legs up into the air, her
feet in a pair of mirrored, spiked heels. A blue light flickered over 
her body; then a strobe light kicked in to lapse frame her liquid 
motions into a series of jerky ones. A revolving glitter ball threw a 
rainbow of colors over everything: the people, the tables, the floors, 
the walls, the ceiling; it was like being on a psychedelic 
merry-go-round. She writhed sensuously as hands stroked her body. When 
she stood she was naked; the G-string in her hand along with a wad of 
bills. 

As the music played out she bumped and grinded her way behind a curtain
to raucous applause and whistles. 

The law stated that a stripper could not be fondled, but it wasn't
enforced -- if the owner had a ‘financial arrangement' with the heads 
of the various police departments. McKay knew that many laws were 
passed to play off people's contrary tendencies in order to create new 
excuses to levy fines when they were broken. Like making cars that go 
120 mph and romanticizing speed with sexy commercials, then making it a 
crime to go above 55. Or making the nude body of a woman off limits. 
Who could resist? 

McKay found a seat at the bar and ordered a double straight up. He was
on his third when a pair of cool, soft hands came from behind and 
covered his eyes. Soft lips touched his earlobe, teeth nibbled lightly. 


“Guess who.” 

McKay was aroused; he had thought the string of doubles would calm him
down, but they had only made him more so. He had a painful erection. 

She was smiling until she saw his face. 

“I told you, baby, I'm makable, anything you want. I'll do it for you.” 

She wasn't wearing the heavy make-up. Only lip stick and a little eye
shadow. 

“Let's get out of here,” McKay said, taking her hand. 

In the car, heading into the night, it started raining heavily. 

The windshield wipers swished back and forth. 

The tiny dash lights reminded McKay of the lights in the strip club.
Lights playing over the curves of her naked, writhing body. The whiskey 
he had drunk was fueling impulses he had tried to suppress. 

“One night when I was leaving the club, it was raining like it is now.
All I had on was my raincoat and a G-string. Just like tonight. Three 
teenagers grabbed me just before I reached my car. They're always 
hanging around the club trying to hit on the girls when they leave. 
They threw me in their car and drove out to Long Run where the lake 
borders the park. On the drive out two of them took turns raping me in 
the back seat. 

“When we got to Long Run the driver parked the car off road behind some
bushes leaving the headlights on. The two who had raped me forced me 
out face down in the wet grass while the driver got on top of me. After 
he came in me they all got naked and dragged me farther back into the 
woods. There they made me give each of them head. Then they made me 
fuck all three of them at the same time. 

“It wasn't until they dragged me back into the headlight beams that I
saw their faces. They were my students from an art class I taught as a 
sub. 

They left me naked in the park. The next day I wandered onto a farmer's
property, and he drove me home.” 

When McKay got to Long Run she indicated the spot, and he pulled the car
off the road. 

“Take your clothes off and get out,” he said. 

She looked at him wistfully as she slipped out of the raincoat and
wriggled out of the G-string. 

“You know, don't you?” 

“Yes.” 

“I figured you would find out; you're smart.” 

“Toss them in the back,” he said, indicating the clothes. “And the
heels, too.” 

“When did you know?” she asked. 

He nodded at her hand. She took her silver ring off and tossed it in the
back. 

“After Blakemore was killed with a .38 I remembered from searching the
databases about Ann Wilson that she had a .38 registered in her name. 
Before, when we went to her apartment, I searched it to see if I could 
find any evidence that she was blackmailing any of her clients -- 
tapes, disks, etc. -- if there had been a gun I would have found it. 

“The manner of Blakemore's death was puzzling. Headquarters wanted to
believe that David Corelli shot him in the chest, then administered a 
head shot. But that's not consistent with what happened. That would 
have been the way Corelli might have done it, but he didn't. Whoever 
killed Blakemore had his confidence. The head shot was administered 
first. This was a person Blakemore was close to. Perhaps even intimate. 
This was a person who wanted Blakemore's death to look like a suicide. 

“I, at first, suspected the wife, but she wouldn't want his death to
look like suicide, then she would never be able to collect on the life 
insurance; and why the head shot first? If she was planning on 
double-crossing her husband and framing Corelli, why not just shoot her 
husband outright when she came in? And, of course, it dawned on me 
then. She hadn't come in with any intention of killing him. She was 
there to go to lunch with him or some such. She couldn't have killed 
him with the .38 simply because she didn't have it when she entered his 
office. 

“A little brunette hooker told me Ann was a stripper at Cricket's before
she became a hooker full time, and it was there she first met 
Blakemore. It's not much of a stretch to figure you knew him, too -- 
and in the Biblical sense. 

"Imagine Helen Blakemore's horror when she entered Blakemore's office
and saw her meal ticket shot to death -- apparently a suicide. He must 
have originally been slumped forward, for there was blood on top of the 
desk too. She did some quick thinking. Obviously, they had been 
planning to blackmail Corelli with the tape. So she decided to arrange 
matters to make it seem like Corelli had killed her husband over a 
dispute about the tape. She took the gun and tilted his body back, then 
searched through his desk where she must've known he kept the tape -- 
something I figured out later. She took it out to make sure, and got 
blood on it before replacing it in the desk -- otherwise blood couldn't 
have gotten on it. She went around in front of the desk and shot him in 
the chest; put the gun in her purse; then set the clock back on his 
secretary's answering machine. Using her cell phone she called in an 
appointment for Corelli for eleven thirty. Then reset the clock to the 
correct time. 

“According to what her current stud, Alfonso, told me, she would have
guessed who the owner of the .38 was, and would have decided to hang 
onto it. Since she couldn't be sure that someone wouldn't remember 
seeing her come into the office building; and she didn't want to take a 
chance on being accused of murdering her husband when all she was 
guilty of was trying to defraud the insurance company. If push came to 
shove, she reasoned she could always pony the gun up and let Ann Wilson 
be arrested for the murder. For at that time she had no way of knowing 
Ann Wilson was dead. 

“I remember when I first met you at your apartment you were hoping
against hope that Ann was still alive, but when I mentioned a Jane Doe 
that had been discovered that morning, I could tell you were certain it 
was her. Now all you wanted was revenge for her murder. The next day 
Blakemore was executed. No doubt she had told you about the blackmail 
scheme, and you figured he killed her to keep her mouth shut. An idea I 
tried to plant with the Chief for my own reasons. 

“You were Ann Wilson's best friend, her lover; you were the only one who
had keys to her apartment -- outside of the super who plays no part in 
this. You are the best bet to have taken the gun which she always kept 
under her pillow. 

“At any rate, you went to Blakemore's office the next day, after I
talked to you, and shot him, arranging it to look like a suicide. You 
had been intimate with him; it would have been easy for you to get 
close enough for the head shot. I got the gun from Helen Blakemore's 
stud; she planted it on him so that if anything went wrong he would be 
left holding the bag. The bullets have Wilson's fingerprints on them -- 
or yours if you touched them. I left them there. Either way those 
prints and a good lawyer will clear Helen Blakemore of a murder charge. 
She'll only go up for attempting to defraud the insurance company. She 
won't do much time. The cops will be forced to chalk the murder up to 
the person whose fingerprints are on the bullets. 

“But you were wrong about Julian Blakemore; he didn't kill Ann --” 

She sat there in the glow of the dash lights, naked, defeated,
beautiful, her head bowed, her long blonde hair cascading over her 
shoulders. 

McKay took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and cuffed her wrists
behind her back. 

“Get out and stand in the headlights.” 

He reached over her thighs and opened the door. 

The rain pelted her naked body plastering her soft hair to her face and
shoulders. She blinked her eyes against the rain and turned her face 
sideways to avoid the glare of the headlights. McKay turned off the 
lights, then placed a red dome light on the dash, flicking it on. He 
sat watching her, naked, waiting for him. 

Slowly he took his clothes off. His cock was throbbing painfully. He got
out of the car and staggered toward her in the flickering red strobe 
light. The three whiskey doubles were making his head swim. Tormenting 
thoughts were swirling through his brain. He remembered Ann's face 
beneath him, begging. Her naked body writhing. He remembered her 
screams and his tremendous organism. 

He slapped Alice hard and shoved her down into the grass. Wind swooshed
through the trees. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed deafeningly. He 
stared down at her writhing nakedness, so much like Ann's -- and all 
the others. 

The rain fell red like blood down from the sky. 

“Who killed Ann?” she cried, her mouth filling with water. 

McKay's eyes blinked as rain pelted his face. 

“When I went to your apartment, the first time, I wanted to know how
much you knew. To see if Ann had told you anything; she obviously 
hadn't. I'd been force-fucking her off and on for several months after 
picking her up for prostitution. But when you told me she had a client 
list in a diary, I knew I had to find it and anything else that might 
incriminate me. Imagine my surprise when I found a stash of floppy 
disks, one with my name on it containing pictures of the two of us.” 

“You? You bastard! Why? Why?” 

“Oh, that's something for a psychiatrist to try and answer.” 

McKay kneeled and rubbed the palm of his hand over her breasts and
pinched the nipples crudely causing her mouth to contort into a 
grimace. 

“You see, I've always had this need to hurt women. It's what turns me
on. An urge I can't control.” 

He moved between her legs; she tried to get up; he slugged her, feeling
the jaw crack. 

While she lay half dazed, he shoved his cock in her, then began moving
rapidly in and out; the rain was cold on his naked back, but her cunt 
was warm like a tight, wet fist. 

As he began to cum he put his hands around her throat and squeezed hard.


When he finished, her open eyes were no longer blinking against the
rain. 

The rain no longer bothered her. 

The End 


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