BUZZING
Stephanie glanced at her notes. She was lecturing on Hawking radiation. She’d given this lecture a few times, and for the most part it flowed even though her mind was completely preoccupied. Reina had come in late, causing her a few minutes of panic, but as she’d taken her seat she’d flashed Stephanie a quick thumbs-up. She had the fake ID.
* * *
The body was covered in nasty welts and burns. Some of the burns were ringed with black, scorched flesh. When she was found, her eyes were wide-open. A pair of underwear was balled in her mouth, most likely to muffle her screams. Her blond hair was tangled and knotted as if she had twisted from side to side for some time. She was spread-eagle. Her hands were tied to the bedposts with black stockings and her ankles were bound with leather cuffs chained to the bed frame. The first detective on the scene at the Marlboro Street brownstone, Delguidice from Homicide, was puzzled by the stockings as he had found a second set of chained leather cuffs tucked between the mattress and box spring at the top of the bed.
The ankle restraints were only intended to keep her centered; her legs were kept fully spread by a steel rod attached by a second pair of leather anklets. Another steel rod extended up from the spreader, terminating in an inserted conductive dildo. The genital region was horribly burned. “Christ Almighty,” Delguidice said, shaking his head. This wasn’t kinky sex gone wrong; someone had deliberately tortured this girl to death.
Herron’s hood snagged on the yellow police tape as he stooped under. “Hey, Scott, what do you got?”
“Not sure, it’s pretty fucked up. Lieutenant said you knew the place.”
“Yeah,” Herron said. “Parrish. Dead guy, couple months back. Kept his mistress here on the company dime. I think the company still holds the lease.” He walked around the bed to see the girl’s face. “Damn, Scott. I think I know your girl, too.” Think, shit. He’d know that body anywhere. It was the blonde from Prenn’s place. No question.
It didn’t make sense. Maybe the widow found out? No, that was crazy. No way she did this. It was him. Herron felt it in his gut. He didn’t know why but he knew his guy. Prenn must have snapped. Fucking loony tunes. He was a killer. When he didn’t get what he want he lashed out.
“Scott, let me know what you get for prints. I think I know who did this. In fact, I’m pretty sure. Call the lieutenant. He’ll give you the story. I’m going to pick the bastard up.”
* * *
Just like on TV: small room, big mirror, table and a couple chairs. Alex watched the cop in profile in the mirror. Fischer was talking, calm, controlled. The cop looked like he was going to have an aneurysm. He kept trying to ask Alex questions directly but Fischer kept swinging him around. He was probably the best and certainly the most expensive criminal attorney in Boston. The cop was saying something, a question, but Alex didn’t hear him. He saw the expectant face, spit in the corner of his mouth. He could feel the hostility. The guy wanted to reach across the table and grab him. It didn’t matter, nothing did. His ears were buzzing, a low constant sound. He couldn’t hear anything the cop was saying or, for that matter, Fischer’s responses; it was all a dull distant murmur.
He had to figure this out. Breathe. The Bolshy was dead. Sam. Had to be. And framing him for it, but why? Eventually the cops would find Vanessa and then he’d be in even deeper shit. She’d have him killed. Pimp’s first commandment.
“If there’s nothing else, Detective,” Fischer was saying, making a show of pushing his papers together and stuffing them into his briefcase.
“Mrs. Parrish? She find out, tell you to end it hard?” That came through. Alex looked quizzically at the detective; his mouth started to open.
“Alex,” Fischer said, forcefully pushing his chair back, “we’re done here. Detective, if you decide you have cause to charge my client with a crime, perhaps you’d be so kind as to call my office. Otherwise...” Fischer looked into the mirror. The cop kept staring at Alex. Neither said a word. Alex got up and followed his lawyer out of the station. None of it made sense. His head started to spin as they walked down the steps of the precinct building. Fischer caught his arm.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, sorry.”
Fischer studied him for a second. “Go home, Alex. Get some sleep, have a meal, take a shower. You look like shit. If anything happens, I’ll let you know. I don’t think they’ll try anything like that again. They’ve got nothing and no business dragging you in. Let me take care of the police. You take care of yourself.”
And then his lips were just moving. And there was only the buzzing.