They worked the next two days on the case together, just the three of them and a handful of junior detectives. Jack found that he liked Bob quite a lot, but Lorena was elusive, to say the least. She came into the station each morning with bags under her eyes, a coffee in her hand, and some sort of junk food in the other. But Jack could understand why Bob said she was smart. She was. There wasn’t any denying it.
They’d interviewed a handful of potential eyewitnesses and possible perps. Nothing was panning out, but that’s how it usually went in homicide. Murder cases didn’t wrap up neat and tidy in a one-hour television span, minus commercials.
“The help all checked out,” Lorena said, her head popping up from her computer where she was eating lunch; a cheeseburger and greasy fries. “Still waiting for the lawyer to come back from Connecticut. She said she didn’t see anything, but our conversation was about ten seconds. She was catching a cab to go to her client’s office.”
Jack nodded and said, “Yeah, I got nothin’ with the neighbors, either. Places like that, spread out and ostentatious like that, it’s hard to get anything from the neighbors. Rich people build metaphorically higher fences.”
“No shit,” Bob agreed. “Nothing makes a good neighbor like a tall fence. Right, kid?”
“You got that right,” Lorena said. “That’s why I don’t move to your neighborhood. The fences are too short.”
Bob laughed, and Jack grinned. She even smirked. Jack was pretty sure that the shirt she wore was the same one from yesterday. He was recycling quite a lot because he still wasn’t unpacked completely, but he wasn’t sure what excuse she was using. There was even a smudge of black mascara or eyeliner under her right eye as if she’d jumped out of bed and came in without a shower or washing off last night’s makeup. She looked like a wreck. He wasn’t sure if even that weasely lawyer would hit on her now.
“Well, I don’t move to your neighborhood because I can’t afford the taxes,” Bob joked.
Lorena scoffed and replied, “Me neither. Ahh, but it’s still worth it not having to live around the little people.”
Something- probably grease- dripped from her burger onto the front of her white cotton blouse.
“Crap!” she said, trying to dab at it.
“Bad karma’s at it again, kiddo!” Bob joked and laughed at her dismay.
She just nodded and chuckled lightly.
They worked through lunch at their desks, trying to find some tiny crack through which evidence would spill. But they were coming up short every day. They needed a break.
“Hey,” Lorena said later in the day. “I got the M.E.’s official report, but that black hair sample didn’t come back.”
“What’s that?” Jack asked.
“There was a long black hair found at the crime scene. I’m not sure I saw that in any of the reports yet,” Lorena said.
“Right, kid,” Bob acknowledged. “I remember.”
“I’ll be back,” she said and sprang from her chair and right out of the room.
Today was a fairly social day for her. She hadn’t even put in the earbuds yet. Yesterday had been the total opposite. She’d barely surfaced from her computer long enough to eat and go to the bathroom. Bob said she was working up a profile on the killer and tracking him through her connections at the FBI. Jack had never felt comfortable working with the feds. They’d always come into one of his investigations and essentially tied his hands. She seemed to have a good rapport with one of them who was feeding her information through a series of emails that might help.
“I got a lead from this hooker informant I have downtown,” Bob explained a short while later when he hung up the phone.
“What is it?” Jack asked him.
Bob smoothed his mustache down, something he did a lot when he was thinking.
“She said there’s a place in the basement of an abandoned warehouse that she knows where it gets real kinky after dark if you know what I mean.”
“Oh yeah?”
Lorena burst through the door the next moment. She was holding a piece of paper and had changed into a new shirt. She must’ve found one or kept spares in her locker downstairs. She now wore a red t-shirt that clung to her curvy figure and accentuated her small waist. On the front of it was the symbol for their precinct and the back was covered with a statement for the American Red Cross with the cross symbol and information about a run-walk event. It must’ve been some sort of charity thing that the precinct had been involved in. Other than the gun on her hip and the badge sticking out of the front of her jeans, she looked like a college student, one who needed a shower.
“Got a lead, kid,” Bob told her as he rose from his seat.
“Cool, I got something, too,” she told them, extending the paper to Jack. “The red hair was synthetic. It wasn’t a human hair at all. It wasn’t from Mrs. Sarchione because I just called her to verify our inventory list of her belongings. She didn’t wear wigs. It’s from our killer. More specifically, it’s from a wig that our killer wore. There’s no other explanation. The housekeeper was a brunette, and we already took a sample from her. We found three black strands of hair, as well. The wife’s blonde. And it sure as heck isn’t from the vic. He was almost completely bald. The M.E. said the black hairs are real. We’re trying to pull something from them, but that’s gonna take a while.”
“And it was long?” Jack asked.
Lorena hit him with that direct hazel gaze of hers and said, “Yep, long, black. I guess you could call it brown more than black. Apparently our guy was into wearing wigs or did some serious cross-dressing or something. So we could be looking for a man with shoulder length black hair who wears a red wig.”
“Interesting,” Jack said with a nod.
Bob patted her back, “Good job. Good thing you remembered that. Now, let’s go interview my informant.”
This time, Lorena drove. A few times, Jack wanted to back-seat drive and tell her to slow down, but she only seemed to know one speed. And that went for the way she behaved and the way she drove, too. Evans was hyperactive and even fidgeted frequently. He’d caught her doing another handstand last night when he’d come back from a trip to the coffee shop down the street- it was considerably better than the bad coffee in the break rooms. Then yesterday morning she’d taken off and come back an hour later sweaty and wearing workout pants and a t-shirt. Bob explained that she’d probably run down to the local rec center where all the cops worked out for a quick kickboxing session. He’d never worked with someone like her before. She was definitely an interesting study and a strange little person.
She drove them to a dodgy end of Cleveland where Bob introduced Jack to his hooker informant. She certainly wasn’t Julia Roberts and neither was her black, drag queen friend in bright pink hot shorts and a yellow feather boa.
“Detective,” the informant whined, “why you always gotta be bustin’ my balls like this? I can’t keep meetin’ with you. People gonna talk.”
“Cut the shit, Sherry,” Bob warned.
Informants were usually like this. They whined. They complained. But in the end, the flash of cash in front of their noses would start them singing like canaries. He even had one turn in his own brother up in Portland for fifty bucks.
And Bob had obviously been around the block enough to know the tricks of the trade. He passed her a twenty.
“What do you know?” Bob pushed.
“See, there’s this place. They have parties there sometimes. It’s down between 23rd and Chester. There’s a warehouse, used to be part o’ the old steel mill.”
“I know the place,” Bob told them. “Shut down about a decade ago.”
“How do we get in?” Jack asked the informant, noting that the queen eyed him up. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a sizing up to ascertain strength or might, but an interest in seeing what Jack had hidden in his pants kind of eyeing up instead.
“Sugar, you ain’t gonna just go knockin’ on the door down there,” the queen answered for his friend. “That’d get yo’ fine ass killed. These people are straight up crazy. And that club’s exclusive. You ain’t got an invitation or go in with a friend, you ain’t gettin’ in.”
Jack frowned. That would put an obstacle in their path.
“You know it,” the informant said. “They got all kinds of security guards and dudes with guns and shit guarding that place on party nights. I don’t even go in there.”
“How do you know about it?” Lorena asked, drawing the attention of the other two.
“Sometimes my johns tell me things,” the hooker answered. “Loose lips and all.”
“What goes on in there?” Bob asked.
The informant clammed up, so Bob slipped her another twenty.
“Anything you want,” the queen said. “If anything is off the table at home, if you know what I mean, then the rich freaks get their rocks off in these clubs.”
He laughed, but they didn’t join in.
“Anything dangerous?” Bob asked.
“Could be,” the queen said for his friend. “Depends on what you consider dangerous. Autoerotic asphyxiation, bondage, role-play, dungeons and dungeon masters and mistresses. Whatever floats your boat.”
“Have you been in there personally?” Bob asked.
“A few times, but I’m not into all that,” the queen said, looking Jack up and down again. “I was just bartendin’ a few times. But I wasn’t workin’ the crowd or there for fun. I’m a lot simpler than that.”
“What about you, Sherry?” Lorena asked.
The informant shook her head and said, “No way. Not anymore. I don’t trust shit like that. There’s another place in Berea like that. Rich people. Always rich people. They always gotta get their rocks off on freaky shit. I don’t like it like that. I don’t trust those fuckers.”
“Why? Were you ever hurt in a place like that?” Lorena asked. “At one of these private parties?”
Jack was also curious as to why she was so against it.
“Yeah, once.”
“When?” Lorena prodded.
“’Bout six months ago. Round Christmas. I got paid a thousand bucks when I was hard up for cash to work a private party in some creepy ass fucking place like that. I hated every minute of it. There was drugs everywhere and we was forced to use ‘em. They said they wanted us mellowed out for the night, for the customers. I know now why they did that.”
“Why?” Lorena asked.
“Cuz no normal ho would stick around for freaky shit like that, not even for the grand they paid,” she said with a shiver, although the heat was scorching and the sun high.
“Describe it to me,” Lorena ordered carefully.
The hooker shook her head and started, “There was a lot of rich people there.”
“How do you know that?” Lorena interrupted. “How do you know they were rich?”
She shrugged and said, “These wasn’t your average rich people. They was the super elite rich. You could just tell. Some of the men had on real tailored suits. Some of my johns make a lot of money. You’d be surprised. But those folks at the party were way above any of my customers. I remember a lot of Rolex watches and expensive shoes. I like good shoes. I look at shoes a lot. The women, too.”
Jacked looked down at the hooker’s shoes, stacked blue platforms with a clear heel. He wondered if she also stripped.
“There were women there, too?” he asked her.
The queen answered for them both, “Oh, yeah. There’s always women there, and not just the ones working. A lot of rich women are into the weird shit, too, honey.”
Jack grimaced at the endearment and the way he was staring at him.
Bob showed them a picture of their victim and asked if either had seen him at the parties, to which they answered to the negative unfortunately.
“And what happened?” Lorena questioned again.
“There were rooms,” the hooker said, her eyes drifting off to the side as memories assailed her. “Some didn’t have no doors. Others did. The one I was in had a door with two locks. That was my bad luck. Weird fucks.”
“How come you never told me about this before?” Bob questioned his informant.
She shook her head and laughed at him. “Gettin’ gang banged by a bunch o’ old perverts ain’t somethin’ ya’ put on your resume, Detective Peterson.”
“Right,” he said with a nod of understanding.
Jack could tell that Bob had a soft heart, one that lent a lot of empathy for this woman and her plight.
“Were you injured?” Lorena went back at it. “Were they into pain and pleasure type of stuff?”
The informant nodded and looked at her stripper shoes for a moment. Then she looked at Lorena’s and frowned with obvious judgment at her black leather loafers.
“They were into bondage and watching,” she explained in a softer voice. “Some just watched. Guess that’s what got them off. But two of them were pretty rough. They were younger than the other older men at the party.”
“Do you think that any of them were gay, were into gay sex or clubs?” Bob asked.
The hooker shook her head vehemently and said, “No, no way. I would’ve known. They were straight. There wasn’t no gays there at all. They have their own clubs. This place was for bored wives and creepy old horn-dogs.”
Lorena nodded and kept making notes in her little black booklet.
“My girlfriend worked that night, too,” she offered. “She told me they were into tying up games in her room. She got tied up good. Her wrists were black and blue for a week after that.”
“Tied?” Lorena asked rhetorically. “What were the men like that were with your friend?”
“Just two in there,” she explained. “Just the two of them. She said they were younger, too. Maybe in their thirties or forties. It was hard to tell for sure ‘cuz most of them wore masks and wigs and shit to hide their identity.”
Jack looked at Bob, who raised his eyebrows. They were all three thinking the same thing. Wigs and ropes. Sounded like their guy.
“Do you remember if any of them wore a long red wig?”
“Um…” she stuttered. “I’m not sure. Maybe. It’s not like the lighting is too great in these types of places, Detective.”
“Where was this place you went?” Jack asked. “Could you give us the location?”
The queen broke in and said, “Sugar, they move around. It’s not like most of them have a valid liquor license and a legit business plan. The one we told you about in the old steel mill isn’t anything permanent. They set up times and places. Someone coordinates all of it. And then they meet up.”
“Who? Who’s the coordinator, the one who runs this shit?” Jack asked since the queen obviously felt comfortable talking to him.
“Who knows, sugar?” he answered, his deep voice betraying his gender.
Jack had to give the guy props, though. He was making grand efforts with the amount of makeup he had caked on every square inch of his face to appear feminine. Lorena wore less. Actually, Jack was pretty sure she didn’t wear much at all.
The queen continued, “Nobody knows that kind of stuff. It’s all kept on the DL. Wouldn’t want to ruin their day jobs.”
Jack nodded knowingly. If what the two of them had said was true, then definitely these wealthy businessmen and women wouldn’t want to trash their reputations in the real world by betraying their propensity to delve into the darker side of sex.
“Do you think you could get me in?” Lorena asked.
The queen laughed, a low and deep belly laugh as if he found the idea of Lorena crashing an underground sex party hilarious.
“Oh, baby,” he said after wiping his eyes. “Those kind of people would eat you alive.”
Lorena sent him a quick glare but kept her cool.
Bob stepped in to defend his partner, “She’s a lot tougher than you might think. Remember the river strangler last year?”
They both nodded.
“Well, the kid here, is the one who caught him,” Bob informed them.
“Damn,” the queen said, dragging out the word and clicking his fingers. “Girl’s got some game.”
“I can handle myself. I just can’t get through the front door,” she told them.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “These things are by invitation only. If you ain’t got the invite, yo’ ass ain’t gettin’ in.”
“Can you get your hands on one for me?” she pushed.
“Girl, you can’t get through the front door in those loafers and jeans neither,” the queen said on a slightly more subdued chuckle. Then he did the unthinkable and reached out to flip Lorena’s fat ponytail around his index finger, which got his hand smacked away. He just chuckled at her. “And this? Tragic.”
“I said I can handle myself. Can you get me in or not?” she asked with less patience.
The drag queen bobbed his head from side to side a few times and offered a skeptical look. But then he said, “Yeah, I can probably talk to a friend. Andre works these parties sometimes, too. He’s got more connections than my broke ass.”
“Good,” Lorena said.
“We’ll need two invitations,” Jack put in quickly.
Lorena shot him a heated look but didn’t say anything. Jack got the definite impression that she was not pleased with him crowding in on her plan. But situations like this required back-up. And Bob Peterson wasn’t exactly going to blend into a situation like an underground sex party. Hell, Jack wasn’t sure he could, either.
“You, too, sugar?” the queen asked. “Well, I might just have to put in an appearance there after all.”
Jack chuckled and offered a charming smile to help their situation along. It worked because the queen relaxed slightly and nodded.
“All right,” he said. “But only because Detective Foster’s going with ya’. He seems like a man that can handle himself...and handle you, too, honey.”
He pointed directly at Lorena, which obviously pissed her off. She shot him a nasty sneer.
“I can handle myself. I don’t need anyone’s help,” she informed them haughtily. “Just get me the damn tickets.”
“Okay, white bread,” he teased. “I’ll get ‘em and call ya’. Or should I call you, sugar?”
He was looking directly at Jack, so he handed him a card.
“Miami?” the queen asked immediately. “What the hell are ya’ doing here in Cleveland? You’d have to be running from something or crazy to move from Miami to Cleveland.”
“Guess I’m crazy,” Jack said with a grin. His new cards weren’t in yet, so the one he gave the queen had his old information on it, scratched out and hand-written above with his new phone number.
“Aren’t we all?” the informant asked.
Hoping for a good lead, Jack asked him, “Hey, you haven’t heard on the streets about a cross-dresser or transsexual who goes by the name Ginger or Gingerbread, have you? Maybe has dark hair and wears a red wig?”
The queen furrowed his Botox frozen brow, or attempted to, and shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard. We all wear wigs. Why do you ask, sugar?”
“What about a paid companion, preferably a cross-dresser?” he delved deeper. Someone had to know a man big enough to overtake another man and slice him to pieces, one who also enjoyed dressing in women’s wigs while doing so.
Sherry and her friend both shook their heads.
“Why you wanna’ know?” Sherry asked with suspicion.
“No reason, just a question,” Jack deflected.
“You got a thing for redheads?” the queen asked, hopeful.
“Yeah, maybe that’s it,” he joked with a grin.
“When’s the next party at this warehouse place?” Lorena asked, interrupting their discussion.
“Word on the street is that there might be one coming up next weekend,” Sherry told them.
“Good,” Lorena said. “We need to move quickly on this.”
Sherry said, “Look, they do pat downs- just like cops- at the door, so you ain’t gonna be able to wear your guns and shit.”
“Good to know,” Jack said with a nod. “Thanks.”
The queen stepped forward and said, “Give me a few days to stir up some invites for you two. It’s your heads. Don’t come cryin’ to me if you get yo’ asses raped and shot.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’ll wait for your call.”
Bob actually laughed. “Got it. Later, Sherry.”
“Bye, Detective Peterson,” Sherry said and turned to leave.
Bob grabbed her arm and passed another twenty into her palm.
“Stay safe out here, Sher,” he requested. “You call me if you need help or get into trouble.”
She nodded and smiled sadly.
They returned to their car, and the second they were inside, Lorena let him have it.
“What the hell was that? You’re tagging along with me? Did I ask you to do that?” she demanded loudly.
“Hey, kid, it’s not such a bad idea,” Bob said, defending him.
Jack tried to explain as she slammed the car into drive. “Look, I didn’t think it would be safe for you to go in alone. This place sounds like it could be hard to get you rigged up with a wire and set up for surveillance outside without being seen.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she argued.
“It wasn’t like I could go in with you, Lorena,” Bob said, helping Jack’s case. “I’d stick out like a sore thumb in a place like that.”
“But we did get some potential leads,” Jack said, trying to divert her anger away from him. “I know I’m new, but I’ve done my fair share of undercover work. If this place is as bad as the drag queen said, then we’re gonna need to watch each other’s backs. I’ll need you as much as you’ll need me.”
“Fine,” she sulked as she pulled up to a red light and guzzled from a can of Red Bull.
Bob said from the front seat, “I still can’t believe we didn’t know about these places. It feels wrong that it’s under our noses in our own city. Some cops we are.”
Jack grinned and said, “Well, it’s not like either of you hang out in those kinds of places. I mean, I’m sure you don’t, Bob, but maybe Evans does.”
“Yeah, between raising a kid, working on catching murderers and worrying about paying bills, I try to squeeze in some quality dungeon time,” she joked.
Bob laughed and Jack chuckled. Her sense of humor was dry and sarcastic. When they got back to the precinct, she disappeared again. She said she needed to chase down the M.E. to talk to her about the case and the evidence. Jack just wondered if she was still pissed at him for inviting himself along on her undercover surveillance. He probably should’ve spoken to her about it first, but Jack had felt very concerned for her safety. He would’ve felt just as concerned for any of his fellow detectives. Lorena Evans also seemed too naïve and young to mix seamlessly with a crowd like that. He’d hate to see her get chopped into pieces by this Gingerbread freak and thrown into the lake.